The Apocalypse Club (5 page)

“Sorry,” I say. “But are you…George Hudson?”

The face nods. “That I very much am.”

“Ah,” I say. Having confirmed this fact, I suddenly find I have no idea what else to say.

“How do you like the aquarium?” he says. “Had it installed last year. Biggest one in the world. Used to have a whale shark in it. For an experiment. That didn’t quite work out. Now we’ve got Hector there.”

I watch the legs float to the bottom of the tank trailing a long ribbon of red, like a precision flying exhibit during an air show. I realize that my jaw is hanging open and close it in an effort to reduce my chances of vomiting. “Hector? You mean the shark?”

He nods with an unmistakable note of pride. “It’s a female. Named it Hectorina after my first wife. She was named after her paternal grandfather. Robbed the camel jockeys blind when they negotiated drilling rights in the Negev. Relentless.”

“And Julio?”

“Julio Mariendes. Recruited him right out of Tijuana State. Hell of a marine biologist if it wasn’t for the manic depression. You must be Simms.”

The shark regurgitates a large black cowboy hat that, mercifully, is no longer attached to any part of its former owner. I force myself to turn away. “Uh, yes.”

“Got an interesting little assignment for you. Have a seat.”

He nods toward the desk on the far side of the room. Oren steers me toward it and more or less forces me into one of the chairs. There is a moment where I can see Oren trying to decide whether or not he should sit in the other chair. The lure of being in the presence of the Great Leader is clearly in direct conflict with the possibility of incurring the wrath of same.

“Uh, would you like me to stay, Mister Hudson?” Oren says, taking up a hopeful position behind the second chair.

“No, Tibbs. You can bugger off now.”

Oren looks like somebody just flushed his favourite toy down the sewer. He gives me a look that can only be described as hateful and then trudges off.

“Before we begin, Mister Simms, I would like to stress to you the importance of the fact that nothing we are about to discuss and no aspect of what I am going to ask you to do may be discussed with any other individual under any circumstances.”

“Of course.” I wonder, not for the first time, what the hell I am doing here. “Pardon me for saying, Mister Hudson, but this is…strange.”

He looks up at the tank behind me. “The legs? Don’t worry about that. If Hector doesn’t eat ’em, they’ll fish ’em out.”

“No, it’s not that. Well, part of it is that. It’s just…you’re not the most visible CEO in the world. I mean, I’ve been working here for eight years and I’ve never seen you before. I don’t know anyone else who has, either. Before this meeting, I didn’t even know what you looked like.”

Hudson grins, looking eerily not unlike the animal we were just discussing. “Between you and me – well, everything is between you and me now, Simms. Between us, Firmamental is getting out of the insurance game.”

I purse my lips and try to look like I’m able to follow his train of thought. “But…we’re an insurance…company.”

“We’ve managed to cancel, non-renew, expire or transfer almost every single policy on our books,” he says. “Truth be told, we’ve only got one left.”

“Mister Sternhauser.” The words are out of my mouth almost before I’m even aware that I’ve said them.

“That’s the one!” Hudson exclaims. “Stubborn old bastard. We’ll get him this year, though.”

That certainly explains the massive drop in call volume, I think. And all the expense reduction. If we’re not insuring anyone, we certainly don’t need hundreds or thousands of staff to administer all of those policies.

“But…I don’t understand,” I say, the words coming out as smoothly as rocks out of a blender. “If we’re not an insurance company anymore, then…what are we?”

I’ll be honest with you, Simms. I didn’t invite you down here to discuss the future of the P&C business.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell me, Simms,” he says, staring at me intently. “When was the last time that you saw Maximillian Hernandez?”

I
n an afternoon filled with the surprising and unexpected, this leaves everything else in the dust.

Max Hernandez and I were best friends growing up. The last time I saw or heard anything from him was eight years ago, when I left for university and he left to join Global Defence International. GDI is the world’s largest privately held mercenary force, with sizable air, land, sea and even space divisions. Over the last 20 years, it has gradually replaced or supplanted most of the national armies around the world. It has the most up-to-the-moment technology, a top-secret training regimen and, because it’s a private company, is not subject to the oversight of the United Nations or any other country that might seek to hire them.

