Bunsen drags the poor bastard inside the building and deposits him in the coolroom amongst the chemicals and lab supplies. Once the mission is completed he will dispose of the body appropriately. It strikes Bunsen as he closes the door behind him that Jacob is the mission’s first collateral damage.
Bunsen moves back into the lab and on the central table finds the three aluminium canisters that contain the counteragent. Each flip-lid contains a small numeric keypad with an LED screen built into it. He slides them into his backpack then heads to the helipad.
He arrives as Enrico pushes a long hose from a four-horsepower electric pump into one of the drums of Swarm he brought up from the lab, then attaches another hose to the chopper’s empty water tank. He switches on the pump and it whirs to life, transferring the contents of the drum into the tank. He turns to Bunsen. ‘How much do we want on board?’
‘One thousand litres.’
Enrico nods.
Bunsen knows that will be more than enough for today’s mission, though it will use only a fraction of the water tank’s ten-thousand-litre capacity. It will also leave them with two thousand litres of the Swarm to use later.
Bunsen moves to the front of the chopper and unscrews the Tyrannosaur’s heavy fuel tank cap. The Air-Crane is currently full to the brim with 5114 litres of av-gas in its tank. He reaches into his backpack, pulls out one of the large aluminium canisters and thumbs 612 (his birthdate) into the keypad. The flip-lid unlocks with a burst of compressed air and he pours the contents of the canister into the fuel tank. He screws the fuel cap back on and turns to Enrico. ‘How much longer?’
‘Fifteen minutes.’
Bunsen nods, then draws in a deep breath. He needs to prepare himself for what comes next. He pulls earbuds from his pocket, slips them in place, hits play on his iPhone’s screen - and lets the recorded screams of those tortured plants fill his world.
~ * ~
10
Judd strides down the passenger bridge from the 787 and steps into the LAX terminal. He glances at his watch then scans the crowd of people nearby.
‘Sssuuup, Mandy?’
Judd turns. It’s the Australian, with a crooked grin that’d make a Chimpanzee envious.
‘See what I did there? Made it sound like I’m a local.’
‘Excuse me, have you seen Corey Purchase? I believe I’m meant to meet him here.’
They embrace. Somehow shaking hands just doesn’t seem like enough. They hold it for a moment, then part.
‘How are you, man?’
‘Mate, never better. How’s it hanging?’
‘Low, but with a curve to the left.’
‘That’s right, I saw the pictures on the Tweeter.’
‘Ha. And it’s “Twitter”. Where’s the puppy?’
‘In the car with Bowen. They’re circling. We should haul arse.’ Corey points the way and they move off. ‘We’ll hit CNN first and do the interview, then drop by Spago for a feed, then head over to Fox for the announcement. They want to film it then release it to the networks for the news tonight.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Judd studies the Australian for a moment. There’s something about him that doesn’t seem quite right. ‘So, how are you?’
‘Travelling beautifully, like I said.’
Judd’s not buying. ‘So what’s going on?’
‘Actually, I’m remembering how much of a pain in the arse you can be.’ Corey tries to grin it out but Judd is undeterred.
‘Fess up, Blades.’ Blades is Corey’s nickname, after Blades of Corey, the heli-services company he ran in Central Australia. Mandy is Corey’s nickname for Judd, because he dances like Barry Manilow, who had a big hit back in the day with a ballad called, unsurprisingly, ‘Mandy’.
Corey takes a breath. ‘Well, there was this girl. I liked her. Thought she liked me. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. It was embarrassing. Boo-hoo. The end.’
Judd’s about to say something ‘there’s-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea’ glib, then sees Corey’s actually cut up about it and changes tack. ‘Sorry to hear that. Who is this lady?’
‘She works at Bowen’s agency. She’s great - funny and interesting and clever and . .. she gets me.’
Just not enough.
Judd doesn’t say it. He stays positive. ‘Well, if you feel that strongly, you’ve got to fight for her, pursue her - without being a stalker about it, of course.’
