by James Phelan
They had stopped once to refuel, and afterwards he’d had to spend every other ten minutes breathing near a hissing gap close to the small cargo door to prevent the nauseating jet fuel vapours over-whelming him.
The final landing was rough and Gammaldi guessed it was a corrugated gravel runway—something he loathed landing on when he flew himself. He moved to a darkened corner of the tight cargo hold and nestled next to the pod container, ready to pounce at his captors once the chance presented itself. He had not slept at all during the flight, which he’d calculated to be fifteen hours according to the hourly beeps on his watch, and it was all he could do not to topple over as he waited.
The muffled sound of voices outside the door alerted his senses. It was some sort of Eastern European dialect but he couldn’t work out anything beyond that.
With a gush of heavily salted air, the cargo door opened. Gammaldi took a welcome gulp and held on to it, waiting for his chance. It was fairly dark outside and two heavy flashlights shone into the small cargo hold; the guards obviously expected their quarry to be lying where they had left his immobilised body. It was the break he needed.
Two shaved heads came into view through the open hatch and Gammaldi lashed out with his boot, kicking the first square in the face and sending the man reeling backwards, sputtering blood. His cohort’s head spun around—in time to see the blow but failing to dodge its bone-crushing force. The heel of Gammaldi’s boot clipped the man’s nose, breaking it with a muffled crunch. He, too, fell to the ground in pain, clutching at his face as Gammaldi jumped onto the tarmac and bolted past his kidnappers.
He ran awkwardly towards a thin tree line, wrists still bound behind his back. He found himself thanking his trainers at the Escape and Evasion Centre, where he’d done a training course for military pilots in case they came down in enemy territory. During that training he had run five kilometres blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back.
Gammaldi grunted as he ran, squinting, through the line of trees, which proved to be spindly and scratchy. He came up short against a tall wire cyclone fence and was faced with a decision: left or right. It was a decision hastened by voices shouting behind him in the same dialect he had heard before. Russians, Gammaldi thought as he sped off to his right into the cover of trees again, welcoming the darkness ahead.
After about a minute, he came into a large clearing of well-manicured lawn, and five hundred metres away was a gap in the tall fence—what appeared to be a boom gate lit dimly by an old greasy street lamp. To his right was a small cluster of buildings that he took to be a farmhouse and outbuildings.
The muffled voices behind him became louder and were joined by the deep bark of a dog. Then another. Why is it always dogs? Gammaldi resigned himself to it, pulling a thin but sturdy wooden stake from the ground and bolting towards the gate.
Four hundred metres. His hamstrings stung from the restrained sprint.
Three hundred. The shouting was getting closer. Two hundred. His lungs and legs were on fire. There was excited shouting from behind him, then the sound of the dogs running for him.
One hundred metres. Ahead, the gate was clear, but to his dismay there was nothing beyond but an open plain and a wall of tall pines on the blackening horizon. He could see the dogs—a pair of angry-looking Alsatians. Always an advocate of animal rights, Gammaldi’s compassion went out the window as he wished for a substantial weapon of some sort. If it weren’t for the dogs he might have a chance of escape.
Twenty metres from the gate he spun and stood his ground. The sight of bared, snarling teeth greeted him almost instantly. The first dog sprang from the ground, aiming its ferocious canines at Gammaldi’s jugular. With a ducking spin he swiped the stake across the dog’s head with a blow that sent it flying through the air sideways. It rolled around on the ground yelping, put out of the attack with an injured snout.
The second Alsatian was still snarling but reared back at the sight of its companion’s injury.
The throaty sound of two-stroke engines roared to life from the direction of the farmhouse. Gammaldi gave up all precautions for safety, turned, and ran. Ran for his life in a last, desperate dash to the relative safety of the trees in the distance.
