Milkshake (39 page)

Brent slowed the bike and looked around. The street lamps had
just gone out. It wasn’t daylight yet. Shops and office windows,
normally illuminated, were in darkness. Houses that, up until a
second ago had lights, now plunged back into the gloom of natural
early morning light.

Traffic started to slow. People tried to tune car radios,
hunting any station still broadcasting. A few had wandered onto the
street, checking with neighbours why the power had suddenly been
cut.

He accelerated around the slowing traffic, heading towards
Monaco, a tiny peninsula projecting out into the bay at the end of
the airport runway. This sea-level spit of land comprised just four
streets occupied by expensive houses built to take advantage of the
stunning sea and mountain views.

Brent had chosen Monaco carefully. The power company confirmed
the single road onto the peninsula also carried beneath it Monaco’s
main power cable. Engineers assured Commander Dalton they would be
able to keep this single line live throughout the ninety minute
national blackout.

The pub built to take advantage of wealthy locals and curious
tourists was Monaco’s sole business and had the only EFTPOS machine
in the country now operating.

Brent roared into the car park at 7.12am. The last thing on
his mind was buying a beer. A light from an upstairs windows
confirmed the pub still had power. It took several beatings on the
front door before it was unbolted. A bleary-eyed landlord found
himself confronted by a large Maori biker muttering something about
national security. “I need to buy something.”

“Sorry, mate, we’re shut. Come back at ten.”

“No, you don’t understand. I need to process one transaction
through your EFTPOS terminal. I don’t actually need you to sell me
anything.”

“Like I said, mate, everything is off. The beer cooler’s off,
the coffee machine’s off, now, unless you piss off as well, I’m
calling the cops.”

“Go ahead, but before you do, do me a favour, turn on your
radio.”

The landlord turned the volume and pressed the preset station
buttons, confusion mounting as a haze of white noise filled the
bar.

“Look, here’s my authority.” Brent flashed
his ID card for the third time in the last twelve hours and prayed
that Dalton had arranged for a phone engineer to be posted at the
local exchange to keep the line needed for the EFTPOS machine open.
“See? Nothing. The whole of the country is out, power and phones,
everywhere except here. This one location, that single machine
there on the bar, is the only one in the country able to process
any transactions.”

He still looked confused. “So what exactly is it you need to
buy?”

“Nothing! I don’t need to buy anything. I just need you to
put one transaction through this terminal!”

“OK, mate, keep your hair on. Here, help
yourself.”

The amount had to be six figures. The easiest six figure
number he could recall was his own birthday: 2,4,0,9,7,1. He swiped
the credit card, thankful the balance it carried was so high, and
entered the PIN. He pressed
ENTER
and held his breath, silently praying that the
electronic pulses would somehow find their way through the mass of
useless copper wiring currently sitting redundant across the entire
country.

Transaction Accepted

It had just cost two hundred and forty thousand, nine hundred
and seventy-one dollars to save the country.

Now he had to make his way back to the centre of town and wait
for the power to be restored.

The ride back proved difficult. Despite no electricity for
people to take a shower or make a hot drink, many still continued
with their daily routine as best they could in the hope power would
be restored by the time they got to work.

Nelson only had a few sets of traffic lights. The fact they
were not working quickly caused traffic jams. Frustration mounted
as people decided the traffic was too heavy and turned back;
convinced there would be no work to do when they got there. The
mobile phone network was down. They couldn’t call into work or tune
the car radio into any live broadcast that might give an indication
as to the reason or likely duration of the outage.

Brent guided the bike slowly through the chaos, wary of the
driving anarchy that was unfolding. People turned in the middle of
the road, blocking traffic and mounted pavements, scattering
pedestrians attempting to walk to work.

An hour had passed since the power went off. In thirty minutes
it would be back online and he’d be able to access the Black
Room.

* * *

Patrick O’Sullivan was eating breakfast when the television
went off and the lights went out. Checking along the corridor, all
power in the hotel had apparently gone off. He moved his chair
closer to the window to finish eating and read the morning
paper.

He browsed the business section and sighed. Hotel food always
seemed to give him indigestion. The pain in his chest grew
unexpectedly sharper as he breathed. Getting to his feet to ease
the discomfort only made it worse. He yelled as a stabbing pain
shot through his left arm. His mind raced. When did last have a
medical? Had he felt unwell recently? What had he eaten that could
now be causing so much pain?

Seated on the edge of the bed, he pushed both hands hard
against his chest, trying to ease the viciously sharp pain. This
wasn’t his stomach, this was his heart! How could he be having a
heart attack?

Now he felt sick and was sweating, rapidly descending into a
panicking whirl of delirium. Excruciating pain felt as if someone
had put a hand down his throat and was trying to pull his heart out
through his mouth. He fell backwards onto the bed, instinctively
propelled by a reflex to recoil from the agonising throbbing now
pounding across his chest and down his arms.

A final, single moment of clarity, revealed one thought -
Anika.

If this really was his final moment, then she would ultimately
forgive him. His bequest would finally prove his love for
her.

* * *

Brent paced impatiently along Trafalgar Street, waiting for
the power to be restored. Suddenly shop signs he’d not previously
noticed sparked into life. It seemed every light in every building
illuminated as electrical power surged through the country once
again. People stopped walking and checked their phones as messages
that had been delayed were finally delivered.

The Black Room sent the data collected in the previous ninety
minutes to the satellite as it passed overhead. Three minutes
later, the information reached the NSA Black Room in San Francisco
and the keypad PIN was updated.

