The Last Gasp, page 25
*
Pushing frantically past the big oaf blocking the exit, Chase emerged from the rest room and saw the Asian kid straight off – he was on the escalator, already halfway down. The little bastard was employing the tote-bag as a weapon, swinging it back and forth to clear a path. Chase felt sick, in a nightmare of despair, because he knew that once the young Asian kid hit the main concourse, there wouldn’t be a cat in hell’s chance of catching him.
Nearly at the bottom of the escalator – a few more strides with the swinging tote-bag – and the Asian kid was certain of escape. Soon he’d vanish and be lost in the hurrying throng of people.
But in those last few strides something happened. The Asian kid made it onto the concourse all right, but he’d managed only three or four paces when his legs went rubbery, as if he were drunk. He stumbled over his own feet, his scuffed Nikes getting caught up, before his legs gave way altogether.
With a hollow clunk his head hit the marble floor and he slid forward on his face.
Chase’s first priority when he got to him was not the Asian kid; it was the tote-bag, with its store of five weeks of interviews and background notes contained on his laptop and video devices. Chase tucked the tote-bag securely under one arm while he knelt over the motionless kid, who appeared to be out for the count. A small crowd had gathered. There was a flurry of activity among the bystanders and an airport security guard pushed through them. He wore a blue forage cap and his upper body was encased in a bullet-proof vest. Going down on one knee, he held a Glock semi-automatic, both arms fully extended.
‘Don’t move! Keep both your hands away from your body. Raise your hands!’
Chase was still panting from the headlong pursuit down the escalator. ‘This guy’s a thief, he stole my bag,’ he started to say, his breathing ragged.
‘Do what I tell ya! Now! Raise both hands!’
Two other guards, dressed the same, similarly equipped, arrived. They took up crouching positions alongside the first guard. There was something in the demeanour of all three that made Chase feel as if he were the guilty party.
‘Move away from the guy on the ground. Leave the bag where it is.’
When Chase had obeyed, stepping back with his hands raised, the first security guard approached and knelt over the prone figure. From where Chase stood, he could see a smear of blood on the marble floor, most likely from the kid’s nose when he cracked his skull and slid forward. The guard turned the body over, and Chase saw something else: the jagged stump of a hypodermic needle sticking out of the kid’s left collarbone, right through his T-shirt. It was seeping pinkish fluid, spreading a stain.
The guard saw it too and turned round to look at Chase.
‘Well, man, you made damn sure he wasn’t going anywhere. You a dealer or what?’ He pressed two fingers to the side of the Asian kid’s neck, feeling for the carotid artery.
One of the other guards pointed his weapon at Chase’s head from only a yard away.
‘Down on your knees. I said down.’
‘Wait one second. That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that.’ The Asian’s sallow complexion had turned grey, his lips tinged with blue. ‘Is he—?’
‘As a doornail,’ the kneeling guard said. ‘You did for him good.’ He started speaking into the transceiver clipped to his bullet-proof vest. ‘We have a Code Red. Suspected homicide in main transit concourse, Alpha-Zeta, foot of escalators.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Perpetrator apprehended—’
‘You’ve got this all wrong. Listen, please – it wasn’t me who did that.’
The other guard moved closer and put the barrel of the Glock to within an inch of Chase’s right ear. ‘Don’t get your funny accent, bub. Makes me uncomfy. So shut-the-fuck-up.’
Chase did as he was told. He always did when someone was pointing a loaded gun at his head, which had never happened before.
This farcical situation had come about out of the blue, because he was bursting for a piss. It was going to take hours now to explain what was a very simple occurrence. Simple, that is, except for the remnant of a hypodermic needle protruding from the Asian kid’s upper chest. Was the kid an addict? Had he impaled himself as he fell on his own hypodermic? But that didn’t fit what Chase had witnessed. In fact the kid had staggered forward and collapsed before he hit the ground, and presumably before the needle penetrated his chest.
