by Greg Barron
Ronnie looks back and sees that Kisira has laid Julian down in the scant space of the rear. Her desperate eyes tell the story.
The other two drones are just as easy, sitting obediently while the THOR beam fries them into their source elements.
‘OK guys,’ Ronnie says, ‘mission accomplished.’
In the silence that comes afterwards, while the pilot nurses the wounded craft, and its bloody cargo back towards the ground, Ronnie hears the song reach a crescendo in his mind.
The world, for Julian, has turned dark. He sees the Burmese man from the cavern. His face is indistinct, but the heavy shadows under his eyes and lines on his forehead are exactly as they were. Julian wants to tell him that he has sent out his creation, the digital rendering of the ‘Opening of the Eyes’ to the world, but the man moves away.
He can see the streets and roads far below the helicopter, a billion cars charging around the motorways of the world. Yet, in his mind’s eye they are red corpuscles. Julian sees a line of witches dance out of the wings. Eight or nine in a row, his reflection flickering upside down in their eyes. In the shadows lurk all the things that have frightened him since the day he sucked his first lungful of air.
Finally, Leisel appears, shimmering in white. ‘Come with me, Julian.’
He feels like Icarus nearing the surface of the sun. Calm at last, he lets Leisel help him over the edge, and into the void.
SEVENTY-FIVE
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 1825
Jan lets the two Marys out of the lab ahead of him. The three of them share a brief hug in the car park in the afterglow of sunset.
Jan pulls out, driving through the high-rise CBD of Chatswood, staring blankly as he goes. He sees families getting in and out of cars. Traffic twisting and changing lanes. Smiles, worried faces, and couples holding hands, heading off to restaurants and bars.
Like all microbiologists, he is only too well aware of the fragility of our hold on this planet.
We are only one mutation away from complete annihilation.
Microbes are the great levellers. They kill mice and elephants, kings and paupers, with equal, but impassive effectiveness.
Why would our species be so stupid as to manipulate a germ’s DNA to try and hasten the day when that perfect strain comes along and turns human history to past history?
For a moment he has a window into the workings of a psychopath, the faulty cogs and gears that let a man forget what is most important, to think that revenge and mass murder are worthy pursuits.
If a weapon is made, someone will use it.
He sees the mind of Istikaan clearly now. Brilliant, driven. Pursued by the demons of his dead family.
Following the Pacific Highway towards the city, he stops at Milson’s Point. He walks down Alfred Street, beside the park, to the harbour. There, under the Harbour Bridge on a crisp winter’s night, he takes off his shoes and socks and strips to his underwear, stands on the stone levee and jumps far out into the water, just like he did all those years ago as a child.
When he surfaces, he is smiling.
SEVENTY-SIX
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 0900
In the interview room Walid has his arms crossed on his chest, a bored expression on his face. The two interrogators will get nothing from him, he is determined. For all this time he has joked and sparred with them, pretended not to understand them, and laughed at their Arabic, even though they spoke it perfectly. They can do nothing and he knows it.
The door opens and Tom Mossel walks in. ‘Are we making any progress?’
One of the two interrogators turns and shakes his head.
Walid grins back. ‘I hope you have kept in mind my complaint, and taken it to the relevant authorities. I expect to have a lawyer here …’
Far above, alighting on the roof of the building, and moving via elevator to the floors below, Ronnie and Kisira are clapped by a long line of DRFS pen pushers as he and the rest of the squad walk into the staff lounge. People crowd around him, someone mentions debriefing times. But right now, finally, it’s a soft chair, food and smiling faces. Someone hands him a mug of sweet white tea and a plate of sandwiches. He sits next to Kisira. She is looking at him strangely.
‘What’s up with you?’ he asks.
‘You did well up there.’
‘We lost a man, that pisses me off. Nothing worse than blokes waiting with a body bag when you hit the ground. Not to mention an entire Apache crew — those guys have got big balls.’
