State of Emergency (23 page)

Kyle Foreman raised his hands. 'If this is some kind of –'

'Joke? No, no joke, Senator. I'm very serious.'

Foreman started to walk backwards slowly. His only
hope was to stall him. 'Who sent you? What's all this
about?'

The Dragon raised the gun. The point of the barrel was
two feet from the senator's head. Foreman stepped back
again and came to rest against a concrete pillar. The Dragon
matched his steps and stood with his feet splayed, both
hands on the gun.

Foreman caught a slight movement at the edge of his
vision. Behind the Dragon a large chunk of concrete was
swinging from a thin steel tube. The metal was bending,
about to snap. He had to buy some time.

Then suddenly he knew what to do. 'Watch out behind
you!' Foreman yelled.

The Dragon didn't so much as flinch. 'Oh, Senator
Foreman, please! You insult me!'

Foreman saw the Dragon's finger moving back, the skin
whitening as he pulled on the trigger. A line of sweat ran
into his right eye, stinging.

The block of concrete crashed down, missing the Dragon
by a fraction of an inch. He whirled around and Foreman
seized his chance. He interlocked his fingers and with every
ounce of strength in him he brought his fists down on the
back of the Dragon's head, knocking him forward. He landed
heavily on the jagged lump of concrete. The gun left his
hands and slid across the floor of the car park.

In a blind panic, Foreman searched around for something
he could use as a weapon. He grabbed at a piece of metal,
a severed door handle. The Dragon was pulling himself up.
Foreman swung the handle through the air, but the Dragon
was too fast. One kick to the abdomen and Foreman was
flying backwards. He landed on a pile of rubble and cried
out as intense pain shot through him.

The Dragon was on top of the senator in a fraction of a
second, one hand at the his throat, the other clutching the
Yarygin PYa handgun he had pulled from his jacket. Foreman
could feel the life draining from him. In desperation, he ran
his hands over the floor beside him and touched metal, a pipe
of some sort. He grasped it, brought it round and slammed it
into the Dragon's head. The Dragon fell back, stunned, blood
running from a wound just above his left ear.

Foreman found reserves of energy he had no idea he
possessed and flung himself at the assassin. But the Dragon
brought his arm up, smashing his elbow into Foreman's
face. Both men fell backwards. The senator stumbled over a
pile of masonry, almost tripping over the door handle he'd
used earlier.

Grabbing it, he lunged forward again with all his strength.
The Dragon was struggling to regain his balance, and the
blow reached its target. This time the assassin went down
like a sack of coal. Foreman brought the handle down again
– hard – across the nape of the Dragon's neck, and then a
third time across the top of his skull. The man fell forward
and stopped moving.

For a couple of seconds Foreman stood gasping for air. He
was covered in blood, sweat and concrete dust. He ran a hand
over his eyes, but this only made it worse. He pulled a piece
of cloth from his pocket, a remnant from the tablecloths he
had used to bind Dave Golding's wounds. He spat on it and
rubbed it over his eyes to clear away the grit and dirt as best
he could. Then he dabbed at the wounds on his face.

He walked around the prone form of the assassin and
picked up the Smith & Wesson Magnum. There was no sign
of the Yarygin. The Magnum was heavy and felt unnatural
in Foreman's hand. He had always hated guns. Bending
down with the barrel close to the Dragon's head, he felt for
a pulse. It was there – weak, but there.

What was he to do? The man was a trained killer, a
professional. A wild thought flashed through Foreman's
mind. He could put a bullet in the bastard's brain or, better
still, smash his skull with a chunk of rock. He would be just
another casualty. But even though this man had tried to kill
him, and would have shot him without a second thought,
the senator couldn't do it.