Chase said urgently, but in a low voice, ‘There are several people up there who can vouch for what happened.’ He pointed to the top of the escalator. ‘My bag was stolen by this kid in the men’s room. Everyone saw him run out, and saw me go after him—’
Chase looked upwards in the direction he was pointing and the words died on his lips. For a brief couple of seconds he glimpsed a big man in a black vinyl hat at the top of the escalator before the man stepped back smartly out of sight. It was the man at the door to the rest room, Chase was certain, who had collided with the Asian kid. A series of random and yet connected impressions frittered through his mind . . .
The Asian kid had encountered no one except the big man in the black vinyl hat. The big man had a camera slung around his neck. He was wearing a black leather glove which had been thrust, forcibly, Chase recalled, straight at him as Chase tried to exit the rest room.
A memory stirred – a memory from years ago he couldn’t place – of chunky gold jewellery on a hairy wrist. The big man was wearing a heavy gold bracelet on his hairy wrist.
Chase stood mutely trying to make sense of all this while the curious crowd jostled forward and gawped at the little drama. He was still trying and failing to make the connections fit when a squad of security guards arrived and led him away at gunpoint.
7
1
It was a chamber of death’s heads. Beamed straight down from recessed spotlights in the ceiling, the light bounced off the papers spread across the horseshoe-shaped table, with President Hernandez at its apex, and lit everyone from above and below.
Directly in front of the President, through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, holographic displays hovered ghostlike in the middle of the darkened chamber. Beneath them sat controllers and military personnel at hooded consoles, while officers stood in the shadowy background in small groups.
Along the table to the President’s left, General Deaver, one of the three Joint Chiefs present, said, ‘Satellite photo reconnaissance confirms the intelligence picture, sir. Taken together, I should say we have a good probability rating, in the high seventies.’
‘That still leaves a better than twenty per cent shortfall, General.’
‘With all respect, sir, it can only be conclusive when the Russians actually implement the scheme,’ General Stafford pointed out.
The President’s famous vote-winning smile was absent today at this meeting ninety feet underground in the concrete, steel and lead-lined installation known as the Prime Situation Center. Connected to the White House by a two-mile tunnel that ran under the Potomac River, the PSC was located directly beneath Arlington National Cemetery. Another tunnel, also with an electric rail shuttle, linked it to the Pentagon, a mile to the east.
General Smith, the army chief, voiced the opinion that they were in danger of losing credibility. ‘If somebody’s going to act, it ought to be us,’ he argued. ‘Our countermeasures are more than adequate and at operational status. Isn’t that so, Colonel Malden?’
Malden added, ‘That’s correct, General.’
‘Christ, George, this isn’t the old nuclear scenario of a preemptive strike,’ said General Stafford. ‘Nobody comes out of this one looking good and smelling sweet. We all go down the goddamn drain together!’
‘Not necessarily all,’ said Ralf Zadikov, seated on the President’s left. The Secretary of Defense was a gaunt figure, pointed chin resting on clasped scarecrow hands.
General Stafford’s lips tightened. Along the table several people shuffled papers and avoided one another’s eyes. It was bad form to admit, or even mention, the existence of the sealed oxygen-enriched enclosures reserved for high-ranking politicians and military personnel. This was another key element in the Fut/COE master plan, thoughtfully provided by Malden and designed and built by JEG Construction.
To cover this lapse General Deaver said hurriedly, ‘Can we see our deployment pattern on display, Colonel?’
As soon as Malden gave the order a brightly coloured azimuthal projection of the globe shimmered in the black air behind the glass. Missile sites were red; tankers in black against the blue ocean. Nine of the missiles and four of the tankers had the Greek letter β, beta, in silver in the centre of each symbol.
There was silence while everyone contemplated the pleasing design. Then General Smith said, ‘What’s our present state of readiness, Colonel?’
‘Three hundred and ninety-five missiles payloaded with Tablet are targeted on key areas of jungle and rain forest on all continents outside North America. We have thirty-eight tankers of two hundred thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand tons capacity cargoed with Laptop constantly on the move in all major oceans. By the end of this year we will have fifty-two tankers. The missiles and tankers designated beta contain a new bacteriological herbicide that is much more powerful and effective than conventional chemical compounds. We’re proceeding as fast as possible to make the conversion to all our missiles and tanker fleet.’
‘Will this be enough to give us herbicidal overkill?’ General Smith asked.