‘Julian saved our lives,’ Kisira says softly, ‘in the end.’
Ronnie nods. ‘Yes, he did.’
Tom Mossel taps Ronnie on the shoulder. ‘Can I borrow you for a minute?’
Ronnie follows Tom Mossel into the interview room. Ronnie has stripped down to his T-shirt, showing the musculature of his arms and the gothic tattoos that twine around them. There is a no-nonsense glare in his eyes.
The director leans on the desk in front of Walid. ‘You wanted to see someone — here he is.’
Walid’s complacent expression disappears incrementally with each step Ronnie takes into the room. ‘It’s too late, anyway. Badi is long gone by now.’
Ronnie smiles and turns a seat backwards, straddles it with his arms resting on the back support. ‘Start talking, boyo. I’ve got a chopper waiting upstairs if you don’t.’
‘You can’t …’
‘Listen. I just spent half the night unravelling what you’ve done. No one cares what happens to you. Your mates have taken one of our comrades, and we don’t take that lying down. Now tell me where Badi is heading.’
Walid sniffs, ‘I want a lawyer …’
Ronnie’s voice barks out. ‘Ten seconds or I start dragging you upstairs.’
‘Waterford … Ireland. They will be gone by now. You are too late.’
Tom Mossel is already striding from the back of the room.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
ATLANTIC OCEAN
LONDON TIME: 1100
Marika has fallen asleep, her head lolling against the side of the seat. In those few minutes she dreams of something she has not dreamed of for a long time. The acacia hut.
Images fill her mind. The rain intensifying. The mud of the wall running away in rivulets. Only more hands can save it. All those years ago in Mali she saw a man and woman trying to save their freshly built acacia and mud hut from heavy rain. Ever since the image has haunted her.
The rain continued and they became distressed, hands plastering mud over the sticks while the rain washed it away. One or two neighbours, even Marika herself, came to help. More hands, but never enough, trying to keep the mud from washing away. Impossible without fresh straw, dry clay, without more hands, more hands …
It was just a house, after all, but for her it came to symbolise the struggle for a better world. She who has seen so much ugliness has come to believe that there is hope.
Yet now, high above the ocean, all colour has been sucked from the image of the acacia hut. The dream has become a nightmare. The mud is as black as night, and the hands trying to plaster it back are torn and wrecked, blood running from cracked nails and splintered fingers. The rain does not stop, but like one of those tail-end cyclones that drift down from the north back home, the downpour is just a precursor to the true deluge that will come.
The sky blackens until it is a dark oily mess. The sound of wailing, of men and women giving up. That somehow the darkness will prevail. That no number of hands are enough …
SEVENTY-EIGHT
ATLANTIC OCEAN
LONDON TIME: 1100
Marika opens her eyes, looking into the face of the man who hovers over this dark world in the nightmare. His fingers are splayed like those of a devil seeking death and destruction.
‘We are ninety minutes from Manhattan Island. I would love to keep you alive to see our moment of glory, but I will not take the risk. You must die first. But let me tell you that by now our machines over western France and souther
n England will have succeeded in their aims, and dropped Istikaan’s legacy over the fascist and imperialist pigs.’
Marika feels that the nightmare is real, that she has not yet woken but is dreaming this moment. ‘You are lying.’
‘I have more news for you, bitch. On my orders my men have entered the house of which we spoke earlier.’
He holds out the tablet, screen facing her, and on it she sees the two people she loves most in the world. Her father is lying face down on the carpet, his wrists held with thick black cable ties. Her mother is on a chair, facing directly towards the camera. The look in her eyes is a direct wound to Marika’s heart.
‘My men wait only for my order, once I have decided who will die first — the man or the woman.’
‘You hurt them in any way …’
‘And you’ll do what? Kill me? Soon, rather, you will be dead, and I will have made the city of New York unliveable — empty — for decades. Western civilisation cannot survive such a shock to the heart of the system.’
