State of Emergency (21 page)

The Mole was one of the machines unique to E-Force. It
was an astonishing piece of technology. It looked like a
massive drill bit on tracks, and – as its name suggested – it
was designed to burrow into the earth. But, although it did
this with great efficiency, it could also withstand very high
temperatures, allowing it to pass easily through fires.

Behind the drill was the one-man control centre, and
behind that was a cylindrical capsule ten feet long and four
feet wide. From the control centre the operator of the Mole
had a 360-degree view of the surroundings via external
cameras. Sensors in the machine's skin passed information
about the external environment to the on-board nano-systems.
The capsule behind the control centre was dubbed
'the Bullet' because of its shape, but it was also incredibly
tough – blast-proof, radiation-sealed and resistant to almost
every chemical known to humankind.

Pete Sherringham sat at the controls of the Mole, poised
at the top of the ground-floor down-ramp that led to the
car park on the eastern side of the CCC. He gave verbal
instructions to the computer system and the machine edged
forward, beginning its descent down the slope.

The walls of the ramp had been badly damaged by the
blasts. Lumps of dusty concrete were strewn across the floor,
and some of the tarmac had buckled. Pete drove down the
first spiral and was soon parallel to B1. There was no off-ramp
here, since the first parking level was on B2. He swung the
Mole around the next curve, and twenty seconds later he
was at the entrance to the car park.

At first glance, the car park looked like a building site.
Pete flicked on the Mole's powerful beams. They cut through
the smoky gloom and the cameras charted the devastation.
There were burnt-out cars and automobile parts scattered
across the floor. Every windscreen had shattered. Great
expanses of the ceiling had caved in. Huge energies had
undone the work of many man-hours.

He pulled the Mole into the car park and paused for a
moment. 'Anybody there?' he called through the external
speakers. Nothing. The sensors in the skin of the Mole could
pick up any sound from outside. Pete had the filter set to
stream the sound of a human voice only. But nothing came
through.

He moved forward, between the rows of smashed-up cars.
A flame shot out from the shattered passenger window of a
Cadillac CTS Sport and the engine exploded, sending the
hood crashing into the ceiling before it cartwheeled along
the aisle. It slammed into the Mole and rolled to a stop near
the ramp.

The floor was slick with oil and water, but it meant
nothing to the tracks of the Mole. Looking west, Pete could
see the devastation was worse. Many of the cars had been
ripped apart. At least a quarter of them had been upended.
Nudging forward, in a few moments he had reached the
top of the down ramp from B2 to B3. Where once the ramp
had led smoothly down to B3, now the way was blocked
by a massive pile of boulders, steel girders and a clutch of
mangled vehicles.

Pete manoeuvred the Mole towards the lip of the ramp
and stopped a few feet from the obstruction. The blockage
was so complete that even with the powerful lights of the
Mole, he couldn't see anything on the other side. He called
through the speakers again, 'Is anyone there? The other side
of this blockage?' Nothing.

'Base One,' Pete said into his comms.

'Yeah, Pete,' came Mark Harrison's low voice.

'Can BigEye get any detail down to B3?'

Mark looked at one of the technicians who shook his
head. 'That's a negative, Pete. Too much interference. What's
your situation?'

'I'm at the top of the ramp going from B2 to B3, but
the way is completely blocked. I'm a little nervous about
smashing my way through in case someone's alive the other
side.'

'Any other way down?'

'Negative. The west end of B2 is smashed up so bad there's
a danger the Mole could go right through the floor.'

'Well, you don't have much choice then, Pete.'

'Wilco.' Pete cut the link and surveyed his sensors. He
could hear nothing around the frequency of a human voice.
The infrared sensors were overwhelmed by the heat of the
fires in the car park, so he couldn't separate out the body heat
from anyone who might be the other side of the blockage.

Pete made his decision. The Mole started to move
forward.

A few minutes from sunset and the slowly descending
orange sun lit up the expanse of the Pacific Ocean like
a vermilion disco ball. Tom Erickson was in his private
quarters overlooking the west of Tintara, the full splendour
of the clear evening sky framed by his window. He had a
console in his room that was almost as versatile as the one
in Cyber Control, and from here he had complete access
to Sybil, the quantum computer at the heart of the entire
system.