Because of this, the exact number of GDI forces (the company refers to them as “contractors”) is not known. The site of their headquarters or any of their bases is also unknown, although they are rumoured to have large bases on Greenland, Cuba, Madagascar and New Guinea, but this is coming from some of the same conspiracy theorists who claim that the company has bases on the moon, too.

GDI rose rapidly to prominence on the backs of many cash-strapped national governments looking for ways to slash their ballooning defence spending. The US was one of the first to go, decommissioning its armed forces shortly after it defaulted on its national debt after the most recent financial market implosion, but other governments quickly followed. Interestingly, much of the blame for the engineering of that market collapse landed at the door of HIG, which is rumoured to be GDI’s parent company, but nothing was ever proven. And many of the people making those allegations disappeared under mysterious circumstances, so after a while, the allegations stopped coming.

GDI offered an alternative to a traditional military, pitching itself as a unifying global force that would provide more boots, ships, planes and overall bang per buck. Although their apparently bottomless marketing and PR budgets makes sure they get plenty of attention for getting involved in various “charity” missions (like removing the “insane cannibal clone” Kim Jong-un from power in North Korea), critics have often charged that not only is the company well-compensated for these operations (by assuming drilling or mineral rights in captured territories, for example), but also that the vast majority of GDI activities are complete secrets – that GDI is, in effect, a superpower without a country.

Many of the more vocal critics were later arrested for a variety of things, ranging from embezzlement to DUIs to possession of drugs or child pornography. The others just disappeared.

The fact that Max went to work for GDI made both complete and absolutely no sense at the same time. The Max I knew back then was a conspiracy nut of the highest order. He was convinced that GDI and HIG and a dozen other organizations were all in cahoots to take over the world for reasons unknown. On the other hand, he was also a military survival enthusiast with no other real skills, so in that sense, GDI was a perfect fit.

Incidentally, I’ve never understood why they have to have both “Global” and “International” in their name. It strikes me as a bit redundant and silly, but I would never dare say any such thing out loud.

That, however, doesn’t come anywhere close to explaining why one of the most powerful men in the world has brought me into his office (if not his actual presence) to help him find Max.

“Sorry?” I say in bewilderment.

“Max Hernandez,” Hudson says. “You and he were friends when you were kids, right?”

“Ye-eah,” I say. “But I haven’t seen him in about eight years.”

“I’m aware of that, Simms,” Hudson says. “Were you aware of the fact that the former Sergeant Hernandez worked for us?”

I was not aware of that. “Sorry, but when you say ‘former’, do you mean former sergeant or that he was formerly alive?”

“Former sergeant,” Hudson says. “Not much point in dragging you out to look for a dead man, now, is there?”

“I suppose not,” I agree. “He works for Firmamental?”

The giant face on the screen looks slightly uncomfortable, at least, insofar as any aspect of something so huge can be called slight. “He did until recently. He worked in the security division. It appears that he had, well, something of a breakdown.”

A breakdown? What could he mean by this? With Max, the possibilities were varied. It could include suddenly believing he is Napoleon Bonaparte, commandeering an armoured tank division and trying to re-enact said conqueror’s disastrous invasion of Russia (with the aim to get it right this time). Or believing that his security access card makes him invisible and that if he takes all his clothes off, he will be able to sneak into the women’s washroom without being seen. This is exactly what happened to one of the Project Analysts last week, and that was not my only experience with what HR calls “an unexpected workplace intervention scenario” – it’s just the most recent.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Afraid I can’t get into all the details, Simms,” Hudson says. “Suffice it to say, Mister Hernandez has absconded with proprietary company material of a sensitive nature and we would like very much to get it back.”

I still can’t quite get over the fact that Max was, until recently, working for the same company as me – and I had no idea.

“What did he steal?”

“I’m afraid I can’t get into that, Simms.”

“But what on earth makes you think I would be able to find him?” I ask. “I haven’t seen the guy for eight years. I didn’t even know that he worked here!”

