The fire truck wasn’t carrying water at all. It was carrying an anti-traction material: probably something like one part slurry of emulsion and polymer particles, twenty parts water. That would make the tunnel about as difficult to drive on as ice. Even if she managed to get out of the bus, it would be like trying to run across a frozen pond. No wonder the bus was picking up speed so quickly. It was like sliding down an ice mountain.
She turned to the back of the bus. The rear doors were open. The bottom door smashed repeatedly against the asphalt and the top door flapped above it, attached only by a single hinge. Sophia could see up the tunnel’s incline. The Humvee was accelerating downhill in pursuit. A head emerged from the passenger side window. She recognized the operative’s face: Luke, with the garlic-bread fetish.
Her gaze locked onto the door as it flapped on its remaining hinge. She climbed over the seats. Sparks jumped up from grinding window frames. Glass slipped down her neck, scratched her skin.
Luke took aim with his rifle. She reached for her P99. It wasn’t there. She was in civilian clothes now. Damien and Jay had the stolen pistols.
The bus shuddered. She lost her balance, almost tumbled onto the asphalt rushing beneath. Somehow managing to hold on, she wrapped her arms around two seats.
Luke fired. The rear door flapped, deflecting his shot. He fired again. A tranquilizer dart sliced past Sophia and plunged into a nearby seat.
She climbed to the next row of seats. The door came free of its last hinge and slipped under the Humvee’s wheels. The vehicle wobbled, turned sharply. It tipped onto its side, crushing Luke.
‘Fucking ambush!’ Jay yelled, holding onto Damien. ‘Operatives!’
Thanks, Einstein, she thought.
Looking over her shoulder, she realized the bus had reached the mouth of the tunnel. They were in the open now. The road leveled out onto the long bridge. Six operatives stood off-road at the other end, tranquilizers waiting until the bus came within shooting range. She looked down at the asphalt passing beneath the window frames. The bus wasn’t slowing down. In fact, it was picking up speed. The operatives had sprayed the bridge too.
Jay had roused Damien back to consciousness. Blood was congealing on his scalp, matting his hair. Damien and Jay were her last operatives, she wasn’t going to lose them too. They needed to get out of the bus if they were going to survive this.
It would be difficult for them to hear her yelling over all the noise, so she waved an arm, catching Jay’s attention. She pointed up.
Jumping from the seats, she gripped a window frame and hoisted herself through, squinting against the fragments of safety glass. She worked for a more secure hold, then crawled out the window and on top of the bus. Behind them, she could see the Humvee. It was out of control, sliding after them on the slicked bridge. Now both vehicles were in the same situation. There was nothing but a thin steel guardrail either side to stop them plunging off the bridge, a 100-foot drop into the river below.
She recognized the Humvee’s driver, even though she hadn’t worked with him before. It looked like he was drawing a pistol.
She estimated twenty seconds before the bus came into range of the operatives’ tranquilizer guns. Even if they couldn’t get a clear shot as the bus passed, all they had to do was wait for it to come to a standstill and surround them. If Sophia and the other two were going to escape, it had to be while the bus was in the middle of the bridge.
She held onto the window frame, ignoring the bits of safety glass. They couldn’t jump off the bridge until they’d cleared the cliff walls.
‘Jay!’ she yelled. ‘Move!’
On top of the bus, Sophia crawled over the window frames, heading for the back. She’d be in range soon and the operatives might have a crack at her while the bus was moving. She looked over her shoulder to find Jay crawling towards her. He had some ground to cover. She hoped he knew he had to do it fast. And where the hell was Damien?
The movement of the bus shifted, swayed. She realized it was sliding sideways across the bridge. A segment of the guardrail curled into the air and struck the Humvee behind them like a coiled snake. The Humvee wobbled.
Sophia gripped on tighter. Her knuckles turned white. She clenched her teeth, kept her body pressed against the bus. Over her shoulder, she could see Jay up to his chest in window frame, only one hand gripping on. He’d almost fallen back inside. She couldn’t work out why he wasn’t using both hands.
