Aboard the Big Mac, Stephanie had just made a sweep
of the area of B6, where it was thought Foreman and his
companions were located, when her comms sounded. It was
on 156 megahertz, the frequency commonly used by the US
army.
'Yes?'
'E-Force? Major Larry Simpson, US Marines, requesting to
come aboard.'
'What for?'
'We need your urgent assistance.'
She hesitated for a moment then clicked on the external
viewer at the main door. She could see two men in fatigues.
One was speaking into a small radio. The other was looking
around, an M16 assault rifle over his shoulder.
'Sybil,' she asked the computer. 'ID check on our visitors,
please.'
Sybil's quantum processors took less than a millisecond
to scan the faces of the two men outside the Big Mac and
check them in the E-Force database. 'Major Larry Simpson,
US Marines, age 32, born –'
'Okay, Sybil. The other one?'
'Sergeant Vincent Paolomo, US Marines –'
'Thanks.' Switching on the external speaker, she said,
'Come aboard,' and opened the door.
The two soldiers came through the door and Stephanie
took the elevator down to the lower deck. She met the
marines in the main corridor. Close up, she could see they
were covered in dirt, their faces blackened. They smelled of
smoke and concrete dust. She took Major Simpson's grimy
palm and he turned to introduce his companion. 'Sergeant
Paolomo.' The other Marine nodded and shook Stephanie's
hand, his face expressionless.
'May I see your IDs, please?'
'Sure.' Simpson took out his and Paolomo followed suit.
They were credit-card-sized pieces of plastic providing name,
rank, serial number and scrambled personal information.
Stephanie studied them. Using her enhanced visual abilities,
she checked across the wavelengths and picked up each
card's authenticity strip – a line of ultra-thin gold, invisible
to the naked eye, that ran down the edge of the ID.
'How may I help?' she said handing them back.
Simpson was gazing around at the smooth plastic walls
of the Big Mac. 'One hell of a plane you have here, ma'am,'
he said, appreciatively. 'A real beauty.'
Stephanie gave him a thin smile.
'We understand you have some pretty cool detection
tools onboard.'
'What sort of detection tools do you need?'
'Sorry,' Simpson said smoothly. 'Specifically, we've lost
track of a team of marines who went down to the lower
levels of the car park about twenty minutes ago. They had
orders to call in every five minutes with a status report. We
haven't heard from them for the last two designated call-ins,
and none of our heat-detection devices can trace them.'
'I see,' Stephanie said, looking from Simpson to Paolomo.
'Follow me.'
She led the way to the elevator. The doors closed behind
them and it silently rose though the five storeys to the flight
deck in the upper hemisphere of the ship. The doors swished
open and they walked along a brightly lit corridor towards
the Ops Room. At the end stood the door to the flight deck
itself. Just before it closed automatically, the two marines
caught a brief glimpse of the futuristic controls inside –
sleek plastic panels and high-res holoscreens above rows of
keypads.
The Ops Room was circular. The marines looked around
it open-mouthed. In the middle stood a workstation, a
single sheet of thin plastic on a steel pedestal. The panel
was covered with lights that flicked on and off and skittered
around the shiny surface. The walls contained large arrays
of screens, each no thicker than a poster. There were
three more workstations with holoscreens. Only one was
activated – where Stephanie had been working. It showed a
3D representation of Level B6 of the CCC.
Stephanie walked over to the workstation. 'Which level
were they on?' she asked and tapped at the controls. She
turned. Simpson was standing six feet away, a 9 mm Beretta
pointed at her head.
Sergeant Paolomo removed a miniature video camera from
his pocket and began filming. When he was finished in the
Ops Room, he strode into the corridor and headed straight
for the flight deck.
'Shut down all systems, Sybil. Jacobs, S. Personal code
99697766#4,' Stephanie announced suddenly.
A faint purr came from one of the consoles in the Ops
Room and the lights went out. The machines died and a faint
emergency light came on, throwing a soft, creamy glow around
the circular room. Paolomo paced back in, his M16 assault
rifle at waist height and pointed straight at Stephanie.
Simpson sighed and took a small step towards her, the
Beretta level with her forehead. 'Now, why did you go and
do that?'
Stephanie said nothing. The major came so close that she
could feel his breath on her face.
'Who are you?' she snapped.