‘Yes, sir.’ Malden used the electronic indicator, a glowing white dot. ‘As you’ll have noted, the tankers are grouped in convoys and not scattered at random. These areas’ – the white dot danced about – ‘the equatorial Pacific, the North Atlantic, the Southern Ocean around Antarctica, and parts of the Indian Ocean near the Madagascar Basin are richest in phytoplankton and therefore contribute most of the global oxygen yield. We estimate that with our present fleet we can eliminate up to eighty-five per cent of marine plant life.’
‘Then why upgrade the fleet at all if we already have that capability?’ General Stafford wanted to know. As Air Force chief of staff he could see the need to deploy more missiles, but who the hell wanted more tankers? The defense budget was tight enough without wasteful and unnecessary expenditure.
Malden read the general’s mind and had his answer ready. ‘The time factor, sir. With more tankers we can speed up the process.’
‘Why not more missiles and speed it up even more?’
‘Because the forest and jungle targets are less important, General. They contribute only about thirty per cent of the oxygen in the atmosphere; the oceans are the major supplier.’
General Smith seemed mesmerised by the display floating in the darkened chamber. ‘How long will it take?’ he asked in a faraway voice.
‘For elimination of marine plants we estimate six to nine months – with the existing fleet. When our tanker programme is complete we can reduce that to between three and six months. Also our new bacteriological herbicide will be far more efficient. These organisms are biologically alive as distinct from chemically dead, so they reproduce themselves and actually increase their effectiveness from the moment of dispersal. The longer they’re in the water the more abundant they become.’
An army colonel down the wing of the table said, ‘How soon before there’s an appreciable drop in oxygen content?’
‘We have no idea,’ Malden said evenly.
‘No idea?’ General Deaver said. ‘None at all?’
Malden shook his head, unperturbed by this admission. ‘Scientific opinion is at variance. At one extreme it’s thought that a reduction in atmospheric oxygen will be apparent within five years. At the other, twelve thousand. We simply don’t know.’
‘Can I amplify that?’ Farrer put in, raising his hand like a schoolboy asking to leave the room. A civilian member of the scientific liaison team, he was here in the Prime Situation Center for precisely this purpose.
‘I wish someone damn well would,’ General Deaver said icily.
Farrer smiled diffidently. ‘There are two factors that make an accurate forecast extremely difficult, if not impossible. The first is the sheer volume of the earth’s atmosphere: fifty-seven hundred million million tons. The second factor is the complexity of the biosphere and the interaction of its various components: oceans, atmospheres, landmass, living organisms and so on. Interpretation of the figures, as Colonel Malden has explained, varies a great deal. Some forecasts have it that oxygen depletion will become noticeable in just a few years – maybe five, ten, twenty. Others say that were photosynthesis to cease altogether, less than one per cent of our present oxygen stock would be used up, in which case it would take many thousands of years.’
‘It was my impression, Colonel,’ said General Deaver, fixing Malden with a stony eye, ‘that DELFI had provided us with an accurate prediction – isn’t that so?’
‘Correct, General, up to a point.’
‘What . . . point?’ General Deaver said ominously.
‘DELFI extrapolates from data we already possess, not from hypothetical factors such as the implementation of Operation Download. Computer weather modelling is still an inexact science and is subject to the same constraints I mentioned a moment ago; that’s to say, a lot depends on individual interpretation.’
‘So where does this leave us in relation to the Russian threat?’ General Smith demanded. ‘Can anyone answer me that?’
‘Where we’ve always been,’ Malden said promptly. ‘Holding the balance of power.’
‘Explain that to me, Colonel.’
‘Well, sir, the Russians have their Methane Gun Project, exploiting the release of gas plumes in the Arctic Circle, we have Download. Neither of us knows what the effects might be should these schemes be implemented; it’s precisely this uncertainty that each side is seeking to exploit.’
‘Dammit, Colonel Malden!’ General Smith exploded. ‘More than a year ago, you and – and—’ He jabbed his finger.
‘Farrer,’ Malden supplied.
‘You and Farrer stated with absolute certainty what the effects would be on the United States if Russia went ahead with their Methane Gun programme. Your report, as I distinctly recall, stated these specifics’ – he ticked them off on his fingers – ‘droughts, flooding of our major coastal cities and towns, widespread crop failures throughout the Midwest. Are you now saying that this isn’t likely to happen?’