'Have to do something,' Foreman said aloud to the fetid
air. Looking around him, he spotted a car stereo. It was
smashed almost beyond recognition, but a bunch of coloured
wires dangled from its back. He snatched it up and yanked
at the wires. Crouching down, he pulled the Dragon's hands
behind him and wound the wires around his wrists, knotting
them four times. The metal shell of the stereo hung limp.
Foreman remembered the man was wearing a tie. Tugging it
free, he wrapped it tight around the assassin's ankles.

The senator stood up. Pain from a dozen different places
screamed at him simultaneously. Everything seemed to
hurt. He pocketed the Magnum and headed back to the
storerooms at the rear of B6, his heart pounding so hard it
felt like it would leap from his chest.

It took less than a minute for the Sonic Drill to cut a hole a
yard wide in the wall between the drain and Level B6 of the
California Conference Center.

'We're through,' Josh announced into his comms.

'Roger, Josh,' Tom responded from Base One. 'I still can't
get a detailed fix on the location of Kyle Foreman or his
party. And there's something else.'

'What?'

'We're picking up some pretty serious stress lines on B6.

Must be loss of integrity up above, a knock-on effect. Advise
extreme caution.'

'Wilco.'

Josh dismantled the Sonic Drill and retracted the legs as
Mai went through the hole.

Room B63 was a large storeroom. They had to step over a
huge plasma screen that had toppled over from the vibration
caused by the drill. The ultrasound beam had been so precise
the plasma screen was otherwise untouched, even though it
had been resting against the wall.

Guided by the beam from his helmet, Josh found a light
switch on the far wall. The fluorescent tube in the ceiling
rattled into life. Against the side walls stood plastic containers
with labels on their fronts. The boxes were covered in
dust from where the ceiling and walls had shaken in the
blasts. Josh wiped a label clean. 'Spare parts for audio visual
equipment,' he said.

Mai paced over to a roller-door in the right-hand wall and
bent down to the handle. It came up easily, opening onto
a dark corridor. They could hear strange creaking sounds,
and then a far-off scream. The air was hazy with particles of
dust and smoke from the dozens of fires still raging in the
huge complex.

Josh looked at a schematic on his flexiscreen. 'That
corridor links to a passage with other storerooms off it.
Beyond that there's a main corridor. We should take a
right turn there. It'll lead us out to the car parking area
and the ramp up to B5. We take a left after that, and we'll
wind up at the large service elevator that goes straight to
the Ground Level.'

'It's inoperable.'

'Yeah, but Foreman and the others might not know that.
He may be close to it.'

'Okay, let's check it first.'

They took a left turn in the corridor outside B63. All the
roller-doors were down. It was dark except for the beams
from their helmets. They reached the main corridor and
hung another left. A few seconds later they were standing in
front of the smashed-up elevator and its dead occupant – the
precise spot Kyle Foreman had been some twenty minutes
earlier. They turned without a word and ran back along the
passage.

'Guys?' It was Tom. 'Status, please?' There was an edge of
urgency in his voice.

'We've checked out the service elevator. No sign of
Foreman. Heading back to the corridor outside B63. Plan to
press on into the main body of B6. What's up, Tom?'

'Hold your position.'

'Why?'

'BigEye has just picked up a hotspot close to your
position.'

'A hotspot?'

'It's broken through the interference. Must be a very hot
fire, perhaps a short circuit in the electrical system. According
to Sybil, one of the storerooms contains gas tanks –'

The explosion threw them off their feet. Josh fell backwards
onto a pile of empty cardboard boxes that had been left in
the corridor, scattering them across the passage. The boxes
cushioned his fall, but the wind was still knocked out of
him. The Sonic Drill flew out of his hands. Before he could
move, Mai landed on top of him, an elbow slamming into
his face.

Mai pulled herself up, covered in dust. She looked down
at Josh, who was holding his nose. She could see, through
the mask of his helmet, that blood was streaming down
from his nostrils.

'Josh? Mai? Status, please. Are you guys okay?'

