Nano

by Sam Fisher

  Pete studied the thermal array and could see almost immediately where each fire was burning. Using the onboard computer, he calculated a path though the Chasm. Scooting his fingers over the control panel, he nudged the Silverback forwards into the south-facing side of the opening.

  It was a peculiar experience taking a plane inside a build- ing, but then Pete was no stranger to peculiar experiences. From the cockpit he could see the devastated interior of a dozen floors. This was a space that, less than two hours earlier, had been a workplace, a meeting point, a shopping mall. It had been filled with laughing, purposeful people living out their normal, everyday lives. Then hell had arrived. Hundreds had been vaporised, turned to molecules instantly.

  He set the controls of the Silverback to let it hover a few metres inside the burned-out shell of the Chasm. The thrusters were set simply to counter the force of the wind crashing through the building at close to 150 kilometres per hour. There were several small fires burning. He quenched these easily with a squirt from the nozzles in the underside of the plane. Then he adjusted the controls in front of him in the cockpit and studied the holographic display in his helmet. A voice broke through on his comms.

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘Mark. How’re tricks?’

  ‘This is insane.’

  ‘Yes Mark. Tom has already pointed that out.’

  ‘Okay. Is there anything I can do from here?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We’re over the Indian Ocean, 3680 kilometres south-southeast of Dubai. Should be at the Tower in 32 minutes.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do from there, Mark. I have constant thermal scan updates coming from Tom and this baby can spin on a sixpence.’

  ‘All right. Good luck, buddy.’

  Pete Sherringham turned back to the view of the Chasm. The place was swamped with black smoke streaming away from him, propelled by the wind. But the sensors on the plane could scan through the entire spectrum. This data was then collated into a visual image that ignored the smoke, giving him a crisp 3D representation.

  There were two main fires directly ahead. Pete flicked at the controls and let the Silverback crawl forwards. There was a large column directly ahead. It was one of the secondary struts holding up the building. Coming slowly around to the west, Pete passed the beam and saw, at twelve o’clock, the central core of the building. It was a massive trunk of reinforced concrete and steel rising up from a point 125 metres beneath the base of the tower all the way to the top of Floor 202. It was the spinal column of the Cloud Tower.

  Pete touched the controls lightly and the Silverback pulled around to the east, passing close to the central column. He looked through the canopy to his left and saw the pitted and marked concrete of the core. It appeared to be sturdy but looks were deceptive. Sybil had gathered and analysed the data. This huge shaft would soon crumble, whatever the E-Force team did. It was simply now a question of when. If he could do his job, he could buy time to save perhaps thousands of people.

  The Silverback moved forwards slowly, circumventing the central column. And then Pete saw it – a large fire burning with an intense blue flame. He brought the plane to a dead stop. ‘Located primary fire.’

  ‘Copy that, Pete. You have enough Quenchex?’

  ‘I’ve only got 2800 litres left. However,’ he added, ‘I was thinking, if I pumped some nitrogen into the mix from the fuel tanks, it would give it a lot more oomph.’

  ‘Oomph?’ Tom replied. ‘Yeah, it would. In fact . . .’ He paused for a moment and ran a series of calculations through his laptop. ‘It would actually give the Quenchex at least 10 times more clout. Good idea, man.’

  Pete manoeuvred John into a position 120 metres from the fire. His fingers flew over the smooth plastic and the nitrogen was rerouted from the fuel tanks to the Quenchex chambers. He stabbed at the ejection control and the entire load of customised fire-retardant spewed out from the underside of the Silverback. It shot across the space between John and the fire, slamming into the burning material. The fire crumpled into itself, the flames collapsing almost like a living thing.

  Pete looked up from the controls just as a huge plume of gas gushed towards the Silverback. He saw it, stabbed at the panel and brought around the nose of his aircraft. But it was too late. The Silverback was plucked up by the thundering gas discharge and thrown forwards like a model aircraft caught in a hurricane. The plane turned end-over-end, tumbling towards the northeast side of the Chasm.