Corey’s face brightens. Judd knows this is new ground for the Aussie. He hasn’t had a lot of positive experience with the opposite sex so he’s looking for any kind of guidance. ‘Really? Do you think that could work?’
He continues to stay positive. ‘I have no idea, but it’s worth a try. Who’s the boyfriend?’
‘Scott Ford.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘His name is Scott Ford —’
‘The Blue Cyclone
Scott Ford? The actor? In the tights, with the body?’
Corey nods.
Judd turns serious. ‘I may have led you astray with the advice I just gave you.’
‘But you said if I feel strongly, I should fight for her —’
‘That was before I found out she’s dating the biggest movie star in the world. You kinda buried the lead on that.’
Corey studies his feet, no longer trying to hide how miserable he feels.
‘Sorry. But that’s kind of hard to top.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m just a bloody chopper pilot from the Alice.’
Judd places a mollifying hand on his shoulder. ‘And it’s her loss. And, you know, plenty of fish in the sea and all that.’
Corey takes this in with a half-hearted nod and they continue walking. Judd sees the usual spring is gone from his step. ‘Why didn’t you want to tell me?’
‘I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me.’
‘Oh, come on, I wouldn’t do that. Last year I told you everything about, you know, my troubles with Rhonda.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you felt sorry for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh.’ Now Judd is despondent - and it’s Corey’s turn to place a mollifying hand on his shoulder.
They pass through the terminal’s sliding doors and step outside. The dry heat slaps Judd across the face. LA: one season, all year around.
Corey searches the roadway.
‘What are we looking for?’
‘A blue Bimmer, seven series - there it is.’ Corey points at the navy BMW as it approaches, Spike in the front passenger seat. It pulls up beside them and they slide into the back seat. Judd pats the ugly white dog on the head and takes in Bowen, who sits behind the wheel.
The agent is on the phone, a Bluetooth gadget jammed in his right ear. He turns, holds up a single ‘one minute’ finger and continues to talk on the phone: ‘Why? ‘Cause my guy’s the one you need on this. Sure, his last movie was a hundred different cliches celebrating a reunion and yes, it was too long - I wanted to tap it on the shoulder and ask, “Hey, shouldn’t you have ended fifteen minutes ago?”, but it made six hundred and fifty million international.’
Bowen pulls out from the kerb, turns and looks back at Judd, mimes a ‘nice to meet you’ that ends with a wink, then continues talking on the phone: ‘And that’s the point - it was awful and it opened everywhere because my guy is a star. He was a star thirty years ago when he started out, he’s a star right now and he’ll be a star the day the sun explodes and you can’t say that about anyone else. Think of him as insurance against that Russian first-timer you hired to direct.’ He listens for another moment, then, ‘It means this: you can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter - and my guy’s the glitter. I want your answer ASAP, as in www-dot-you-got-fifteen-minutes-dot-org.’
Bowen hangs up and looks back at Judd and Corey with a grin. ‘Well, lookee here, I got me a car full of bona fide heroes! Oh my Lord. I’ll instagram it as soon as we get out.’ He focuses on Judd. ‘I must open with a heartfelt thank you. For what you did for our country. It’s greatly appreciated. It’s an honour to be on your team. It’s the highlight of my career.’
Bowen keeps talking and Judd takes him in. With the exuberant overstatements, hollow platitudes and folksy inflection, the agent is just as Judd expected. In his late forties, Bowen is short but good-looking in that I-was-once-a-child-star way, which he was. Judd remembers him from
First Son,
a hit sitcom that ran for seven years on CBS during the eighties. He played James, a smart-mouthed, liberal-minded teen who had an almost Svengali-like control over Barry, his dimwitted, ultra-conservative father - who just happened to be the President of the United States.