When she looked back at the Humvee, the driver was aiming his pistol at her.
A tranquilizer dart pierced the Humvee driver’s eyeball and stuck there. He tried to remove it, then let go and dropped out of view.
Jay had snatched the dart from the back of the bus seat and thrown it. By hand. Even Sophia was impressed.
The driver’s pistol flew over Sophia’s head. It landed on the bus, bounced towards her. She dropped flat over it, pinning it with her stomach, then grabbed it, still holding the window frame to keep from slipping.
Any second now, she’d be in range of the operatives.
She moved as quickly as she could towards Jay. Then discovered what the delay was. Damien was underneath him, his face covered in blood. He was conscious, but didn’t seem able to move. She saw a tranquilizer dart embedded above his left shoulder blade.
Jay was helping him up. And it was taking far too long.
She climbed to the next window frame. One more to go. She reached the last frame. One end of the bus ground fiercely against the bridge railing and she almost lost her grip.
Right now, in this sliver of time, nothing mattered except saving her team. The Fifth Column didn’t matter. The failed operation didn’t matter. Security didn’t matter. Damien and Jay were all she had left to take care of. She couldn’t leave them here.
Jay was holding one of Damien’s arms. He passed the other arm to Sophia so they could haul him out together. Damien had fallen limp; the benzodiazepine from the dart had relaxed his muscles. He wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. She shouted at Jay. She didn’t know what she was shouting and didn’t care, as long as Jay understood the range of the tranquilizer guns.
She heard the chop of helicopters moving low over the mountain.
‘Get him out!’ she yelled. ‘Now!’
She wasn’t sure if Jay heard her, but he pulled harder anyway and almost lost his own footing. He tried again. She wasn’t going to jump without them. She couldn’t do this alone. They had to survive. She needed Damien and Jay out of the bus.
The helicopter shot into view. It wasn’t an attack helicopter: no autocannons, machine guns, rocket or missile pods. It looked like its entire stomach had been surgically removed, leaving only the cockpit, the six-blade rotor and the tail rotor. She realized it was a military heavy-lift cargo helicopter: CH-54B Tarhe. The missing chunk in the Tarhe was occupied by a cylinder and remotely operated hose. Non-lethal sticky foam.
Sophia locked her feet under the window frame behind her and pressed herself firmly against the bus. With one hand, she aimed her pistol at the approaching Tarhe. The hose nozzle was pointed right at them.
She squeezed the trigger, punching holes in the foam cylinder. She emptied half the magazine into it; the holes leaked a spray that reminded her of bubble bath liquid. It foamed in the air, streaking out behind the helicopter in thick white fingers.
The Tarhe slowed to match the bus. The sudden decrease in speed sent the streams of foaming liquid forward. The streams lashed across the helicopter’s windshield and adhered to its polycarbonate polymer surface. The liquid bulked out into fluffy clouds that hardened over the windshield. The Tarhe faltered, its vision obscured.
More liquid sprayed past her, into the front of the bus, where it foamed and expanded towards Damien. The pistol slipped from her hands. She climbed over another window frame, bringing herself close enough to help get Damien out. Something bit into her skin, just below her armpit. She looked down to see a dart wedged under her arm. With one hand, she plucked it free.
The helicopter crashed in front of them and the bus ploughed right through the wreckage, pinwheeling from the impact. Sophia hung on desperately. The bus spun like a ceiling fan blade, faster and faster. Her vision slipped. Her fingers slipped. She saw Jay’s hands extend towards her. She reached down. Her fingertips touched his.
The spin wrenched her from the window frame. A smear of gray sky. Fire. The bridge. Something shiny. Water crashed around her. She shut her eyes.
Chapter Five
For someone considered by many to be the most powerful person in the world, the General kept his office surprisingly bare. A desk, a computer and … well, that was it, Denton noticed as he walked in. Oh, and a spare chair. The desk was smoked glass and the walls charcoal. It was only a fraction larger than Denton’s office, and located only nine levels below ground.
