‘They’d have the area cleaned up in no time,’ Mooney counters lifting his head and gesturing to Robertson. ‘It just has to have enough punch to maybe blow out a concrete column…shake the building. We can use my men to pull it off. In the confusion, they disappear. But we have to act now.’
‘We don’t have time for this,’ Sparks says chewing on a finger.
He would like to have the old Sparks back, so they could talk it through, but he can’t. He’d signed up for the team that had the flashy sponsorship deal and a first class support team.
Mooney pulls out his cell and opens the door. It’s done. No more discussion. He’d found that piece of rope and he wasn’t about to let go.
18
Pudong District, Shanghai, China
The brothers were racing each other when they heard the loud explosion and felt a shockwave punch them in their chests crashing them to the ground.
‘What was that?’ They both said pushing hard into one another. The older brother casts a protective arm around his brother and brings him in close as they lay on the ground, debris peppering them. Up ahead is chaos. People are running and screaming and it appears everything is on fire.
‘I don’t know,’ the older brother says, ‘but I’m glad that guy knocked you over and stole the jacket from you. Otherwise we would have been closer to the explosion.’
‘My jacket,’ the younger brother says nudging his older brother who always mocks and annoys him.
The insulated room on the seventh floor of the PLA building in Shanghai was well protected from the anticipated blast. Only a small vibration was felt. Chairs swayed ever so slightly a split second before the outer glass panels exploded, bringing a gust of dust and glass fragments that swirled in the outer room and temporarily blinded them to the outside. Air sensors triggered an additional layer of air filters on the air-conditioning units to filter out all contaminants before entering the glass capsule; an increase whining from the motors was the only noise they heard. Impervious to the outside panic that ensued floors below, they continued working, waiting for the connection to be established with the Barn, and for the data to be sent.
The team had been briefed on the plan, and had all the news articles and sources loaded ready for instructions before it was unleashed, scurrying national security agencies around the world as they frantically tried to figure out who was behind the attack. Complete bios and photos of Fāng and Lì were waiting to be sent. Two heroes going about their work, killed by Americans.
Walking around the perimeter of the room, Mr Shào gets off the phone from Zane Black and instructs the team to prepare to upload the data. Tiny shards of glass cling to the rubbery soles of his shoes, clumps of concrete and plaster litter the floor. Only lighter debris had the energy to make it to the seventh floor.
‘Poor bastards,’ he says peering down to the chaos below. Heavier chunks of glass and debris exploding through enclosed office space. Computer monitors and desks absorbed some of the energy, themselves becoming shrapnel, killing and maiming. And out farther, past the building forecourt, a series of fires creating havoc with the morning rush of people.
Leaning out of the window frame, careful not to cut himself looks directly down. The wind blows hard against his face as he surveys the damage. With one-third of the gated wall disintegrated, ambulances and soldiers start flooding into the opening. Bodies are stretchered out and lay unattended, followed by the injured, some walking out with the aid of other injured people, while others crawl, visibly shaking as if they’d just walked through a human mincing machine and somehow survived.
Off to the left, soldiers start laying bodies in a straight line on the concrete outside the building. A preplanned attack, all theatre, to set up some American and to steal secrets.
‘I hope Fāng and Lì didn’t suffer,’ Mr Shào intones.
19
U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan
Nash sighs leaning over a large table, biting his lip as he puzzles over the technical diagrams. He has trouble concentrating. Not helping is a constant rattling noise overhead like a fan blade grazing against its housing. He exhales, wipes his brow and presses into the table. ‘Technicians know this stuff,’ he says twisting the drawing for a better view. Locks elbows. Formulas he can work with, concepts and complex ideas in his head, but this isn’t him. He had an expert team to do this type of work; two in fact. The first were all killed, the other team he doesn’t know. The white ruffled sleeves of his biohazard suit is tied around his waste forming a knot in front that gives him the look of someone hard at work. Wishes he played with Meccano sets as a kid. Mooney wanted the bare bones for the test. He said many people wanted to steal the technology, and trusted only a few. Nash should feel a sense of worth, but he doesn’t. He’s nervous and scared, but finds the puzzling a welcoming distraction.
Inside the building feels like what’s left of a dead bird, nothing but the ribcage left. Windows are boarded up with black plastic and scattered around his feet are boxes of equipment and tubes that he needs to somehow assemble.
He could do with an extra pair of hands. The sooner the test is conducted and is successful, the sooner he gets to go home and everything can go back to normal. He’d explain to the dean of the university there was no car accident, that it was all a misunderstanding, that he went interstate because of a family emergency and simply forgot to call and inform he’d be away for a couple of days. No great conspiracy, just a wrap over the knuckles and back to work. Mooney would be gone from his life forever, and he would be back lecturing and briefing the president on the latest scientific discoveries. Maybe earn himself a medal for his efforts.
He grips the sheet and picks it up in the hope it will magically materialize clarity and he’ll know where to start. There’s a particular order of how the precisely engineered equipment fit together. Pressures need to build, be contained and distributed correctly. Temperature is critical. One mistake could cause an explosion and destroy machines that took years to build. Thinks, Trevine would have everyone organized and get this lot resembling a professional scientific test in no time.