From what Corey’s told him, Bowen never considered himself anything more than a low-rent Michael J. Fox and despaired at the thought of being unemployed like all the other young actors he knew, except Michael J. Fox. So, when
First Son
was cancelled he started his own talent agency to represent those actors and give himself some career security. He was only twenty-four, but using everything he’d learned from his time on the sitcom, B&A. quickly became a premier boutique agency in Beverly Hills.
As Bowen drives he brings Judd up to speed on
The Atlantis 4
movie, or
Atlantis 4
as it is now called, because apparently ‘it’s a much stronger title without the “The”.’ He then tells him how Fox is looking to commit to a sequel before the first movie is even released and want to talk money soon.
Money. It’s never held much interest to Judd - if you want to be rich you sure as hell didn’t become an astronaut - but he is excited that a successful movie, or series of movies, might help the program win over the non-believers who think the NASA budget is an extravagance and the Mars mission frivolous. He’s happy to be involved in anything that will rekindle America’s love affair with the space program.
Corey turns to Judd. ‘Mate, nearly forgot, the studio needs us to choose a song for the bit when my character swoops in and saves your arse at the end. We can have “Can’t Fight This Feeling” by REO Speedwagon or “Baby Come Back” by Player.’
‘Can we have something from this century?’
‘It’s meant to be nostalgic and ironic.’
‘I remember the “fight this feeling” one but how does the “baby goes back” one go again?’
‘Oh! I know!’ Corey puts up his hand, excited.
‘You don’t have to raise your hand, just sing it.’
Corey puts his hand down and sings it: ‘Baby come back! Da da da da da da da and then something, something something something something - baby come back!’ He stops with a grimace. ‘That sounded horrible.’
‘I have even
less
idea now.’
‘Sorry. Anyway, download them and have a listen. We need to make a decision before Monday.’
Judd nods and looks out the window as the dirty grey freeway whips past. He turns and takes in the skyline, notices sunlight reflects off the black glass windows of the distant CNN building, their destination this afternoon. Behind it, in the distance, his eye is drawn to a dark helicopter that cuts across the horizon. It’s one of the big ones they use for firefighting. What are they called again? That’s right - it’s an Air-Crane.
~ * ~
11
Kilroy guns the Prius.
The bridge of his nose stings like a bastard, the right side of his chest throbs from where the bullet hit the vest, but neither hurt as much as his pride. Alvy Blash, the geekiest of scientists, a tubby, pigeon-toed hairball, brought him down with a metal tray, stole his gun, shot him with it and then
escaped.
It’s so humiliating he can’t bear to think about it. He should have taken more care, shouldn’t have assumed Alvy would be an easy target. He could tell Bunsen was über-pissed about it, even though he barely said a word on the phone. And why wouldn’t he be angry? This is exactly the kind of distraction they don’t need today, of all days. Kilroy glances at his Tag Heuer. The Tyrannosaur will be airborne by now. He’ll need to be quick to get this mess cleaned up before Phase Two begins.
Kilroy can see Alvy’s faded blue Corolla ten cars ahead as it navigates light traffic on Cosmo Street in Hollywood. He has no idea where it’s heading, just knows he must deal with it now.
He can’t underestimate that chubby scientist again.
~ * ~
Alvy needs to lose Kilroy.
He scans the road before him. Where’s a cop when you need one? He hasn’t seen a police station or a police cruiser since he made his getaway.
He glances in the rear-view mirror, takes in Kilroy’s Prius, a good ten cars behind. He needs to warn the authorities about the Swarm, then get himself to a hospital, but he can’t do either with the pony-tailed son-of-a-bitch on his six. He’s managed to escape Kilroy once today but he doesn’t like his chances of a repeat performance. He’s sure if he stops the car he’ll be dead before he gets out - though he might not have to worry about Kilroy killing him if he doesn’t get some medical attention ASAP. His head feels even lighter than before as blood pools on his seat from the wound on his thigh. He keeps pressure on it as best he can but it doesn’t stop the bleeding.
A police cruiser. Driving on the opposite side of the road. Two officers inside. That’s it. That’s what he needs. He makes a decision.