Deus Ex - Icarus Effect

by James Swallow

  "We exploit them," said Croix. "As such, we've been able to track two distinct encrypted communications nodes that have appeared in the

  Geneva area."

  "They match what we have on record," said the hacker. "It's the Tyrants. They're here, all right."

  Anna felt her pulse quicken, and she stepped closer to look at the laptop. "You're telling me you can read their communications?"

  "Of course they can't," D-Bar snapped irritably. "Quantum coding crypto? Don't be stupid!"

  "But we can recognize their presence. It's a fingerprint," said Powell.

  Croix's smile returned. "Oh, we've done better. We have locations."

  "How'd you manage that?" Saxon raised an eyebrow. "Namir's team don't make mistakes."

  "People get lucky sometimes, Saxon," D-Bar broke in.

  Croix nodded to the man with the laptop, who brought up a series of digital maps. "One of the communication nodes remains static at the

  airport."

  "Must be the jet," said Saxon. "Namir uses it as a command post."

  "The second," Croix went on, "is mobile." He said something in French and the other man used the computer to show grainy footage from what

  appeared to be a traffic camera. "A delivery vehicle. It's been making a circuit of the city."

  "Cleaning the route," said Anna. "Making sure he's not being tailed, before ..."

  "Before what?" asked Saxon.

  Powell folded his arms. "That's what we need to find out." He was silent for a second. "All right. We need to do this right now. Take the vehicle

  and the jet at the same time. We don't know what we're dealing with, and we can't afford to wait and watch."

  Anna saw something on the video footage that sparked a cold tremor of recognition within her. She moved closer, peering at the images.

  "Taggart does not speak until midday," Croix was saying. "They won't move against him until then."

  "Are you sure? Do you want to take that risk?" Powell insisted.

  "The plane will be the harder target, though, right?" said D-Bar. "And if Saxon is right, if that's the control..." He swallowed. "Look, with this

  setup I can monitor the van from here—"

  "No," said Powell. "It has to be a simultaneous takedown."

  "The kid's right, though," offered Saxon. "That aircraft will be heavily defended. You try to storm it with anything less than a full team and the

  Tyrants will cut you to ribbons."

  "Croix." Powell turned to the Frenchman, considering the other man's words. "Get us an entry into the airport. Then set up a vehicle so we can

  at least tail the mobile. I'll lead the team against the jet. Saxon will come with us."

  Anna heard him talking but she registered what he was saying only peripherally. "I'll take the van," she said. "Get me close and I'll take him."

  Saxon's brow furrowed as he heard the raw fury bubbling up inside her words. "Kelso, what is it?"

  She pointed at the screen. "You know him?" On the monitor, the blurry image of a man's face had been captured by one of the traffic cameras.

  He wore a bandage over one eye and a cap.

  Saxon gave a wary nod. "He's German, former GSG-9. Gunther Hermann."

  The name echoed in her mind. Hate, cold and hard like black diamond, grew solid in Anna's chest. It was the same man from that horrific day in

  Georgetown. The killer who had left her for dead, who shot Byrne and Dansky ... and Matt Ryan.

  Geneva International Airport—Grand-Saconnex—Switzerland

  "There," said Saxon, pointing into the gloom. "Hangar four."

  Beside him, Powell squinted down the eyepiece of a monocular. "That's a Belltower aircraft."

  "It's them" Saxon insisted, studying the shape of the parked jet. "I'm not seeing any movement, though. They have to be inside."

  Powell spoke over the general comm channel. "All right, listen up. Two entrances, one gangway at the forward hatch, another drop-ramp at the

  aft. You know the drill. Move in, neutralize any threats. Fast and efficient." He glanced at Saxon. "Stay where I can see you. Croix may want to

  give you the benefit of the doubt, but he's not me."

  Saxon shrugged. "Whatever you say."

  "All units," Powell said to the air, "take the plane. Go, go!"

  They covered the distance to the far hangar in a few seconds, veering from shadow to shadow, avoiding the footprints of security cameras.

  Saxon had to admit, for a group of irregulars, the New Sons had the makings of a good spec ops team; but he wasn't convinced they'd be enough

  to deal with the Tyrants.

  Not that survivability was foremost in his mind at this very second. All he cared about was finding Jaron Namir, and ending his life.