‘Not at all, sir. Those effects were predicted as accurately as we know how. But as Farrer has made clear, the biosphere is an extremely complex mechanism. Neither we nor the Russians know precisely what might happen.’ Malden smiled blandly. ‘Just as no one could say with total certainty how nuclear warfare would affect the planet, General. The same applies to environmental war. It’s a gamble.’
‘Come on, George, we knew that all along,’ General Stafford admonished his fellow chief of staff. ‘Hell, if we dealt in copper-bottomed certainties we could hook up a computer and let it make all the decisions. As far as I’m concerned Colonel Malden has laid it on the line.’
‘So we’re back to stalemate,’ said General Deaver with a heavy sigh. He looked directly at the President. ‘Until the Russians decide to go ahead while we’re still dithering.’
It seemed that the President hadn’t heard – or chose to ignore – the criticism. He was watching the display, eyes half-closed. But then he said, ‘When they make their move we’ll be ready. Mr Zadikov assures me that Download is superior to the Russian threat. They know we can wipe out the biosphere any time we feel like it.’
2
Of late, Binch had begun to channel-surf the global news feeds on the fourteen screens in the Foundation’s communications hub. Whenever a disturbing report came along he flagged it up and made a hard copy. Overnight bulletins containing key words were automatically segregated and copied for his attention; this morning, as usual, there was a pile on his desk which he skimmed through before he did anything else. It had become a kind of ritual.
His secretary, Janis Swan, poured a cup of coffee, added the three regulation heaped spoonfuls of sugar, and placed it by his elbow. ‘Is the world still in one piece?’ she enquired laconically.
‘Just about,’ Binch muttered, distracted, intent on the reports.
BRAZIL, JULY 14, REUTERS – LONGEST DROUGHT IN LIVING MEMORY CONTINUES IN EXTREME SOUTH, WITH EXTENSIVE LOSSES TO SOYBEAN, CORN AND RICE PRODUCTION.
SEVERE FLOODING IN MINAS GERAIS AND RIO DE JANEIRO STATES IN SOUTHEAST, WITH ESTIMATED 6,000 HOMELESS AND MANY CROPS LOST. FLOODING IS REPORTED ALONG THE SÃO FRANCISCO VALLEY WHERE SEVERAL DAMS BURST, CONTRIBUTING TO HEIGHT OF FLOOD.
Drought in one part of the country, floods in another. Not unheard of, Binch thought, sipping his coffee, but happening on too regular a scale – which was unheard of. He picked up the next off the pile.
CHINA, JULY 13, REUTERS – DROUGHT FROM PREVIOUS SEASON CONTINUES TO AFFECT CROPS IN HEILONGJIANG, ANHWEI, ZHEUANG AND HUBEI PROVINCES.
WUHAN (CENTRAL CHINA) HAS RECEIVED ONLY 426 MM OF RAIN BETWEEN MARCH AND JUNE, THIS BEING THE LOWEST LEVELS SINCE RECORDS BEGAN IN 1880.
TORNADOES HIT PARTS OF ZHEUANG PROVINCE IN LATE JUNE DEPOSITING HAILSTONES ONE METRE DEEP IN PLACES.
‘These really set you up for the day,’ Janis said, leaning over his shoulder. ‘Couldn’t you just read the obituaries instead?’
‘Haven’t you got anything to do?’ Binch grumbled at her.
‘What exactly are you looking for?’
Binch slid another report in front of him, sighing. ‘Wish I knew.’
13 JULY 71256 AP
BULLETIN: MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
FLOODS CAUSED BY HEAVY RAIN HAVE AFFECTED THE DON, SIM AND OKA BASINS. WATER LEVELS HAVE RISEN 7–11 METRES AND INUNDATED 270,000 HECTARES OF FARMLAND, THE REGION’S WORST FLOODS IN 80 YEARS. DURING MID-JUNE 750 SQ KM OF FOREST AND AGRICULTURAL LAND WERE UNDER WATER IN THE KIEV OBLAST REGION.