‘I hate you,’ she cries. ‘I hope there’s a hell — I hope you burn.’ Tears roll down her cheeks.
The Syrian’s smile widens further. ‘America is the source of the worst filth ever inflicted on the world. The place where the vile excrement of Hollywood is unleashed upon our innocent children. Where music of the devil comes from the twisted mouths of youths. Now I will destroy it all in one swoop.’
Marika grapples for him with both hands, now completely devoid of control, but she is brought up short by the seatbelt, finding only air, spitting at him, shrieking, seeing droplets of her sputum splattering his face. At that moment, he too loses control. Their mutual hatred is naked now, every layer of pain and anger revealed. For Marika it is a build-up of what she has seen. Every dead child. Every raped woman. The victims of every massacre laid out in village squares. There is nothing left but rage.
One hand grabs Marika’s hair, twists, while another removes the seatbelt lock.
They have won. In spite of everything arrayed against them, the forces of hate have won. The light has gone, become just a memory. Once upon a time, lines had been defined, now they are like drifting trails of smoke.
They drag her up from the seat, push her into the narrow aisle and hold her down by her ankles and shoulders, surrounding her like a pack of dogs.
These men intend to slaughter the inhabitants of one of the world’s great cities. They must die before they can do it, Marika says to herself.
Cassie stands up, leaning on the seat. ‘Let me do it,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve never killed anyone before. I want to … be like you.’
‘Yes.’ Badi’s nostrils flare, and his eyes glow in a way Marika has not seen before. ‘With a knife. I want to see you kill her with a knife.’
‘Pass it to me,’ Cassie says huskily. ‘Now you can watch me kill her.’
SEVENTY-NINE
IRELAND
LOCAL TIME: 1120
To Tom Mossel, Waterford Airport has the appearance of a stirred-up ants’ nest as the Augusta Westland AW101 Merlin descends to the pad. An SAS troop is securing the edges and scouring the hangars, relieving the exhausted 2CG operatives, many of whom have been on continuous duty for thirty hours.
It is a long time since Tom Mossel himself deployed to the field, but nothing would have kept him in the office this time. The head air-traffic controller, a fleshy, slow-talking Irishman, meets him on the periphery of the pad, leaves and dry grass still blowing from the rotors. ‘How many flights have left here today?’ Tom asks.
‘About fifty.’
‘Jesus. Can I get an itemised list — owners, pilots, model of aircraft, destination …?’
‘Well, to do that I’ll have to …’
‘I don’t give a toss what you’ll have to do, just bring it to me in five minutes.’
Mossel walks towards the control tower, but moments later a message pops up on his GU.
‘Sir, we’ve found an abandoned Merc in an empty hangar …’
‘Where?’
‘Just past the light-aircraft hangars … not far.’
‘I’m on my way.’
The ATC looks at him unhappily. ‘Do you still want that list …?’
‘Of course I do,’ Mossel snaps, then strides away towards a series of buildings, a motley assortment of light planes out on the apron in front of them.
EIGHTY
ATLANTIC OCEAN
LONDON TIME: 1130
Cassie’s white dress billows around her like angels’ wings, a façade of light, as she takes the knife in her right hand.
Badi’s men crowd around. Their faces are animated, filled with a sordid anticipation. They stand Marika up, holding her tight. She is no longer afraid, but determined. There is only one way to stop this chapter of the massacre, to stop these people from delivering the spores into American skies, to stop this bastard from issuing the orders that will see her parents killed, and that is to bring the plane down. It won’t be easy, but that’s what she has to do.
Time seems to freeze as she assesses her chances. The bulkhead door is open, the pilot’s back clearly visible. Cassie she can deal with.
It is a good six metres to the cabin. Impossible to manage without being shot, but will they risk shooting in here? A sudden cabin depressurisation is almost certain to be catastrophic at this height.
Through the window she can see the sun on the seemingly endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Prairie grasslands of indigo-coloured sea and white chop.