Two spotlights pierced the twilight, moving in his direction, and he could see that the engines he’d heard were a pair of four-wheeled motorcycles. Their riders hadn’t yet spotted him; his immediate threat was the bloodthirsty dog hot on his heels. Kicking out at it had no effect; it kept lunging for his legs. Only the continual chopping of the stake kept the vicious fangs from his flesh.
He had about a kilometre to go before reaching the trees when gunfire whipped at either side of him, carving up the knee-high open pasture. Gammaldi knew he was beaten. Turning himself in now and escaping later was better than certain death right here, right now.
“Down, boy,” he mocked the dog as he stopped and faced his captors. He was surrendering. For now.
14
It was the second time Fox had been to New York City. The first was a distant memory from child-hood, when he’d accompanied his father on a business trip. He remembered walking through knee-high snow in Central Park and hand-feeding walnuts to squirrels.
Faith Williams broke his brief reminiscence with the business-like tone that New Yorkers did so well. “The drive is about twenty minutes or so. Why don’t you read over these and ask questions on the way in? Dr Wallace will have you on another flight within an hour.”
Sure, I’d love to read while my friend is being held hostage, Fox thought. He took the Apple notebook computer that Faith produced from a Louis Vuitton satchel. They certainly aren’t tight for cash, he thought: one of the world’s most expensive corporate jets, this top-of-the-range Mercedes limousine, and the finer details such as the custom fittings inside the aircraft. Then there was Faith herself: the pinstripe suit she wore that screamed Milan fashion house, the hair that looked as though it required a salary of its own to maintain, and, of course, the Louis Vuitton accessories.
The computer came to life as soon as Fox opened it and the screen filled with the company name, Global Syndicate of Reporters Consortium of Investigative Journalists, along with worldwide addresses and a US telephone number: 1800 GSR HQ.
“Just click on the screen and it will give you an overview and company profile—”
Fox could stand his restrained demeanour no more and cut Faith off. “Look, lady, all I give a damn about is saving Al—a task you said this mysterious GSR would help facilitate. I’m certainly not coming here to conduct a business meeting with some delusional old—”
“Mr Fox,” Faith began with sharp calmness, “I’ll save you the time then of looking over our formal company outline. I assumed from your profile that you would want such assuredness of faith in us.” She paused for a perfectly timed beat. “The Global Syndicate of Reporters, or GSR, comprises the greatest collection of investigative reporters and photojournalists in the world. For almost twenty years, GSR has worked as an independent news source, going where other media agencies don’t dare, reporting the truth as it unfolds.”
Fox opened his mouth to again inquire how the company could help with his friend’s disappearance, but he timed it wrong—she had not finished.
“Dr Tasman Wallace is GSR’s founder and chairman, and he has noticed the work you have done on Christmas Island investigating people-smuggling.”
This time Fox was ready and interrupted the pause.
“This is all great, Faith, it really is,” he said, with just the right amount of sarcasm. “I just don’t get why my friend was taken. Are we in the middle of some GSR investigation to do with that pod? I mean, we—Al and I—really know nothing about it.”
“GSR is conducting an ongoing investigation that ties in with the pod you discovered—that’s really all I know about the situation,” Faith replied. “As for your friend’s abduction, we are tracking the flight and have a rescue team prepping. We would like to
propose this, though: we need each other’s help in retrieving both your friend and the pod.”
Fox looked blankly out the window as the speeding car overtook a traffic jam by hammering down the emergency lane. Whatever the hell was going on, he gave GSR credit for one thing—they certainly weren’t wasting any time.
The Seagram building was beautiful in its simplicity. Fox gazed up at the facade, a tower of dark amber glass that reached to the sky between hundreds of bronze columns. The backlit GSR sign shone in stark grey illumination over the expansive granite-paved plaza; no other corporate logos were evident.
In the elevator there were no buttons to access the top five floors, just the numbers themselves: 34 through 38.
Fox watched curiously as Faith stood at eye-level with one of the segmented mirror panels and said, ‘Access thirty-eight’. A vivid green line waved across her eyes, side to side.