  There were active boxguard robots scanning from the corners of the hangar interior, and Powell's men went after them with Pulsar grenades,

  shutting them down with flashes of electromagnetic discharge. Saxon hesitated at the foot of the gangway, glancing back down the line of the

  plane to where the cargo bay doors were wide open. He toggled his mastoid comm. "Any unit at the rear: is the helo in place, over?"

  He got a reply immediately. "What helo, over?"

  "There should be a small veetol flyer stowed back there—"

  "Saxon!" Powell snarled, coming up behind him. "Stay off the channel unless it's important!"

  He frowned and climbed up the staircase, staying low.

  The highway traffic coming into the city across the Rhone from Lancy was mostly commercial at this hour, and there was a moment of

  uncomfortable recollection when Anna watched a massive automated truck thunder past them. She'd insisted on taking the shotgun seat,

  kneading the grip of the Zenith automatic Croix had given her while the Frenchman sat behind the wheel of their black sedan. He had a

  connector running from one of his augmented arms into the dashboard, and he scanned the road ahead, his face set in concentration.

  The interior of the car was dark, but in the backseat, D-Bar was lit by the glow of the laptop computer; the screen's pale light gave his face a

  corpselike pallor.

  "I see him," said Croix. "Five hundred meters ahead. Confirm?" He threw the question over his shoulder.

  When D-Bar didn't reply, Anna turned in her seat. The hacker blinked and looked at her. There was a mix of emotions on his face that she

  couldn't read. "Oh. Yeah," he managed. "Confirm."

  "He's turning off the motorway," Croix noted as the van slipped into a feed lane. "Heading into the city. We need to know where he's going."

  Anna listened, but she was watching the glow of the taillights from the target vehicle with almost feral intensity. In her mind's eye she could see

  only the face of Gunther Hermann, that and the moment of Matt Ryan's murder, over and over.

  Geneva International Airport—Grand-Saconnex—Switzerland

  "We're in," said the other team leader. "Tail section clear. Moving to secure lower deck." "Copy," whispered Powell. "We're moving aft."

  Saxon pressed himself into the wall and strained to listen. They had found no one in the cockpit, nothing but the jet's controls set in standby

  mode. It rang a wrong note in his mind, and he hesitated, frowning.

  "Something's not right," he said as Powell came to his side.

  "What, that we got the drop on your Tyrant buddies?" he husked. "Keep moving." He gestured with the silenced FR-27 in his grip.

  With Powell and another two of his men following on behind him, Saxon moved down past the galley to the doors of the ops room. He felt an

  unpleasant chill on his skin. Walking the halls of the jet so soon after having nearly died there did not sit well with him.

  On a three-count, he tore open the door and fell into the room, looking for a target.

  The ops center was empty, the consoles working quietly, screens showing a steady train
of data as it scrolled past. He moved carefully into the

  middle of the room, a cold sweat forming between his shoulder blades.

  "Clear," said Powell, a note of disbelief in his voice. He tapped his comm. "Unit two. Move to the cabins. They could be sleeping. Execute

  whoever you find."

  "They're not sleeping," Saxon muttered. Something caught his eye and he moved to one of the control panels. It was part of the jet's encrypted

  communications suite. The screen showed a series of active broadcast nodes. The first was highlighted on a map, moving through the Geneva

  suburbs. Hermann in the van, he thought.

  Over the radio, he heard the voice from before report in. "Sir, got something here in the cargo bay... Looks like chemical drums. Commercial

  grade ammonium nitrate. Accelerants. Everything youd need to build a backyard IED."

  Powell's brow furrowed. "Why the hell would they need that crap? We know the Tyrants have access to military-grade explosives ..." He

  turned to the soldier with him. "Cooper, check everything in this room. We don't want any surprises ..."

  Saxon's attention was still on the comm system. He found a second node display; this one was a stream of encryption, shifting and moving. The

  location was static. He realized he was looking at a virtual icon for the jet and the ops room.

  "Sir" said the operative on the lower deck, "whatever they were making here, they built it already. All we got is leftovers."

  The color drained from Powell's face. "A truck bomb ..." He tapped his comm bead again. "Patch me in to Croix, right now!"

  Saxon distantly registered the conversation, hearing Powell shouting an urgent warning to the L'Ombre field commander. He didn't hear the

  words, instead tracing the line of the signals between the first and second Tyrant communication nodes; and beneath them both, he found a

  third.