  Pete struggled with the controls, trying desperately to bring the Silverback to the horizontal. In an effort to slow the forwards motion of the craft, he slammed on the reverse jets. John went into a spin along its axis, the engines screaming like a wounded animal. Caught in the wind stream and the backdraught from the gas plume, the Silverback was spat out the far side of the tower, somersaulting.

  ‘AUTO-STABILISE. AUTO-STABILISE!’ Pete yelled into his comms.

  The remote stabilisation unit didn’t respond.

  ‘AUTO-STABILISE!’ Pete’s voice was juddered by incredible g-forces shaking him in his seat.

  Still nothing.

  In his helmet holoscreen he could see spotless blue sky, a glimpse of the tower, concrete, the black smudge of the Chasm and then more blue.

  Fighting the g-forces, he moved his head a few centi- metres to peer down at the main control panel. The plane was tumbling down the side of the building.

  ‘Altitude: 404 metres,’ the onboard computer announced.

  Pete caught a glimpse of the altitude display, the numbers dropping precipitously. Resisting the crushing pressure pushing him back into his seat, he reached out his hand and caught the emergency joystick – a piece of retro design built into each of the Silverbacks as a contingent of last resort. He pulled on it and the plane responded immediately, switching from the digital control system governed by the onboard computer.

  Pete applied all his strength to yank the joystick and slowly, painfully slowly, the Silverback reacted. The nose of the plane started to rise. Blue sky flashed past, the building swayed into sight like a drunk . . . and Pete just managed to claw back control.

  The altimeter told him he was flying at 41 metres. He could see towers, highways, cars, people standing, staring up at him as the Silverback banked. He pulled hard on the joystick, nudging the machine upward and accelerated up the side of the tower into the cloudless sky.

  35

  Floor 199, Cloud Tower, Dubai

  It was growing very cold. Both the heating and air-condition- ing systems of the tower had been completely knocked out and the chill of the desert wind here, almost a kilometre above the ground, was biting. The temperature inside the top floors of the Cloud Tower had dropped from its ambient 20 degrees Celsius to less than 5 degrees and the wind chill factor on the south-facing side of the building where the wind was strongest took it down to around zero.

  The six survivors on Floor 199: Frank, Carmen, Jessica, the young boy, Abu, and the two Arab men, Mohammed and Saeed, had gathered together in the north corner of the tower, as far as possible from the shattered windows of the south-facing wall. A little way back along the northeast-facing side of the building, there was a small café, the Oasis. It hadn’t been open when the missiles had struck and so it was less badly damaged than some of the shops and Café 199. It was also free of dead bodies. The front window had been smashed but Frank and Mohammed had managed to barricade the opening to reduce the amount of smoke and dust blowing in. There were a pair of upturned sofas and a comfortable armchair. To one side stood two fridges no longer working but filled with milk, juice and a variety of pastries and sandwiches.

  For a while, the Oasis really was that – a place in which the small group could rest, tend to their injuries and try to remain calm. All of them had suffered cuts and bruises but only Saeed was badly lacerated. As soon as they had settled, the Bedouin crouched beside the injured man.

  ‘May I?’ He nodded towards the hastily bandaged arm.

  ‘Oh,
what? Some desert medicine? No thanks.’

  Mohammed merely smiled. ‘There are things some of us who live in the desert know that others with Big City wisdom do not.’

  ‘How very profound,’ Saeed sneered. ‘My father will not leave me here. I’m sure the military is on its way. My father owns half this building.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve already mentioned that,’ Mohammed replied calmly.

  ‘Yeah and I reckon it’s pretty much half of nothing now,’ said Frank, the Australian, who was sitting close by.

  ‘And who, in the name of Allah –’

  ‘Am I?’ the Australian remarked, got up and looked down at the Arab. ‘Now listen to me, son. I’ve been overhearing the way you’ve been talking to Mohammed here and I don’t like it.’

  Saeed merely shook his head.