They were too stunned to respond immediately. But Mai
replied as she pulled Josh to his feet. 'I think we're okay.'
She checked the screen on her wrist and Josh shook his head
and lifted his arm. It ached. He looked down the corridor
and saw the back end of the Sonic Drill protruding from a
huge pile of rubble. The device was smashed to pieces.

'My suit's fine,' Mai replied.

'Josh?'

'I feel like my nose has snapped off, but apart from
that . . .' Josh pulled off his helmet, coughing in the dense,
fumy air. He ran his fingers under his nose and they came
up bloodied. A couple of drops fell to the dusty floor.

'It's not busted, Josh,' Tom said.

'Well, that's good to know. Can't say the same for the
Sonic Drill, though. It's pretty smashed up.'

'Put your helmet back on. You want some painkillers?'

'That would be nice. So what the hell just happened?'

'I'm sorry. We picked it up too late. You're so far down
and with the electrical disturbances from the explosions –'

'What was it, Tom?'

'A gas tank at the other side of B6. Lucky you weren't
closer.'

'We're going to take the main passage, see if we can find
Foreman. And Tom? Next time –'

A loud rumble interrupted Josh. It started far off but grew
louder, closer. Instinctively, Josh and Mai dived to the floor,
covering their heads with their arms. The rumbling kept
coming closer. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.

'Tom?' Josh said.

No response.

'Mark? Steph? Anyone? Come in?'

Nothing.

Mai and Josh stood up, the air around them even thicker
with dust and smoke in the light from their helmets. Josh
checked his wrist computer, tapping at the keypad. 'The
noise came from beyond B63 . . . in the drain.'

Mai led the way along the corridor. A chunk of concrete
the size of a fist shot down from the ceiling and landed an
inch in front of her. Without missing a beat, she dodged a
shower of pebbles and detritus and ran on. Josh was two
paces behind her.

Room B63 was filled with smoke. Stumbling over rocks
and pieces of tile and concrete, they reached the opening.

Josh peered in. Thanks to his visual enhancements, he could
see through the intense gloom. The tunnel was completely
blocked.

Dave and Marty heard the boom of the tunnel collapsing.
The far wall began to vibrate, the ceiling juddered and
the roller-door started to move in sympathy. And then – a
sudden stillness.

They looked at each other almost resignedly. Marty got
up and walked to the door, straining to listen, but there was
only an eerie silence from the corridor beyond. He sat down
with his back to the wall and let out a heavy sigh. 'How's
the arm, kid?'

Dave shrugged. 'Oh, you know. You?'

'My head's throbbing. And this air, the smoke . . .' Marty
looked pained.

They had locked the shutter, although neither of them
knew exactly why. Dave reached for his bag and pulled out
the bottle of Vicodin. He emptied a couple of tablets into his
palm and tossed them back.

'So what started you on those things?' Marty asked.

Dave gave him an angry look and shook his head. 'Does
it matter?'

Marty looked away. A medley of sounds came from beyond
the shutter. A loud creaking, as though the whole building
was about to crumble to dust. From far off came the sound
of falling debris.

'Couldn't cope with life, I guess,' Dave said suddenly.

'Yep, sounds about right,' Marty replied.

'And what would you know about it, old man?' Dave
snapped. He winced and grabbed at his injured arm. The
cloth around it was drenched with blood.

Marty looked at the young man for a moment then
laughed. 'I was in Nam,' he said quietly. 'Almost 45 years
ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. If you hear
old-timers like me tell you it was pure hell there, you'd
better believe 'em, Dave. I haven't been to hell – not yet,
anyway – but I can't imagine it being any worse than Quang
Tri Province in April '68. My three best buddies died the
same day. Operation Pegasus, it was called. We were part of
III Marine Amphibious Force, sent in to save a base in Khe
Sanh. It was about to fall to the Vietcong. I made it back to
Saigon without a scratch and was given leave. It was worse
than the front. I was eaten up with guilt. Survivor guilt, they
call it now. Probably suffer it again if we make it out of this
place.'