  It was isolated, away from either of the others. Saxon frowned, trying to interpret the complex web of signal and encoding; and then with a

  sudden, cold clarity, he understood what he was seeing.

  None of the communications to Hermann had originated from the jet. All of them were coming from the third, concealed comm node, the

  identity and location displayed only as a single codeword—Icarus.

  Wherever Namir and the Tyrants were, it wasn't here. They were broadcasting to the jet, then letting the automated systems on the aircraft

  relay the signal to the van. Namir had to know that the Tyrants were being monitored.

  They had never been here.

  "We've been set up!" he shouted.

  Rue de Lyon—Geneva—Switzerland

  Powell's voice sounded from Croix's hand radio as they passed the Pare Geisendorf, heading east. "The vehicle Hermann is driving has

  explosives on board. The Tyrants have put together a fertilizer bomb ... They're going to detonate it in the city!"

  Croix swore. "That's perfect. They blow up a piece of Geneva and then fake a claim from some transhumanist radicals; they get what they want

  and Taggart dies ..." "Where's Taggart now?" Anna asked D-Bar. The hacker hesitated again before he answered. "The, uh, hotel. The Metropol Grande, downtown."

  "The Grande has a large underground parking garage," Croix went on. "A big enough explosion in there could collapse the whole building."

  "We've got to stop him now!" Anna snapped, working the slide of the Zenith. But Croix was already pointing down the road ahead. "He's making

  a run for it!" Anna saw the van's lights flare as it leapt away at high speed, jumping a stop signal, tires squealing as it veered past a car crossing

  the highway. Croix flattened the accelerator and the sedan surged forward.

  "Floor it," Anna snapped. "Get us closer!" "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Powell.

  "We've got to get off this plane, right fucking now!" Saxon told him. "Namir and the others are somewhere else, bouncing the signal off the

  comm gear on board!"

  "Why?" Powell shot back.

  "They knew we were coming!" he roared.

  Powell's rifle was coming up, his face split with an angry snarl. "Did you—?"

  But in the next second another voice was speaking over both of them. "Sir?" They both turned as Cooper backed away, his face pale. "Saxon's

  right."

  The other man had bent down to open an access panel; concealed behind it was a fat brick of gray, claylike material, with a series of silver

  detonator pins wired into it.

  Powell shouted into the radio. "All units, disengage, disengage, disengage—!"

  The first of the remotely triggered charges went off at that moment, blowing the jet's tail into a cloud of metal shrapnel.

  A gust of hot gas and smoke came rolling down the length of the aircraft toward them as they ran. Inside the spaces of the fuselage, a second

  charge detonated, then a third. The churning inferno blossomed into a deadly flower.

  Rue de Chantepoulet—Geneva—Switzerland

  The two vehicles roared across the junction and cut through the sparse traffic, jockeying for position as they turned back toward the river.

  Taggart's hotel was across the Mont Blanc bridge, less then five minutes away.

  Anna shouted "Closer!" and dropped the passenger-side window. Her actions were dislocated somehow; it was as if she were watching herself

  from a long way away. She shrugged off her seat belt and dragged herself out the window as Croix brought the sedan alongside the van. Anna

  got a quick look at Hermann's incredulous expression in the wing-mirror before she raised the Zenith and unloaded four rounds into the vehicle,

  aiming for the engine block.

  The van skidded and recovered, turning as the feed lane to the Pont du Mont Blanc opened up before it.

  The next thing she did was a moment of pure instinct, without conscious thought; Anna kicked off and threw herself at the van as the two

  vehicles bumped. Her foot found the running board and her free hand snagged the mirror. She ignored the winds battering at her and fired

  blind, shooting out the glass and firing into the driver's side of the van.

  Hermann shot back with a burst from a Hurricane machine pistol, spraying bullets into the air. His shots were wide; despite all his

  augmentations, driving the wounded vehicle, aiming, and firing at the same time were beyond him.

  Her neurovestibular implant went hot and she felt the rush of new focus shiver through her; the feed-forward system augmentation tightened

  her aim to the point between the muzzle of the Zenith and her target. Anna let the ice-cold flood of her anger take over, let it ride the aim point.

  Time slowed as the van hurtled across the bridge. Anna brought up the pistol and fired again. The shots struck Hermann in the head, carving

  across the front of his skull, ripping flesh and breaking bone. The impact trauma was massive, throwing him off the steering wheel.