As much as he had grown to love being part of the team
at Tintara, Tom valued his privacy. It might have been
something to do with the months he had spent at the
Aldermont Correctional Facility, where his only friend had
been his laptop. But now he had found a home, people he
could identify with. Sure, he enjoyed teasing them, but he
had never met a group of people he respected more. And
now they needed him. This mission would fail unless he
could find a way for the team on the ground to reach Senator
Kyle Foreman.

'Sybil – bring up the schematic of the CCC, please,' he
said. The holoscreen was aglow in front of his wheelchair,
and the virtual keyboard was projected over his lap. The
3D schematic appeared two feet in front of his face. 'Music,
please, Sybil,' he said, staring fixedly at the image.

'I have 3,257,419 individual pieces of –'

'Yes, Syb, baby, I imagine you do. Any Barry Manilow? Just
kidding. Play . . .' He looked out at the sky now dominated
by crimson and orange. 'The White Stripes,
Seven Nation
Army
– loud, Syb.'

'Please specify –'

'Er, crank it up to eleven.'

'I'm sorry. That –'

'Sybil – volume nine. I'll let you know if it's wrong.'

The throbbing bass notes kicked in, then the drums,
and Jack White's rasping bluesy voice. Tom pushed his
head back against the rest of his wheelchair and closed
his eyes. He tried to clear his mind and let the music
wash over him. The heavier the sounds, the calmer he
became.

Tom opened his eyes and looked at the schematic. At first
glance it was just a maze of lines. He surveyed the ten floors
of the building. Much of B1 was a mess, and B2 – the first
level of the car park – was strewn with damaged vehicles,
random fires and other hazards. A bad fire was raging on the
eastern side of B3.

'Where's Pete, Sybil?'

A small dot appeared on B2. But Pete Sherringham's way
was blocked. He was about to guide the Mole down through
a major obstruction and it would take him a while to get
through. Furthermore, there was no way of knowing where
Kyle Foreman and the others would be by the time he got
through. Tom had no choice – somehow he had to get Josh,
Mai and Steph down there.

'Okay,' Tom said. 'Okay, so what now?' The music was
good and loud and reaching a crescendo. 'Come on, man,
think.
Think
!' He ran a hand through his long, greasy hair.
'What do buildings need? Electricity. Right. Gas. Right.
Water. Sewage . . . Sybil – is there a schematic on the net for
the sewage system of the CCC?'

A few seconds passed. 'Yes,' Sybil responded.

'Good. Can you superimpose it on the schematic of the
building, please.'

A mesh of green lines appeared, linking the floors. They
ran to a main artery to the east of the building, just below
B6. From there, a thick green line extended eastwards. It
was useless – the threads from the sewage channels from
the building were no more than two feet in diameter. The
main sewer in the area was four feet wide, but the compact
CCC pipes didn't link to it until more than 50 yards east
of the CCC. 'Damn it!' Tom exclaimed above the pounding
music.

He stared out the window. The sky was turning purple
and a few stars were beginning to appear.

'Sybil – superimpose all services to the CCC on the
schematic.'

New lines appeared – yellow for gas pipes, black for
electricity, red for mains water. None of them included
maintenance conduits running to or from the CCC. There
were no manholes or access tunnels big enough. But suddenly
Tom had an idea.

'Sybil – can you find an image of the foundations? Either
from BigEye or anything on the net?'

This time the delay was a little longer.

'BigEye can't reach that far down, Tom,' Sybil said. 'But
there is an image of the site taken when the CCC was being
constructed in 1996.'

'Alright,' Tom said. 'Bring it up, please.' He looked at
the still image. It was a vast construction site. Three huge
trucks in the foreground. Then he noticed something.
'What's that, Sybil? That opening at the far side of the
foundations?'

'You could be referring to any of three different openings,
Tom.'

'Sure. The one that's level with the top of the foundations.
Top-left of the image.'

'That is a municipal drain. It was first constructed in 1934
to take rainwater to the ocean. It was decommissioned when
the CCC was constructed.'

'Decommissioned? But not demolished?'

A pause. The image changed. The schematic of the CCC
appeared: a new set of lines lay to the rear of the building.

'Close in, Sybil. Top-left corner of the foundations,
please.'

The image changed again. The bottom left corner of the
CCC took up the entire holoscreen.

'That drain, Sybil. Is there an entry point at ground
level?'