The lift rose with an electric hum at a speed that sent the blood to Fox’s feet. The elevator door suddenly opened to a lift lobby with carpet so thick Fox lost an inch in height as his feet sank into the plush charcoal wool. The white walls were stark and the ceiling was well beyond reach. No light fixtures were apparent but somehow the room was lit without shadows. A long desk splayed across one side of the room, made from a great slab of stone and supported by sheets of frosted glass. A huge hand-blown glass vase held metre-long stems of Asian lilies, yet the scent in the foyer was far more precious than that.
The woman behind the desk greeted them in a refined accent. “Good evening, Ms Williams. Glad to see you in good health, Mr Fox.”
Her elocution teacher should be proud, Fox thought. He took her remark in his stride and added it to the growing list of peculiarities.
“Good evening, Emily,” Faith said, walking towards the only door in sight, made from heavy stainless steel and set to the right of the desk.
The door slid away as they neared. The carpeting flowed into a small anteroom, then halted and gave way to dark stone flooring. This next room was not as simple in décor. Instead of stark whiteness, warm timber panelling covered its walls. Book-lined shelves ran along one wall, ending at an illuminated display case housing various Scottish and Norman antiquities. The floors were a rippling dark marble, with Persian rugs adding colour to the room. To one side were windows overlooking the bustle of Park Avenue, which juxtaposed with the tranquil quiet of the plant-filled, soundproofed office.
“Hello there,” a man welcomed them. Standing up behind his desk, Dr Tasman Wallace proved to be a match for Fox in physical stature, if not slightly shorter due to a stooping posture. Although fifty-four and with a birthday approaching, Wallace could easily have passed for mid-forties. The only indicator otherwise was the mane of thick white hair.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
Fox looked the older man squarely in the eyes as they firmly shook hands, sizing each other up.
“I didn’t have much choice,” Fox said.
“We are preparing a Gulfstream as we speak and it will be ready within the hour for take-off. Please, have a seat.” Wallace gestured to a group of soft leather armchairs around an ornate timber coffee table.
“Thanks.” Fox sank into the nearest chair and Wallace into the one opposite. Emily brought a tray of coffee and tea to the table.
“Thank you, Emily.”
Fox could not place Wallace’s accent. It was as if Wallace had no accent at all; he enunciated his English as clearly as his secretary did, minus the old-English twangs.
“Faith, if you could check on the team, please?” Wallace waited for her to leave the room before speaking again.
“You must want a lot of questions answered, Mr Fox. I can only try to imagine what you are thinking about all this.” Wallace leaned towards the table between them and poured two coffees, adding a dash of milk.
“I read about your organisation on the way over,” Fox said. “Under different circumstances I’d be handing you my résumé.”
Wallace smiled and nodded. “I read the piece on people-smugglers in Southeast Asia you had published in the Washington Post last year,” he said. “Your interviews with asylum-seekers led to authorities breaking a big smuggling outfit in Malaysia.”
“Yeah, well, I got sick of my country labelling the innocents ‘boat people,’ locking them up and deporting them, while the guys making money from it all went untouched.” Fox put his coffee back on the table without drinking. “Look, Dr Wallace, how can you help me find my friend?”
“I’m able to help you find your friend because his disappearance is linked to something we have been investigating.”
“The pod we discovered?”
“Yes, that’s a part of it.” Wallace looked at Fox closely. “I just want to say: what you are getting into may be very dangerous.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” Fox said.
“Yes, I’d expected as much.”
“So you help me find Al, and what is it I’m doing for you?”
“I’m hoping you can finish a job for me,” Wallace said. He stood up and paced the room.
“Lachlan, three months ago an archaeological expedition which I helped finance went missing in Iran. I sent two of my best investigative journalists to discover their whereabouts. After weeks of tracking the archaeologists’ moves, they too went missing. Recently their bodies were found washed ashore in a lake near the expedition site.”