Dave was studying the old man's face. It was grimy and
he seemed to have aged ten years during the past hour. It
struck him suddenly just how much living Marty Gardiner
had over him.

'So what'd you do?'

'Same as half the US army – got smashed on bad local
drugs, got so drunk I lost track of two whole days, and almost
certainly did other stuff I'm glad I can't remember.' He gave
Dave a pained smile, his teeth ridiculously bright against the
smudged dirt over his face.

Dave looked at the floor and shivered. 'My parents died in
a car smash,' he said. 'It was my fault. I'd gotten into trouble
at college. Got mixed up with the laziest mother-fuckers in
the year and nearly flunked my exams. My parents were on
their way to see me and to talk to my tutor. Dad is – was – a
professor at MIT, super-smart. My sister's a surgeon. So, no
pressure,' he smirked.

'And you blame yourself for them getting killed in a car
crash?'

'If I hadn't been such an asshole, they wouldn't have been
coming to see my tutor, would they?'

Marty looked at him for several seconds, remembering
what he had said only an hour ago, crouched over Nancy's
dead body. It seemed as though only now the reality was
sinking in. He had been in such a state of shock that he
hadn't really processed the full horror of it all, and he knew
the true pain of his loss would hit him very hard later – if
he ever got out of this place alive. 'Some people think when
you're time's up, it's up,' he said quietly.

'I've been through it all a thousand times in my head,'
Dave went on. 'I can't shake off the feeling I was responsible
for their deaths.'

'That's crap. Look, kid,' Marty said, and placed a hand on
Dave's good arm. 'Hasn't this tragedy taught you anything?'

Dave stared at him.

'We have no control over anything. Oh, we might think
we do. I chose to come here today. I persuaded Nancy to
come. But when someone with his own agenda decides
to put a bomb under the auditorium, I have no control. No
more than you had control over the crash that killed your
mom and dad. No more control than they had.'

'So the only one who had control today was the
bomber?'

'No, not really. He, or she, couldn't control everything.
Any number of things could have gone wrong for him.
The cops could have spotted him before he pushed the
button. The bomb might not have gone off. He could have
miscalculated and killed himself in the blasts. None of us
has control, Dave. We might think we do. We reassure ourselves
we do. How else can we get through the day? We
have to believe we're special, because the alternative is too
horrible to contemplate.'

'But in that case, what's the point of doing anything?
Thinking anything? What's the point of free will?'

'Because we have to keep going. What else can we do?'

'Makes no sense to me, Marty. Why be a OneEarth
supporter if you believe you have no control?'

'Individually we have no control. But likeminded people
can make things happen if they put enough energy into it.'

'So you reached this conclusion in Vietnam?'

'That was the start of it. I came back a wreck. I was an
alcoholic for years. Then I met Nancy. She saved my life.'

'So you did have some control.'

'No. I lucked out, Dave. You see, that's the other great
secret of life. Meet someone to love and who loves you.'

Dave was about to reply when they were both shocked
by the sound of frantic banging on the roller-door. 'What
the –' He leapt to his feet, shifting all his weight onto his
good arm.

'Dave? Marty? It's me.' It was Kyle Foreman's voice.

Dave helped Marty up and between them they lifted the
roller-door a couple of feet. Foreman swung underneath
the half-opened shutter and they saw his face in the dim
light. He was covered in dust, his lips cracked, his left eye
puffy and bruised. Blood from his broken nose had started
to flow again, forming two red tracks in the grey powder
covering his face. He still had the Smith & Wesson in his
hand.

'What's happened?' Dave said as he and Marty helped the
senator straighten up.

'Pull the shutter down again,' Foreman snapped. He found
the large padlock at the bottom of the sliding door, clicked
it shut and pocketed the key.

'Where's Goddard?' Marty asked.

The senator leaned back against the door, panting for
breath. He coughed and spat blood onto the dust-covered
floor. 'He tried to kill me,' he said. 'He's an assassin.'