Dark Rising
Greig Beck grew up across the road from Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia. His early days were spent surfing, sunbaking and reading science fiction on the sand. Later when real life and adulthood intruded he went on to study computer science, and later received an MBA. Greig is the director of a software company but still finds time to write and surf. He lives in Vaucluse, Sydney, with his wife, son and an enormous black German shepherd.
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Also by Greig Beck
Beneath the Dark Ice
DARK
RISING
GREIG BECK
First published as
Return of the Prophet
in Macmillan in 2010
by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
This Pan edition published in 2011 as
Dark Rising
by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Greig Beck 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Beck, Greig.
Dark Rising / Greig Beck.
9780330403917(pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Dark Rising
Greig Beck
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For Alexander, my best Ideas Man. And for Barbara – whatever did you do to end up stuck with me?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank Cate Paterson for her support both locally and internationally, Joel Naoum for his professionalism, patience and determination to draw the best from my work and Nicola O’Shea for the black art of copyediting. And finally, to scientists everywhere, whose discoveries are the fuel for fiction writers all over the world.
Red winds, the disfiguration of faces and people being swallowed into the ground. The moon is buried in darkness and the world is folded.
Signs of the Yawm al-Qiyamah,
the Day of Judgment,
Mohammed ibn Ismail al-Bukhari
(810–870)
ONE
Beneath the ruins of Persepolis, modern Iran
‘A
re you ready to witness history being written, my friend?’ Mahmud Shihab appeared from the back of the canvas tent like a ghost. ‘
Salem Agha-ye
, Hakim,’ he said softly and kissed the military man on each cheek before grasping his upper arms and looking earnestly into his face. ‘History being written in this, the very cradle of Persian antiquity – it is fitting, yes?’
‘
Salem mamnoon
, Shihab. Yes,
inshallah
, God willing.’ The soldier nodded and parted his dry lips in a yellow smile, showing rows of teeth stained by decades of smoking the pungent local Marlleak cigarettes.
Mahmud Shihab led Hakim to the back of the tent, where a modern metal door was embedded incongruously in the ancient stone wall. He entered a code into the recessed keypad and the heavy door swung inwards soundlessly. As Shihab escorted the military man down a dimly lit corridor carved into the interior of the ancient Persepolis ruins, a proud smile curved his lips at the thought of the design and engineering feat he had mastered beneath this once great city of the kings. Above them, its mighty stone skeleton still dominated the landscape and had survived twenty-five centuries of rain and rock-cracking heat – a powerful symbol of a time when Persia had commanded the world.
And now Shihab had been chosen to oversee a project so important that its success would shape Iran’s place in the world for the next century, or perhaps even forever. The operation was codenamed Zirzamin Jamshid, The Basement of the Kings. Shihab liked the name – Jamshid was a mythical king who, legend had it, had buried his amassed treasures throughout his mighty empire. The president had chosen the name himself, and had told Shihab that there was no more valuable treasure than the capability to produce nuclear weaponry beneath the scorching earth of the Iranian desert. Shihab recalled that first meeting with the great man, his intense countenance and his softly spoken command. ‘Bring me success and you will bathe in riches in this life and the next.’ He had been too nervous to reply and had only nodded and bowed.
Hakim sneezed, interrupting Shihab’s thoughts. Beneath the ruins, the temperature was pleasantly cool, but the atmosphere was dry and filled with fine powdery dust that sparkled in the cones of light thrown down from the low-wattage ceiling lamps.
Shihab smiled. ‘Ah, Hakim, it is impossible to keep the dust out at this level. But just think – those very particles could be all that remains of a former king or prince of Persia.’
Hakim blew his nose – Persian king or not – on a dirty brown handkerchief. He had just pushed it back into his pocket when they came to a steel miner’s cage floored with thick rubberised matting. They entered the cage and Shihab pushed the single smooth lever to the downward position. The cage dropped silently into the darkness. Shihab smiled with pride, counting the passing layers of toughened concrete and lead shielding. The facility was all his own design, built to give off as small an energy signature as was possible. He knew full well the capabilities of the US spy satellites – high-resolution digital images were only one of their talents. These days they could sniff out heat, power and radiation signatures to fifty feet below the surface. So the Iranians needed to be careful, needed to go deeper.