Brent had to gain access through the innocuous steel blast
door of the Black Room as quickly as possible and disable the
transmitter, with no idea what he was actually looking for. The
satellite would be back in less than 90 minutes.

He keyed in the numbers he’d used in the bar a short time
before, and pressed
ENTER
. Slowly he pushed the door.
There was a hiss as if the space beyond had been pressurised.
Pushing harder against the rush of air revealed a thick perimeter
frame had made an airtight seal.

A narrow bare concrete corridor dropped away in front of him.
He stepped inside and the door began to close. Realising he was
about to be plunged into complete darkness, he felt along the walls
on either side for a light switch and pushed on the first switch
that came to hand, illuminating a small flight of steps leading
towards a room beyond.

It was the size of a large garage. Three parallel banks of
switchgear ran from floor to ceiling with barely room to move
between them. Every panel was an intricate mass of writhing
multicoloured wires. Brent had no idea what he was meant to be
looking for. Carefully shuffling sideways, he looked for something
different amongst the endless cabling and identical electronic
circuitry.

On the third attempt, at the end of the final bank, he saw
something. A bundle of cables configured in a slightly different
way to all the others, its main trunk routed downwards through a
rough hole cut in the concrete floor. Around the cable bundle, a
clamp of tightly-woven copper wiring passed into a small black
plastic box. Leading out from the other end of the box was a piece
of blue flex. This had been neatly routed into a piece of conduit
which disappeared through a hole in the concrete ceiling. He
checked his watch once more. He still had seventy minutes - plenty
of time.

* * *

In the unlit gloom of the hotel reception, two of O’Sullivan’s
Party colleagues who were due to accompany him to the local radio
interview fidgeted impatiently. He’d agreed to meet at 8.15. It was
now 8.20. The radio station building was only a two minute walk
away and he was due on air just after the eight-thirty news
bulletin.

Perhaps he had been caught in the shower when the power had
gone off or slept in with no alarm call to wake him. Murray
Ferguson gently tapped on Patrick’s door. There was no reply.
Murray tapped again. “Pat, are you in there? We’re gonna be late
for the interview.”

The lights in the corridor came back on. Ferguson checked his
phone that had just gone beeped. The text was from the man on the
other side of the door.

HELP.

The duty manager was reluctant to open the door. Ferguson
showed him the text message and he swiped the card without
hesitation.

They found O’Sullivan face up, spread out across the bed. The
duty manager moved straight to the phone. The other two attempted
to revive their stricken leader.

Patrick O’Sullivan was the fit healthy leader of a leading
political party, a successful businessman and a popular and
well-respected national figure. His untimely death was suspicious.
Ferguson phoned Taylor Morgan.

* * *

Brent looked closely at the small black plastic box. It was
the only one in the room, stamped with the words Atlaxtar
Electrical Inc Illinois. He pulled out his mobile phone. If he made
a call now he’d break the communications blackout. But if the call
resulted in the Black Room being shut down, it would never reach
the eyes or ears of the Americans anyway. He called Dalton. “Sir,
I’m in the Black Room. I think I’ve found the transmitter but I
can’t be 100% sure. I need you to check out who Atlaxtar Electrical
are and call me back.”

There were 60 minutes before the next satellite pass. Dalton
had all references to Atlaxtar checked. Brent considered ripping
out the black box but if he destroyed the wrong piece of equipment,
the previous forty minutes' worth of highly sensitive communication
would still be available for upload. Brent’s phone rang. It was
Dalton. “Atlaxtar produce electrical transponders and microwave
transmitters for the US military. They’re on their approved
contractors list.”

Forty five minutes remained. Brent had to be absolutely sure.
“Look up the Atlaxtar 105B XPDR for me. I’ll hold.” He squatted
down on the hard concrete floor listening to the sound of muffled
voices and clicking of computer keys coming down the phone from
Wellington.

“It’s a long range military grade device. It doesn’t carry
its own power source. It piggy backs onto any nearby heat source
for its energy requirements.”

Brent held his hand over the black box as he listened. The
coil of wire generated enough heat for him to be able to feel it.
“That’s good enough for me. As far as I can see the wire up to the
antenna on the roof is just held in place by two screws. I’ll
disconnect it and then get the hell out.”

In the distance there was a loud click. The switch he’d
pressed was on a timer that had now expired. The room was
completely dark. Without windows, no light could enter the concrete
box he was now sealed into.

Brent fumbled for his phone. Using the illuminated display, he
unscrewed the antenna wire with his penknife. Once it was
completely disconnected, he sliced through the plastic tags holding
it in place around the cabling and slipped it into his pocket.
Twenty minutes left. Time to spare.

* * *

The paramedics lifted Patrick O’Sullivan’s lifeless body and
placed it onto a stretcher before wheeling him down the corridor,
into the service lift, out onto the loading bay and into the
waiting ambulance.

Taylor Morgan replaced the receiver. This was unexpected,
momentarily sad, but not entirely unwelcome news. O’Sullivan had
carried out much of the early research into the whey conversion
process but it was the mass production technique Morgan was
personally developing that was driving the project
forward.

The loss of O’Sullivan was unfortunate in terms of his
political influence but it gave Taylor Morgan the opportunity to
consolidate his position within Cowood. He would look into
acquiring O’Sullivan’s share of the business. But first he had to
deal with Turner.

* * *