'That would be telling, wouldn't it?' Simpson pressed the
pistol against Stephanie's right temple. 'Let's just say my
employer is intrigued by all this.' He swept his free hand
through the air. 'Now, I know you people have some amazing
stuff here, but I'm pretty sure you still bleed just like the rest
of us. Am I right?'
Stephanie remained silent.
'I really don't want to blow your pretty little brains out . . .
ma'am. But, if you don't let my friend here take his home
movie, I'll just have to. Follow?' Simpson pressed the barrel
of the pistol hard into Stephanie's temple, sending a stab of
pain across her forehead. She could feel the man tensing up.
She only had seconds.
'Sybil – reset, please. Jacobs, S. Personal code
99697766#4.'
'Very sensible,' Simpson said, and Stephanie felt the pressure
on her head diminish as he pulled back the barrel a fraction
of an inch. Paolomo raised his M16 as Simpson spun her
around, yanked her wrists behind her and bound them with
a nylon strap. He pulled it tight and locked it into place.
Turning her back around to face him, Simpson nudged
her in the ribs with the Beretta. 'Get your ass on the floor.
Back against that strut,' he said nodding to a steel column
that ran from floor to ceiling. He ran another length of
nylon cord around Stephanie's ankles and threaded the end
through a self-tightening loop. He drew a length of cloth
from his pocket and wrapped it around her mouth, tying it
at the back.
Paolomo left the room and Simpson headed after him.
Stephanie managed to pull herself to her feet and hopped
along the edge of the control panels until she reached the
end. As she lowered herself to the floor again, she banged
her head on the front panel of a workstation where it hung
over its stand. She yelped, but the sound was muffled by the
gag at her mouth.
Sliding along the floor, she reached a small door in the
front panel of the stand. Bending low, she managed to nudge
it with her chin and it swung outwards. Inside, stood a small
cradle containing a set of delicate tools. Lying on her side
with her back to the cupboard, she pushed her twined hands
into the opening. She ran her fingers along the cradle of
tools and finally slid out a screwdriver from its bracket. But
before she could catch hold of it, it hit the smooth floor and
rolled away noisily.
Stephanie held her breath, expecting Simpson or Paolomo
to return at any moment. She thrust her bound hands back
into the toolbox and felt the shape of a pair of clippers used
to strip wire. She wormed her fingers around the handles
and pulled it from its housing. Willing her heart to slow, and
her fingers to do her bidding, she succeeded in twisting the
clippers, bringing them level with the nylon cord about her
wrists.
She was sweating now, and felt her fingers wet against the
clipper grips. She pulled them in a fraction of an inch and
was just about to hook the sharp edges of the clipper under
the cord when she felt the grips slipping through her fingers.
Gritting her teeth, she stretched as far as she could and just
caught the clippers before they could crash to the floor.
At that moment Stephanie's mind was focused solely on
the pair of grips clasped in her sweaty palms. Nothing else
mattered. She had to turn the clippers, had to get them into
position. Only then could she cut the cord.
Sweat ran down into her eyes, making them sting. She
closed her eyes and turned her attention back to the clippers.
She pivoted them under the cord, closed the handles, and
squeezed with all her might.
The snap of nylon released the terrible pressure on her
wrists. Stephanie pulled the clippers around, cut the binding
at her ankles and yanked down the gag.
Rising to her feet, she took slow, silent steps along the
edge of the control panel. Close to the door there was a
small cupboard built into the wall. She ran a hand over a
sensor pad beside it and it slid open. Inside, two stun pistols
hung on magnetic grips. She pulled one out, checked its
charge, then slithered along the wall towards the door.
She edged into the corridor with her back to the wall.
Voices were coming from the flight deck. Two paces on and
she reached the door. She pulled up the stun gun ready to
fire, but just at that moment, Paolomo swung around with
the video camera. Simpson turned at the same time, raised
his gun and fired.
Stephanie dropped and the bullet flew over her head,
ricocheting off the walls of the corridor. She sprinted back
towards the Ops Room. Simpson was in the corridor. He
let loose another round that hit the wall an inch from
Stephanie's shoulder. She dove behind a bulkhead and held
the stun pistol ready.
'Jacobs, come out. You're pinned down,' Simpson said.
Ignoring him, she took a deep breath and flew out from
behind the bulkhead, blasting the corridor with her stun
pistol as she ran. Keeping low, she dashed towards the next
column along the passage, catching a glimpse of the two
men as she ran. Paolomo had the M16 at his hip. Stephanie
dove to the floor as the barrel of the assault rifle lit up and
a stream of bullets burned through the air above her head.