The General always dressed in uniform, but one that pledged allegiance to no country. The Fifth Column had no flag, no symbol; it was merely a nickname for the dark side of the world’s military — industrial complex: the labyrinthine government that managed the real world while maintaining a fantasy world of freedom and democracy.
As a six-star general — a rank that didn’t even officially exist — the General’s salary was very likely whatever he wanted it to be. And yet he dressed like a public servant. Denton felt flamboyant by comparison as he sat opposite the General and set his box of cupcakes carefully upon his lap. With his large, thin-rimmed glasses and tiny crinkled mouth, the General reminded Denton of an owl. Those magnified owl-like eyes didn’t waver from the streaming news report on his computer monitor.
‘… suspected to be domestic terrorists of Caucasian extraction who call themselves the Alquimie. Only hours after the attack, the United States President has suggested a nationwide state of emergency, placing the country under military authority, as a serious option—’
The General closed the stream.
‘You could have given me more notice,’ Denton said, running a hand over his shaved head. ‘Sir.’
The General raised an unruly eyebrow. ‘So you could have more time to recover your precious operative.’ He frowned. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Sophia.’ Denton shifted in his chair. ‘I thought you were going to save the nuke for America.’
‘That would be illogical,’ the General said, owl-eyes blinking at him. ‘Nuclear attacks are only for—’
‘The circus,’ Denton finished.
‘Precisely.’ The General smiled as much as his tiny mouth would permit. ‘Your operatives were given ample opportunity to clear the area. All followed orders without incident, except Sophia. She’s collateral damage and therefore no longer of any concern to me. What is of concern to me is Project GATE.’ He eyed Denton carefully. ‘Doctor McLoughlin is dead. Which means any chance you have of accessing your own technology is also dead. Do you know what this tells me, Denton? This tells me that Project GATE would appear to be a complete disaster. Which leads me to my first question. Are you able to continue?’
‘I assure you,’ Denton said, ‘that we can and will continue.’
‘But why should I allow you to? Tell me, what can be produced right now from Project GATE that would be of immediate benefit to us?’
‘Shocktroopers,’ Denton said.
‘Forgive me for being skeptical, but this is not a phrase to be bandied about. Unless you wish to make the same mistake your father did.’
He was right, it wasn’t a phrase to be bandied about. But Denton wouldn’t have used it unless he was confident he could deliver. And right now, it was the one thing that would stop Project GATE from being shut down completely.
‘We’ve already perfected the technology necessary to mass-produce 100 Mark II operatives on a monthly basis,’ he said. ‘Carefully programmed and monitored, all with thoroughly tested Perseus- and Ambrosia-class pseudogene expression.’ He leaned forward. ‘We’re ready to deploy iron-bodied and iron-willed operatives: tireless, relentless, remorseless, unstoppable.’
The General’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. ‘Sounds just like a Mark I operative to me. What’s the difference?’
‘A shocktrooper is the hamburger with the lot,’ Denton said.
‘That’s the best analogy you could manage?’
‘Complete sensory augmentation. Every single Perseus-class pseudogene. Increased olfaction, infrasound, ultrasound, echolocation, sensitivity to temperature, balance, acceleration, you name it. They have heightened awareness of body placement, coordination, kinesthetics, acute detection of electric fields. They can see into ultraviolet and near infrared wavelengths.’
‘Mark I operatives can do all that,’ the General said.
‘Mark I operatives possess only one or two of these skills,’ Denton said. ‘Shocktroopers have them all. They are the finished product. And I can produce one squad every month. Give me six months, I’ll give you a battalion of the most dangerous soldiers on the face of this planet.’
The General frowned. ‘Is this taking into account the untimely death of your most talented computer geneticist?’
‘With all due respect, General, I wasn’t aware that I’d flown halfway around the world to talk about Cecilia McLoughlin.’