  ‘Yes, you might be a rich boy but, Sonny Jim, that doesn’t mean much now. Not here. So how about you show some respect to those around you?’

  Saeed stared up at him, pulled himself to his feet and walked over to a table as far from the others as he could be. Frank caught Mohammed’s eye and smiled. The Bedouin held his look, nodded slightly and pulled himself up.

  ‘We need to get some warmer clothing or some blankets,’ he said, slowly. ‘I think it’s only going to get colder. I’ll go out into the mall with Abu and see what I can find.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Frank said.

  Mohammed turned, looking for the young boy. But he was nowhere in sight. He walked over to Carmen and Jessica close to the café counter.

  ‘Where’s the boy?’ he asked.

  They looked startled for a moment. Jessica shrugged.

  ‘Abu?’ Mohammed called. But he was no longer in the café.

  36

  Abu had slipped away without any of the adults noticing. This was almost immediately after they had settled upon the place. He knew they would be busy checking what resources were there, blocking the hole in the front window and attending to injuries. But he had his own plans.

  All the while the others had been deliberating about what to do, Abu had been surveying the scene, working things out. He couldn’t just sit and wait for someone to rescue them. He knew that even if anyone could get into the tower, they might never find them. He also noticed fresh fires had started up. It was only a matter of time before something exploded.

  And there was also the dread thought nagging at the back of his mind – something he could not even contemplate properly, an almost unimaginable horror. In a dark recess of his mind, Abu could visualise the worst-case-scenario. It had happened a little before he was born but he had seen the replays many times on TV and YouTube. He knew time might be running out.

  He ran to a clothing store he had spotted with the others. It was a Gap. Inside, the place was badly smashed up – like the other shops. He was almost getting used to it now . . . which was very odd, he thought. Just inside the shop, two dead bodies lay sprawled on the floor, covered in fine powder. They were both lying face down in the mess – a man and a woman, each of them in shop-assistant uniforms. The woman had two huge pieces of jagged glass protruding from her back. A wide puddle of blood stretched away from under her. As much as he could get used to the destruction of the building, he would never get used to this, he thought, and tore away from the ghastly sight.

  He passed a set of clothes racks. Only one remained upright. Towards the back of the store, he found what he was looking for – fleeces, warm jackets, thick sweaters. He grabbed a dark blue cardigan that looked about his size and pulled it on, shivering. He then plucked a thick, wool-lined jacket from a pile of tangled clothes. It turned out to be a reasonably good fit and he immediately started to feel warmer. Clasping a collection of clothes to his chest, he stumbled back to the front of the shop, deposited the pile close to the door with the intention of taking them over to the café on his return journey and walked as fast as he could along the row of stores.

  He had to take it carefully. Danger, he knew, lay everywhere. All kinds of danger: the threat of falling masonry, stray electrical cables that could fry him in a millisecond, hidden holes and crevices in the floor. But he knew exactly where he was going. It was only six shops along the row and in a moment he was there. He looked up and read the shop sign: Cloud Electrics. Through the shattered window, he could see piles of electrical gadgets, computer terminals, leads, plugs and heaps of multicoloured wiring. The door had been a single glass sheet that had shattered into pellets. He stepped inside.

  The shop was cast in shadow. The only light came from a halogen emergency spot in the centre of the ceiling. Turning, he saw an orange glow at the back of the store and with a sudden panic he realised it was a fire. The flames were spreading and would soon engulf the entire shop. Scanning a rack of metal shelves close by to his left, he span on his heel and saw another rack to the right. The remains of a counter stood in the middle of the floor. On top of it lay a cluster of electrical parts, a spaghetti of wires.

  He strode over to the counter and pulled at the tangled mess trying to unravel it. ‘Allah!’ he exclaimed aloud and simply grabbed a handful of wires, stuffing them into his pocket. Then he plucked a small battery pack from the pile. On the closest shelf lay parts of a radio set. Next to these was a larger battery. He tossed away the smaller one and pocketed the bigger pack.