The view transformed yet again, following the drain a
hundred yards to the west of the building.

'It emerges here, at grid reference –'

'That's alright, Sybil. I can see where it comes out. And
this is the $64,000-question, Syb. How close does it run to
B6 of the CCC?'

'The closest point is at grid reference D17 on the image.
Separation of drain wall and wall into B6 is 38.41 inches.
Soil type: compacted rock, sand and clay.'

'Syb, baby, I love you!' Tom said.

For someone so young, the woman who called herself
Francine Gygax – in homage to Gary Gygax, the creator
of
Dungeons & Dragons
– had an almost invincible sense of
self-confidence. She knew the men only by the collective
name of the Four Horsemen – an epithet she thought rather
ridiculous. But she didn't feel the slightest bit intimidated
by them, and hadn't even bothered disguising herself on
screen. The four men had, however. All she could see of
them were blurred faces, while they could see each other
clearly.

War was still on his lounger on the deck of the
Rosebud
,
moored off Naladhu. The sun was hot and lemon rays danced
on the calm water. Death was still in his Washington DC
office, and Pestilence was aboard the Hawker 400XP, now
closer to LaGuardia in New York. Conquest had arrived at
his Mayfair penthouse, poured himself a generous brandy
and was sitting on an antique cream sofa. It was 8.30
pm in LA, 11.30 pm in Washington, 4.30 am in London
and 9.30 am in the Maldives. Francine was nowhere and
everywhere. In cyberspace there are no time zones.

'You come highly recommended,' Conquest said, as
four faces appeared on the huge screen on a wall of his
apartment.

Francine produced a barely discernible smile. 'I would
imagine I do. I'm the best there is,' she replied matter-of-factly.

Francine was twenty years old and had known great
power for the past five. Five years that were a stark contrast
to the first fifteen of her life. She had once been a shrew, an
insignificant, plain young girl whom the other kids either
ignored or verbally tortured. Now she understood how to
manipulate. She knew the power she could exert, especially
over men.

Blonde and statuesque, with jet-black eyes, thanks to
extensive plastic surgery, Francine bore little resemblance to
the mousy-haired, spotty teenager she had once been. War
had been rendered almost speechless as Francine appeared
on his screen. He felt a stirring in his loins and giggled to
himself.

'I read the brief,' Francine said, concentrating on Conquest's
distorted image. 'Looks like you need some help.'

Conquest bridled, but quickly brought his features under
control. War was not so subtle and burst out laughing.

'You find something amusing?' Francine asked, turning
her black eyes to the large wobbling shape on her screen.

War roared with laughter and gave a wink intended for
his three cohorts. 'I love this girl,' he announced. 'She's
giving me a hard-on.'

Francine's faint smile reappeared. Without looking down,
her fingers flitted over a keyboard just out of sight. Suddenly,
on the Horsemen's four screens in dispersed locations around
the globe, War's face began to alter and it appeared out of
the blur on Francine's screen. The plentiful flesh of his jowls
and his thick neck began to vibrate. His lips trembled and
he dribbled onto his massive white chest. His eyes started
to bulge. Then, as quickly as it had begun to change, his
face returned to something close to normal. But he looked
drained and hideously pale.

The other three Horsemen were stunned. They had each
seen many horrible things. They had each inflicted terrible
pain upon others, but this was something new.

Death was the first to recover his composure. 'What did
you do?'

'Oh, now, that would be telling.'

'I demand that you explain yourself.'

Francine fixed him with cold eyes and gave a nonchalant
shrug. 'I don't respond to
demands
.'

'I'm intrigued,' Conquest interjected, his voice calm,
placating. 'Humour us.'

She sighed. 'I simply sent your fat friend a few interesting
visuals. Certain images can be, well, very
powerful
.'

Death glared at the girl, barely able to comprehend. 'You
hacked into his computer?'

'I told you I'm the best. It wasn't difficult.'

Conquest glanced at War, who for the first time since he
had known him was not seeing the funny side. The fat man
looked petrified.

'Impressive,' Death said finally. 'But –'

'You have the brief,' Pestilence interrupted. 'As agreed,
the first payment will be in your account in –' he glanced at
the foot of his screen – 'a little under 30 seconds. The rest
will be paid on successful completion of the project.'

Francine nodded.

'Any questions?' Death asked.

She had none.