Holds it up to the light.
Nothing.
Thinks, what did you expect? A treasure map? A branded X to mark the spot? Prizes from a piñata, dropping on the table like candy?
The responsibility bears down. He remembers Mooney’s threats of taking the project away from him. How could he not remember the words? The way Mooney dealt with anything that got in his way, or didn’t lived up to expectations, had made the words bold, highlighted, underlined. And besides, that gun of his, named after the man himself. Surely the sign of a psychopath. Not a sociopath as Nash’s last girlfriend, a post-grad psychology student had clarified the distinction for him as a diagnosis before she left him for good.
He is trapped between the Seventh Fleet on one side and mountains on the other. Even if he could escape he wouldn’t. Fate had bound him to this project through willing sacrifices made along the way.
At first they were small. A girlfriend tossed aside for work. Dinner with parents and friends put on permanent hold. Strained and broken relationships, professional and personal that scatter the last few years. Compromising the line he thought was bright and solid, that now lay as a pile of pick-up sticks, criss-crossed to the point they make no sense. All added up. Jessica abducted. Could he have stopped it from happening? Did he turn a blind eye? He hadn’t even looked to find out more from Zane Black when John confronted him and told him about Jessica. And his team? He had accepted the word of a madman. But mixed in is a defiance he can’t deny. He held resolute during Mooney’s interrogation and came out the other side holding on to a truth. He didn’t betray John.
The table takes his full weight as shoulders drop, destitute for meaning other than work. It was about the work though. It has always been about the work. And realizing the absolute isolation of his situation, thinks he might just actually be dead. The technology that will change th
e world, could end his.
‘How can you make sense of all of this?’ Dr Carlton announces.
Nash turns hearing the familiar voice.
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your head hurt.’ Dr Carlton unzips her suit and freeing her head from the plastic hood that frames her face. Hair cascades down her back. ‘What are you doing in here?’ Adds looking around and carefully navigating between piles of equipment and cables that snake the ground.
‘An experiment,’ Nash clears his throat. ‘This has to be quick I’m afraid.’ And looks around at the piles she’s walked past. ‘As you can see I have a lot of work to do.’
A doctor’s bag swings gently in her slender grip. Nash puts the drawing down and watches her approach. Confident and purposeful. Hips sway and legs glide as if parading down a catwalk. It’s a reprieve, a refreshing wind that lightens the room.
‘Talk is you’re already dead,’ she says smirking then laughs placing her bag down on the table. ‘I’m sure I can do a thorough job on a dead man rather quickly. Please,’ looks around for a chair and seeing none adds, ‘sit up on the desk for me.’
A leg twists, her knee and foot points towards him. There’s no need to take his heart rate. He can count it tightening in his chest every time it beats.
Nash levers himself up on the table and twists towards her. She smiles her appreciation. Fingers move smoothly over his arm as she takes out the blood pressure machine and rips free the Velcro bands. Nash rolls up his sleeve.
Even under the white suit, her curves press out in all the right places. A few stray strands of hair highlight in the artificial light of the hanger. And he is drawn into her deep green eyes every time she looks up. Luminescent pools of green and blue water that sparkle and radiate warmth. He feels lighter. His shoe presses into the fabric of her skirt as she moves closer. Nash sees the deep valley of a cleavage and smells her perfume he remembers from the plane.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Not every patient is as courteous as you are.’ Flicks her hair and folds stray strands behind an ear. ‘Too tight?’ She asks as the machine activates and starts to inflate and press his arm.
‘Perfect.’ He studies the lines in her face and the small gap between her lips. Notices the gap between her front two teeth. Then thinking of her rapid departure from the plane asks: ‘Did you know Mooney was going to pounce me?’
Nash touches the back of his head. The abrasion has shrunk, his hair no longer matted.
‘No,’ she says after a brief pause. ‘Now, how’s that head of yours?’
‘Fine. The shower felt great. I haven’t had a headache for hours.’ And shuffles slightly on the bench. ‘Do I still need to take the tablets? It’s just that I need to focus on my job.’
She looks down. ‘…all looks fine. Blurred vision? Dizzy spells?’ Nash shakes his head. ‘Best to take two now, just in case.’ She presses a button and the machine turns off and Nash instantly feels the pressure release.
‘…Could we have a drink together…sometime when I’m finished?’ The words gush in spurts.
She fidgets a little, looks left and right as if formulating a thoughtful answer, or diagnosing a disease. Nash waits, knowing the prospects shrinks the greater the time elapses. Finally her mouth opens, and looking sincerely at Nash says, ‘Just a drink?’
He’s out of practice.
Thinks, is it a statement, or question?
She smiles. ‘I’m flying out tomorrow night. It will have to be by the vending machine, lunchtime tomorrow?’
The test should be completed by then.
‘Great,’ Nash says. ‘Vending machine, lunchtime tomorrow.’
He wanted to follow her progress out the hanger, but the date had reinvigorated a desire to finish the testing phase of the technology.