Hudson smiles. “Let’s just say that we have a great deal of faith in you, Simms. You know things about Mister Hernandez that the rest of us don’t. I’m sure you’ll find him in no time.”

I am, however, sure of no such thing. “What about my regular job?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Simms. Just route all of your calls to voice mail. I want you to consider this your only priority as of now. I want you working on this for as long as it takes.”

“But why don’t you just hire the GDI to track him down?” I suggest. “Wouldn’t that be faster?”

This is risky because, in making this suggestion, I am alluding to the connection between HIG and GDI, which are not officially connected. This is the reason that I use the word “hire” and not the word “order”. No job is too small or fee too big for GDI. They will find missing people. They just might not guarantee that the people will still be alive when they are found. Unless you are willing to pay extra.

“I would rather not get them involved in this,” he says.

“Has Max done anything wrong?” I ask. “Anything…illegal?”

“No, no, no, Simms. We are merely…concerned…for his personal well-being.”

I nod. This man is lying through his teeth.

I wonder why.

I
last saw Max Hernandez only a couple of days after he shot me.

It was part of a military exercise we were both participating in as members of the Junior Defenders, the under-18 division of GDI. We were there in lieu of serving prison time for a massive act of revolutionary sabotage, about which more later.

As it was not my first venture into the legal system, I was given two options: I could either spend the next six months in a Behavioural Modification Centre, where I would be subjected to what the classified program mandate referred to cryptically as “enhanced educational techniques”, or I could sign a two-month contract with the JD. Neither one really appealed to me, but since option #2 would give me the opportunity to handle high-powered weapons and live explosives, that was the one I picked.

My father had completed two years in the JD before going on to work as an explosives ordinance disposal technician for the GDI, so he thought it was an excellent idea. He was away a lot when I was young. We were never usually allowed to know where he’d gone. When he was at home, there was a strict embargo on any kind of electronic or mechanical device that might make any sudden or unexpected noise or movement, so we had to do without toasters, phones, alarm clocks and even a doorbell, which he expertly disconnected.

My mother, however, wasn’t crazy about it. As a teacher, she thought I needed a more structured learning environment. As far as she was concerned, the JD was just a glorified gladiator academy for future felons. If I went down that road, I was probably just going to turn into another meathead piece of artillery fodder like my uncle Lennox, who died when his parachute failed to open during a HALO exercise over the Sea of Japan. It should be noted, however that the reason it failed to open was because he left it packed under his seat. Although they weren’t able to locate his body, they think he may have taken twice the recommended dose of attention-maintaining amphetamines on the way up and was so wired that he jumped as soon as the door was opened.

With her brother’s remains spread out over an estimated 300-square-mile search radius and a husband terrified of anything louder than an eye blink, I can hardly fault my mother for opposing the idea. I’m the youngest of three kids. The oldest is my brother Jack, who was born with an underdeveloped spinal cord and has been in a wheelchair since birth. You know the stereotype of the unstoppable and determined disabled person overcoming all obstacles to climb Everest or go into space or whatever else people with functioning limbs might consider impossible? That’s not my brother. My brother is, quite possibly, the laziest man alive. He’s in an assisted living facility where he spends all his time listening to country music, designing pornographic phone apps, and pretending to forget that pants are not an optional clothing item in the common areas. He takes his fun where he can find it. I rarely visit. We have almost nothing in common and the place is like an old age home. I’m a terrible brother.

My sister, Gillian, is two years older than me. She’s the achiever of the family. She got her real estate licence when she was 14 and quickly became one of the top commissioned realtors in the region. It wasn’t long before she moved from selling to developing and is now the owner of one of the largest commercial real estate management companies in the country. She is something of a militant libertarian and has hired a small army of former GDI contractors to patrol her various estates. There’s a rumour floating around that every year she brings them all down to a private compound in the Central African Republic where they are broken up into teams and spend two weeks hunting the homeless people who have been caught either attempting to break in or loitering in proximity to one of her properties in a specially designed arena. I don’t see much of her, either, but I don’t feel quite so guilty about that.