  On the floor, close to his feet, he saw a collection of miscellaneous components from a TV set, and on the right-hand rack of shelves he could make out a reel of wire. He collected up the materials and ran out into the mall, setting everything down on a dry patch of marble flooring a few metres from the electrical store.

  It took Abu longer than he thought it would to put to- gether the parts that made up the radio receiver/transmitter. And even when he had finished, 30 minutes after exiting the shop, he couldn’t be sure he had put it together properly. He turned to the power supply – a junction box with a pair of leads dangling from its rear and a fresh packet of a dozen E-sized batteries. He connected the power supply to the radio and depressed the ‘on’ switch. Nothing happened.

  He swore. He knew he shouldn’t, but then all his friends did and over far less. This he knew could be a matter of life or death, a bit more important than losing a game of football in the playground or stubbing your toe on a desk. He switched around a couple of leads, checked the connections and found one of the circuit boards was not making contact with the power supply. Deftly, he jiggled the socket and it slipped into place. Sitting back on his haunches, Abu stared at the collection of components, the tangle of leads and the flimsy wiring. He depressed the ‘on’ button again. This time a hiss emerged from a tiny speaker at one end of the array and a red light appeared on a circuit board close to it.

  ‘Allah be praised!’ the boy exclaimed and clapped his hands together in excitement. ‘Now I just have to fix this.’

  He stretched over to pick up the length of thick metal wire that would act as a makeshift aerial. Connecting it to the radio close to the power supply, Abu leaned in, picked up the microphone wired to the main body of the radio and cleared his throat.

  ‘Help us,’ he said self-consciously in Arabic and then in English. Then more stridently, ‘Please help us. We’re trapped in the Cloud Tower. Floor 199.’

  37

  72 metres beneath the English Channel

  They could hear the medley of sounds coming from the tunnel. First had come the thunderbolt of the explosion that had been louder than either of them had expected. Then came the screeching of brakes, the crunch of the train derailing. A series of dull thuds had followed as one carriage collided with another and parts of the tunnel roof collapsed. The walls shook. It filled them with an utterly intoxicating feeling of power. Phase One was complete: they felt like Gods.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ the woman asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen.’

  Now they could both hear: screams, crying, people bellowing in agony. They turned to each other and giggled – it was one of thos
e habits people pick up.

  ‘Right. Phase Two,’ the young woman said, eased on her gas mask and approached the door.

  The corridor beyond their nest was empty, exactly as expected. The young man closed the door and stepped out into the passageway flashing his torch around the walls. The woman headed off. He followed closely.

  The passage twisted and turned but they knew where they were headed. A right at the next junction opposite the hatch they had come in through originally, then a straight length of plain corridor, another turn and they would find the door to the disused passageway. That would take them to the London–Paris tunnel running parallel to the London-bound tunnel where the bomb had gone off. They knew E-Force would use the London–Paris tunnel to access the site of the disaster. And when they did, the pair of them would be there waiting for them.

  The woman reached the corner, peered around it and froze. The young man almost crashed into her from behind. ‘What the . . .?’

  She whirled on him, a finger to her lips.

  ‘What is it?’ he hissed.

  She ignored him for a second as she stared ahead. Fifteen metres along the corridor past the bend, a small group of people were tumbling, one by one, through a hatchway into the passage. She recognised one of them immediately, the last man through. He was about to close the door onto the tunnel where the bomb had gone off and the nerve agent had begun to spread.

  ‘What is it?’ the young man asked again, more urgently.

  She turned, her face contoured in fury. ‘Fucking Dr Josh Thompson, that’s all. That man is indestructible!’ Then her face changed and she began to giggle. ‘Or at least he thinks he is . . .’

  38

  40,000 metres above the Indian Ocean

  Mark had a visual of Pete large on the wall of the Big Mac control room, the lines of relief on the E-Force rescuer’s face were clear to see.

  ‘That was a remarkably risky thing to do, Pete,’ Mark said. ‘But well done, man. Well done.’