She lay still, spread-eagled, defeated.
She heard the two men approach, the silence broken only
by the sound of their heavy boots on the metal floor.
'A slippery little bitch,' Paolomo growled. It was the first
time he had spoken.
'You want to do the honours?' Simpson hissed.
Stephanie waited for the blast from the M16, but it never
came. Instead, she heard the unmistakable sound of a stun
pistol – two ear-splitting cracks that reverberated around the
corridor, followed by gasps and the thump of heavy objects
hitting the floor. She felt herself being lifted to her feet.
For a couple of seconds Stephanie couldn't see straight.
Then she heard a familiar voice. Her sight cleared and Mark's
face swam into view.
'Man, am I pleased to see you,' Stephanie said. 'How did you
know?'
'Comms on the ground are down,' Mark replied, 'but your
heart rate shot up to 130. Tom told me as I was landing and
I guessed something must be up. I scanned the ship and saw
the thermal signature from these two goons.'
'I don't get it. Sybil checked them out and their IDs are
genuine. Can you believe it? They were filming the inside of
the ship.' She bent down, removed the miniature recorder
from Paolomo's pocket and pulled out the memory chip. 'I
should have had Sybil scan them for recording devices.'
'Don't beat yourself up over it, Steph. We're all new to
this. I'll get Tom onto it. I can't believe they were here in
any official capacity.'
Stephanie and Mark bound the wrists of the two Marines.
They were still out cold and would be unconscious for at least
an hour. Then Stephanie led the way to the Ops Room.
'So, what's the latest?' Mark asked.
'I lost touch with Josh and Mai about ten minutes ago,'
Stephanie said. 'There was a sizeable explosion on B6.
According to the sensors, it looks like a gas cylinder went
up – certainly not another bomb. It was some way from
Josh and Mai's last known location, as well as that of Kyle
Foreman's group. Tom spoke to Josh and Mai immediately
after the blast, and they're okay. But Foreman and the others
might have been caught by it.'
Mark nodded. 'Tom's working on comms,' he replied.
At that moment Erikson's voice came over the speaker.
'Hi, Steph. You okay?'
'Yeah, good, Tom. Mark came to my rescue. What's
happening about the comms link with the others?'
'Working on it. It's a problem with the satellite. Should
have it back online in a minute. There's something else.'
'What?' Mark snapped.
'That explosion on B6. It's brought down the roof of the
drain.'
'Oh, wonderful! Just how bad is it?'
Tom sent over a blurred still of the tunnel taken from
BigEye. It appeared as a 3D image on the holoscreen. 'It's
at least 30 feet thick. Composed of rock, concrete, soil. The
drain's structure has been severely compromised.'
They looked at the image and realised there was no
way Josh and Mai could get the survivors out through the
drain.
'Scan the length of the tunnel,' Stephanie said. 'Northeast,
away from the blockage. Is there any other exit?'
The image on the holoscreen shifted, pulling back and
showing the length of the drain. The only pipes running to
the surface were narrow drainage conduits, none of them
more than a foot wide. 'Zilch,' Tom said.
'Alright,' Mark said, and sat down at the workstation.
Stephanie stood behind his chair. 'Where's Pete?'
'Last time I was in contact with him, he was trying to get
down to B3,' Tom replied.
Mark tapped in Pete's call code.
'Pete? You there?'
For a second the line was completely silent. Then they all
heard a faint crackle, followed by a burst of static.
'Mark – is that you, man?' It was Pete's unmistakable
Geordie accent. The line was very weak and he was barely
audible, but then it suddenly cleared and his voice came
through crisp and loud. 'Thank Christ. I thought I was on
my own for a second.'
'We had a comms failure on the ground. What's your
status?'
'I'm in the Mole in the west side of B3. No sign of survivors.
A few corpses, mind. Ramp down looks clear. What's the
latest on Foreman?'
'He's on B6 now, with three others. Josh and Mai have
gone down through a municipal drain, but there's been a
cave-in and we can't reach them on comms.'
'So what now?'
'We're going to try to get through to them. But it looks like
the only chance they have is to go up through the building
after all. You say the ramp down is clear?'
'Well, down to B4 it is. After that . . . I don't know.'
'Okay, Pete, take the Mole down to B6 as fast as you can.
Keep in touch. Steph,' Mark added, turning to her. 'This is
what we're going to do.'