As the day progressed, the piles of equipment noticeably shrunk. At the far end of the hanger the amalgamation of components were forming into the experiment he begins to recognize. He couldn’t be dead because someone visited him. Someone had shown concern for his welfare.
Masen follows Mooney out the room. He pushes Robertson against the wall as he tries to stop him. ‘General!’ Masen yells running to catch up. Mooney is talking on his cell walking towards a guarded door. He looks behind and continues walking and turns back as a guard salutes and opens the door.
‘Mooney!’
The soldier moves sideways and swings his gun from around his soldier and splays it stiff across his chest. ‘Sorry, Dr Masen, you can’t leave.’
Fixed to the ground, the soldier puts the door between himself and steps forward with an outstretched hand.
‘Move aside, the army has no authority keeping me prisoner,’ Masen pants and points to the back of the Mooney. ‘It’s urgent. I need to speak to him.’
‘Where do you think you are, Masen?’ Robertson yells running out of the room catching up.
‘All team members are to be contained in building D, General’s orders,’ the guard says as if finishing Robertson’s sentence.
‘Lucky I’m not in the army then,’ Masen says. ‘I don’t have to follow orders.’ Tests his resolve and inches forward, the guard matches the move. Both stiff and stare at each other, unflinching, noses almost touch.
‘This isn’t accomplishing anything,’ Robertson says.
The soldier’s eyes narrow. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but I am in the army and they’ve given me this big gun to use as I see fit.’ Clenches his jaw and shoves Masen in his chest with it. ‘Now back off.’
Masen turns and takes a few paces, sees another guard at the opposite end of the corridor. Masen turns back. The guard’s hands are down by his side, rigid, prepared.
‘What do you mean by team?’ Masen asks pointing out the door to a hanger surrounded by biohazard tape that twirls and vibrates in the breeze. ‘You mean the people in there?’
‘That’s enough soldier,’ Robertson says.
‘Sir.’ The soldier softens has stance.
‘Professor Nash is setting up a test,’ Robertson reluctantly explains. ‘You and the others are part of that team.’
‘Nash,’ Masen mouths. Another DUST test. ‘Why didn’t you mention it earlier?’ And moves closer to the window opposite a vending machine and investigates the building outside. ‘And Nash, is he a prisoner or part of this bullshit?’
‘No one is a prisoner here.’ And gestures Masen to go back to the room. ‘The General will explain.’
Masen notices Robertson’s agitation growing as he slows and stops next to a small door on his left. Robertson looks at the door then to Masen. ‘Professor Nash is the lead scientist on the project. He’s been working with us for a number of years.’
Yes, the blackboards in his office.
‘Teleportation,’ Masen says moving closer to Robertson. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? He’s cracked it, and the army and CIA are fighting over who controls it.’
‘The General will…’ Robertson stops mid-sentence. Masen watches him gulp down a lie and sees his eyes dart down to the door. Robertson grabs Masen by the arm and walks him back into the room.
Inside, Masen walks to the window and cranes his head for a better view of the building. He sees a person open a door, walk out and places what looks like a doctor’s bag on a table before moving over to a shower; to decontaminate. Several metal poles support an oversized shower head and there is a large handle poking out. He watches as the overhanging metal handle is pulled and a wall of white frothing liquid drenches the suit. The person turns slowly and pulls a smaller handle, this time a clear liquid washes the foam away. The person disrobes into military uniform and hangs the still dripping wet suit on the rack.
She moves over, picks up her bag and walks towards the far end of the building, saluting someone as she walks out of frame.
There’s no biohazard. The bag would be contaminated.
Masen presses his head against the window and turns in a shallow angle, trying to mak
e out the person she saluted. ‘Mooney,’ he intones watching him walk over and pull on a biohazard suit from the rack. One cowboy boot is having a hard time negotiating the small elasticized opening.
Nash is in there.
His vision is pulled to the left and he moves back from the window. His breath condenses against the cold glass as he catches a glimpse of soldiers chaotically darting about in all directions. His heart sinks as he contemplates why the sudden surge in military activity.
‘Hey sparks,’ he says in a summoning tone.
But the look on Sparks’ face tells Masen he already knows. ‘It will start feeding into the news soon,’ Sparks says.
The world will soon be aware of a major terrorist incident in Shanghai against a PLA building. Everyone will know it was the Americans and they will be right, and wrong.
Bradbury and Pak gather around Masen for a view.
‘You did all you could,’ Masen says. He knows it’s a feeble gesture. ‘Maybe they listened to you in the end.’
20
Stanford University, California
‘What’s up?’ Ray Coffey asks casually sensing his partner hovering in the doorway behind. He gulps a mouthful of beer and holds the can up blindly over his head.
James Rodriguez puts the cell phone back in his back pocket and enters the room proper. His hand moves slowly taking the beer, face devoid of emotion as he looks down at his partner lying on his bed reading the latest Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. It had only just arrived in the mail: the plastic cover on the floor down by his feet.
Rodriguez takes a gulp. ‘The General called.’
‘As in—’ Hand arched back summoning the can.
‘Four star General Mooney,’ Rodriguez says and stares at the can. Hands it back.
Iris Rising Page 11