‘No. You flew halfway around the world to explain to me why your team, led by your most promising operative, went haywire in Iran eight hours ago and started retiring friendly forces. And why, once apprehended and supposedly heavily sedated, they managed to escape from the most fortified air base in the country. All before your responding team was able to secure them.’
‘They are the most talented operatives under my command and consequently under the command of the Fifth Column,’ Denton said. ‘I have Al Jazeera ready to circulate a plausible suicide bombing scenario for the friendly forces, which we’ve tied in with your promotion of Al-Zawahiri as leader of the toilet,’ Denton said.
‘The leader of Al-Qaeda,’ the General corrected him.
‘The leader of the “foreign toilet”,’ Denton said, ‘if you translate into colloquial Arabic.’
The General cleared his throat. ‘Let’s not forget who came up with such nonsense.’
Denton scratched his trimmed beard. ‘And people say I don’t have a sense of humor.’
The General exhaled through his nostrils, making a slight whistling sound. It set Denton’s teeth on edge.
‘I would suggest you modify the story according to this brief,’ the General said, sliding a folder across his desk.
Denton didn’t look at it. ‘Change of plan?’
‘No, always part of the plan.’ The General flexed his hands, opening and closing them into fists. ‘The new terrorist will not wield an AK-47 or pray to Allah. The new terrorist will be the lily-white middle class taxpayer who has lost his job, his shares and his house. The new terrorist rallies for the easily swayed masses to occupy Wall Street. The new terrorist belongs to carefully selected groups with extremist views, which we need to manage and finance. Because if there’s a new terrorist in town that we didn’t create, I want control over him. The only terrorist attacks I want to see on the news are those I give you orders for.’
‘But a western terrorist,’ Denton said. ‘Will the west believe it?’
‘They believed in a mastermind hiding in a cave and nineteen box-cutting freedom haters,’ the General said. ‘If anything, this is more plausible.’
Denton frowned. ‘Your replacement boogie man for the western world is… themselves?’
‘In case it’s escaped your notice, Denton, people aren’t afraid any more. I’m running out of countries in the Middle East to set up. The west needs something new to fear.’
‘Understood,’ Denton
said. ‘But making them fear the unknown is easy. This… will take some work.’
The General’s fingers interlocked a little too tightly. ‘Let me make this completely clear. We need terrorism to maintain public fear. We need terrorism to maintain support for our invasion and acquisition of the Middle East. If we have any intention of remaining in control, we need terrorism to lock down America. To lock down the west.’ He leaned forward and his voice dropped to a gravelly undertone. ‘I will have you invent as many terrorist groups, as many revolutions and wars and straw men, as I believe are necessary to keep us in control. We’ve come this far and I’m not about to stop now.’
‘I’ll make the required changes,’ Denton said. ‘I guarantee that we’re doing our best to contain the situation.’
‘Your best is clearly not good enough.’ The General ran his tongue between his lips to moisten them. ‘This sort of activity turns suspicion in our direction, which is cause for concern in itself because our direction doesn’t and shouldn’t exist.’
Denton ignored the criticism. He wasn’t taking the fall this time.
‘We tracked the operatives over the border and managed to recover the two who accompanied Sophia: Damien and Jay. They won’t be ready for our shocktrooper program, but as soon as they recover from their injuries, they’ll be redeployed.’
The General raised an eyebrow. ‘You intend to redeploy malfunctioning operatives into the field? Are you begging for a repeat of yesterday?’
‘Sir, operatives are programmed so they are unable to inflict self-harm, which includes removing their RFIDs. The fact that Sophia was able to remove hers and thereby remove the others’ strongly suggests it’s her programming that has malfunctioned. The rest of her team were simply following orders.’
Denton wouldn’t know for sure whether Sophia had removed Damien’s and Jay’s RFIDs as well as her own until he questioned them during reprogramming. But the General didn’t need to know that.
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