Wallace took a folder from his desk and passed it to Fox. “In there is what they had managed to find out about the dig.” He paused while Fox flipped through maps and aerial photos of the site.
“Two days ago you found a pod on the sea floor near Christmas Island. I know this because you sent this email—” Wallace held up a printout “— to a friend of yours, a man who also works for us on defence news stories.”
Fox’s answer was a blank look as he briefly thought back to the day he and Al had brought the pod up from the sea floor. If only we’d left it down there …
“Allow me to paint a very brief picture for you, Lachlan, of the events leading to your attack on Christmas Island. I assume you’ve heard about the threatening conflict in the Middle East at the moment?”
A resigned nod from Fox as he sat further back into his chair to listen to what Wallace had to say.
“The mass media is—strangely for them— downplaying the whole affair, but if they knew the reason for the looming invasion of Iran, it would certainly occupy the front pages and prime-time broadcasts with all sorts of sensationalised headlines.”
“I’ve read a little about the situation—Chechnya is threatening Iran with invasion. All over a bunch of oil and access to the Gulf,” Fox said with deliberate haste.
“That is precisely what the world has been led to believe, and the newly formed nation of the Republic of Chechnya is rallying behind their President with hope for a mighty future for all.” Wallace paused to finish his coffee.
“In December last year, Chechnya secretly offered Iran a hundred million dollars per year for access to the Persian Gulf. Iran’s leaders emphatically rejected all offers, hence the military build-up. What they are unaware of is that Chechnya wants access not for oil or land. They’re after something specific, something far more valuable.”
“More valuable than oil?” Fox had trouble conceiving what that could possibly be in that region.
“Superpower status. Or put more correctly in their case, superterror status. The idea of super-powers holding nuclear weapons in order to deter potential conflicts such as a world war has been redundant for years; too many nations have the capacity to use or obtain these devices. Even terrorist groups or individuals can get their hands on working nukes if they have deep enough pockets. Look at the United States. Are they still seen as a superpower?”
“Well, if you classify a superpower as a nation with the greatest economic might and still boasting the world’s most advanced weaponry, then, yes, I think the consensus is that the
y’re still the sole title holders,” Fox said.
“And there you have said it perfectly. Economically, the US seems the powerhouse, yet it has more debt and foreign ownership than economists care to publicly admit.” Wallace paused for effect. “What if I told you that the newest and most aggressive nation on Earth now has the most destructive weapon the world can envisage?” Wallace looked over his cup, apparently watching for a reaction.
Fox raised his eyebrows. “Chechnya?”
“That’s right. The weapon used on the city of Bandar-e Anzali was something that could propel this new Chechen alliance into superpower status as we begin this century. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, national cohesion has proven fragile among the Caspian states. Already Chechnya has Azerbaijan as a completely integrated ally, and they are leaning on other neighbours to join the fold. Potentially, the region could be pulled into an alliance with a conjoined land mass the size of western Europe, a population of over a hundred million, and enough revenue in oil and natural gas to enter the G8.”
The look on Fox’s face as Wallace spoke was one of wonder. What the hell am I getting into here? he thought.
“And all this comes back to that pod?”
“Remember the Star Wars program undertaken by the US government in the eighties?” Wallace asked.
“Of course: the theory of putting weapons in space for missile defence systems. The US spent billions of dollars and got little or no use out of it.” Fox had written his honours paper on the Cold War political and economic climates, in which the Star Wars program featured heavily.
“Well, there was a similar program run in the USSR, only due to their more limited finances they decided, rather wisely as it turned out, to concentrate in one main area of research: railguns. After a couple of years of experimenting, the Soviets found, as we did, that the feasibility of such weapons was not real. The power and size required by a railgun in space to shoot a projectile fast enough to knock down a missile in flight is unfeasible. They did discover one thing though: a weapon that showed its destructive force three days ago and which Moscow has now confirmed.