I have to bring the plane down now …
Down there, even if the containment vessel opens, the spores will be useless, destroyed by the salt water. The bentonite powder carrier would turn to mud.
Far ahead, still out of sight, is the American mainland. She has to bring the plane down before they reach it.
They continue to hold her still for the redheaded woman. Marika considers trying to grab one of the assault weapons and firing a burst into the walls. With no air at this height they will be forced into a steep dive. Most of the firearms, however, lean against seats further back, and there are now three big men between her and them. In the other direction there is only Cassie and one man. Badi himself is sitting down, grinning broadly, issuing instructions.
‘Lay the bitch down,’ Cassie calls, ‘get her ready.’
The atmosphere is heavy, and one of the hands clutches at Marika’s right breast, gripping it hard enough to make her react, twisting lightly. She smashes the offending hand away with a clenched forearm, then swivels.
Marika continues the twisting movement, then barrels into Cassie, knocking her wrist with her forearm so she drops the knife. She grabs a handful of Cassie’s hair with one hand, and as she propels herself into the passage, squeezing past, drags her for at least a full, screaming pace before letting go, creating a barrier to the others behind her.
‘After her,’ Badi cries, ‘but don’t shoot, or you will depressurise the cabin.’
Unencumbered now, Marika pounds down the aisle. There’s just one more man, who has been asleep near the front, waking to the shouts from behind, rising from his seat, scrabbling for a knife or gun. She fends like a front rower, right arm held out stiff as a broomstick, catching his chin with the base of her hand, seeing the skin of his lower face compress like a rubber mask, then his head snap back as he goes over backwards.
Through the cabin bulkhead she goes, into the cockpit, the frightened face of the sole pilot turning, eyes wild with fear. She focuses on the controls, sees the yoke and reaches a hand out for it, hearing the clamour of men behind her.
Marika pushes down on the yoke with every ounce of strength she possesses, feels the double resistance and the pilot trying vainly to stop her, scrabbling at her hands, then the plane lurching into a dive, turning nose-down towards the sea. The cabin goes from stable platform to bucking animal. The engine note changes from a steady drone to a high-pitched howl.
Turning her eyes on the pilot she screams, ‘Don’t touch
it, or I’ll kill you too.’
‘We’ll crash.’
Marika swivels in the confined space, just as the first of the guards comes through, a knife in his hand. The sudden nosedive of the plane, however, throws him off balance, and his attempted stab at belly height is uncontrolled. Marika sidesteps, then delivers a rabbit punch deep into the ‘v’ of his neck, feeling the blow cut into sinew and windpipe.
He sags, but then the plane’s descent gathers pace, and the entire cabin starts to tip. The pilot shrieks. ‘We’re spinning.’
The cabin turns upside down, slowly at first, then right way up. The second time it happens faster. Marika finds herself tumbled like a sock in a washing machine. Everything loose empties from its place: weapons, pens, food, drinks and phones.
One man tries to slash at her in this twisted-around world, but she is able to catch his wrist and restrain him, stopping the stroke before it is fully launched, then, as his head strikes a bulkhead, his grip grows slack and she is able to force the weapon from his hand.
Marika now uses the knife like a shield, driving it into the neck of one man, slashing at anyone else who comes close. Looking down the aisle she sees that Badi remains in his seat, belted in securely, then turns back to see the pilot fighting with the controls of the plane, and for the first time it appears that the headlong dive is slowing.
The plane turns right way up, and the confused jumble of injured and merely stunned start to stir. Marika’s eyes fall on one of the machine pistols they all carry, fallen free from the grip of one of the men. The weapon is three paces away and she covers that ground in a moment.
In one movement she hefts it, pulls back the slide and holds it to the pilot’s head. ‘Put us down on the ocean or I’ll kill you.’
She swivels and fires at a man going for his weapon just in front of her. Then she turns and mows down another coming through the cabin door. There is a hiss of decompression and a faint wail of wind as stray rounds penetrate the bulkhead.