After many minutes, the cage slowed with a hiss and stopped at a darkened corridor and a fortified steel door, considerably stronger than the one they had come through at the surface. Shihab entered another code and hidden rollers pulled the large metal slab out of the way. He closed his eyes briefly as a blast of negative air pressure rushed past him, only opening them when he perceived strong light on his eyelids. Before them was a chamber of almost surgical whiteness.
Shihab and Hakim knew what was expected, having performed this ritual many times. They both sat on the benches provided and removed their shoes. From a recessed cupboard they drew out particle-free garments, donned lightweight polymer all-over suits, pulled rubber-soled shoes over their feet, and used a small towel lightly moistened with demineralised water to wipe their faces, neck and hands.
When Hakim had finished, Shihab clipped a small radiation badge to the soldier’s breast pocket. ‘They’re the latest – each one contains a small sheet of radiation-sensitive aluminium oxide. When it’s exposed to radiation, the tag shines with a visible blue glow. We all have to wear them now. Let’s hope they don’t shine for us today, yes?’
The two men moved to the facility’s final access stage: a glass booth with another metal door beyond. The entry requirements here were far more stringent – as well as keying in a numeric code, Shihab had to lick his thumb and place it over a small mesh circle on the entry pad. Fingerprints and DNA were obtained, scanned and verified before the curved glass door slid back. Anyone trying to access the facility without proper authorisation would find himself locked in the chamber as it rapidly filled with lethal tabun gas. Clear and odourless, the gas immediately shut down the human nervous system, and then just as quickly dissipated, allowing safe removal of any bodies.
Red lights turned green and the metal door hissed open. Shihab entered first, then stood aside, allowing his companion to see the progress achieved since his last visit to the Jamshid I facility.
They were in a round, gleaming laboratory, 500 feet from one end to the other with a ceiling height of at least another 100 feet. The walls were covered in banks of computers and monitors, all online and glowing gold or green. The entire area was a sea of electronic chattering and blinking lights, save for one large window overlooking the chamber.
Shihab gestured towards the centre of the circular laboratory. ‘This is it, my friend, the sphere. This day will mark the first steps in the rise of the new Persian caliphate,
Allahu Akbar
.’
‘
Allahu Akbar
,’ Hakim repeated automatically.
Shihab watched Hakim’s face as he stared at the giant silver orb that looked like the planet Saturn. It was fifty feet around and circled by a waist-thick polished cylinder.
‘It is magnificent, Mahmud, you are to be praised,’ Hakim said as he slowly moved his eyes over the strange device, and then around the chamber.
Dozens of Iranian, German and North Korean scientists buzzed around the banks of computer monitors and the sphere itself, preparing for the first live test of the device. One of the Germans, a tall, bespectacled man with a blond toothbrush moustache, gave Hakim the thumbs up. Rudolf Hoeckler was being paid a Persian fortune to bring the laser-enrichment technology models to working status. Shihab knew that Hakim disapproved of mountains of Iranian money being paid to anyone from the West, but it was difficult not to like the tall German. Hoeckler was in a constant good humour and had made amusing attempts to learn Farsi.
‘Blue hair eels in the morning, Herr Hakim,’ Hoeckler said now with a grin, obviously pleased with himself for mastering yet another phrase in their language.
Shihab chuckled and took Hakim by the arm to lead him towards a small set of steel steps. ‘We’re just about ready,’ he said. ‘Let’s go up to the observation room and have some tea. We have been requested to call the president the moment we have the results.’
Shihab handed Hakim a small, gold-rimmed glass of the steaming local tea. He knew that after the dry of the desert, the soldier’s mouth would be watering in anticipation. ‘You know, my friend, a successful production run today will be good for both of us,
inshallah
.’
