Warhead (48 page)

And slowly, like fish on a line, Sonia and Jam were reeled in.

Sonia lay on her back, panting, on the cargo-deck floor. Jam squatted beside her, reloading his weapon and glancing out at the rolling landscape beyond.

‘We need to refuel,’ came Fenny’s voce. ‘Where we heading?’

Jam rolled shut the cargo doors, and the cold buffeting wind was shut out. Then he moved to the cockpit and checked the latest uploaded coordinates—in encrypted format—from Carter. ‘He’s in Tibet,’ said Jam, slowly.

‘Yeah. But where is the EC Warhead?’

‘Let’s head east, see if we can rendezvous with him. When he moves, he’s going to move fast. Try and call up Carter or Mongrel on their ECubes; see if we can establish a destination for the ECW,’ he rumbled.

‘I can refuel in Finland, then we plot a course through Russia, see if we can intercept him there. You get what you needed, Jam?’

‘Yes. We got the data for the EDEN depots strewn across the globe. Now we just have to upload the data into the Warhead—and then, with luck, this weapon of mass detonation will do its job. Take out the biological shit.’

Fenny banked and headed east towards the Swedish border. ‘Shall I inform The Priest of our route?’

‘Yeah. Ask him for some DemolSquad back-up; I think we are going to need every bit of help we can get.’

‘Won’t Carter be expecting you to ECube the data?’

‘We can’t; because of the encryption, and because of how the shit is stored. We have to deliver it by hand. And that’s going to take time.’

Fenny thought for a moment. ‘Are we likely to see combat?’

‘I’d be surprised if we didn’t.’

‘Then we won’t just refuel. We can dump this Chinook and pick ourselves up something a little more, shall we say, exotic.’

‘You fucking pilots. Why’ve you all got hard-ons for Comanche war machines?’

Fenny shrugged. ‘It’s just the way we’re made,’ he said, his curled hair bobbing.

Jam moved back to Sonia, who had sat up and was rubbing wearily at her eyes. She crawled to her feet, and glanced around at the equipment left by the dead members of their group. Baze had left behind his heavy overcoat, Haggis a satchel filled with HighJ explosives, Oz a long soft case for his sniper rifle, and Rekalavich a faded, corner-curled photograph that he’d tacked to the wall with tape Sonia moved over to the photograph and pulled it free. It showed a woman, young and pretty with a cascade of dark curls and deep red lipstick. Sonia turned the photograph over. On the back somebody had written
With all my eternal love, Tanya.
Sonia fond that there were tears on her cheeks.

‘Are you OK?’ rumbled Jam.

‘They are all dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘This data better be
fucking important.’

‘It is,’ said Jam smoothly. ‘It is the information that will save the world. You have done well, Sonia. You have showed bravery and determination—you have shown courage greater than I could ever have anticipated.’

Sonia merely nodded, her face grey and exhausted. She moved to the wall, strapping herself into her harness. She pulled free the small silver data cube and stared into its faceted depths, then her head fell back with a thud and she closed her eyes. I hope you were worth it, she thought bitterly. I just hope you were worth it.

The Comanche soared through the rain-filled heavens, armoured rotors thumping, missiles gleaming eerily in the gloomy half-light. Within the insect-like HIDSS, Heneghan, combat pilot and generously bosomed mother of three, hummed to herself and glanced over her shoulder at the snoring figure of The Priest. A large man, he wore grey robes, open to show his hairy chest, and his hand was curled around his rosary beads in sleep—a comfort toy.

It’s a shame to wake him, she thought. But they were nearing the Number 45 TacSquad sweep destination and Heneghan had a bad feeling that they had found another Dreadnought site. ‘Priest?’

The Priest continued to snore, barrel chest rising and heaving. He made a snuffling catarrhal noise, gurgling on phlegm before turning over a little and settling back down against the leather of the co-pilot’s seat.

‘PRIEST!’

‘Hnnh! Hnnh? What? Oh, yes, Heneghan.’ He coughed, shuffling himself up in the seat a little. ‘Are we here, then? That was quick. Seems like only two minutes ago ...’

‘It’s been three hours, Priest. And you’ve been snoring like a bloody warthog.’

‘Yes, a terrible chest infection, Heneghan. But the Lord sends these trials to test us, does He not? Now then.’ He pulled down a scanner, his eyes sweeping the screen before him. ‘You see the SAM protection?’

‘Very heavy,’ said Heneghan, slowing their speed and banking the combat chopper once more. ‘Down there; we’re just out of range. I can make out thirty sites.’

The Priest caressed his ECube, which unfolded in his broad flat hand. His skin was quite soft, for The Priest used a lot of skin ointment. ‘Hmm. Yes, a lot of highly expensive and terminally efficient firepower—just to protect a sardine-canning factory? And look there, you can see the huge central funnel used for launches. This, I think, is where they make the FreightTugs.’

‘Shall we lock the coordinates?’

‘Yes, add them to the data bank.’

Heneghan slowed the Comanche until it was hovering, and she jostled the combat vehicle, fighting the elements of the rising storm. ‘Taking a snapshot—now.’ The Priest watched digits flicker up the monitor before him; he gestured with his ECube, and navigated through various screens which gave read-outs on Dreadnought Sites, WarFacs and other aspects of Durell’s star-spanning empire.

The Priest had organised the remaining men and women of Spiral into teams, newly formed DemolSquads, TacSquads and TankSquads. Each had been given goals, missions, and final destinations for the coming battle. Now The Priest and thirty other TacSquads were in the process of sweeping known locations, sites, weapons depots, Dreadnought construction centres, gathering a data bank of coordinates that could, The Priest hoped, be used by the EC Warhead and the DemolSquads themselves when it came to the final, ultimate battle—the Big Push that they all knew was imminent. The Priest looked weary, and his faith was being tested to its very limits. Sometimes he found it hard to believe. Sometimes he wondered if mankind was, ultimately, doomed.

By his own hand, sighed The Priest.

‘You OK?’ Heneghan’s voice was filled with compassion. She was staring back at him. He gave another great sigh, nodding. ‘You look wiped out, Holy Man,’ she said.

‘I am exhausted. But then, so is every man and woman of Spiral. So is every REB who has joined our cause. We are stretched to our limits, our GRID is broken, we are relying on a Warhead which may not exist.’

‘Carter will find it,’ said Heneghan softly.

The Priest’s eyes gleamed in the cockpit gloom. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that he will.’

The streets of Johannesburg in the Gauteng Province of South Africa were alive with activity. People were celebrating the imminent arrival of EDEN and the freedom it would bring outside the city sprawls. TV adverts fielded by HIVE Media Productions had been running in heavy rotation, promising an end to the city-wide population restrictions. The land outside the cities would once more be available to the global population without them having to ingest dangerous chemical tablets and suffering the uncertainty of whether or not they were walking through tox-filled zones.

9mm flowed with the crowd, her high cheeks flushed with the humid heat and the close proximity of so many people. Her dark eyes were scanning as she moved with the human current, her athletic frame merging with the mob. Laughter echoed through the streets and there was a distinctly carnival atmosphere hanging like smoke in the air.

9mm noted the Nex stationed at every street corner. They wore their masks, copper eyes impassive, Steyr TMPs and Kalashnikov JK49s and JK51s pointing at the ground.

The Nex were sanctioning freedom. And 9mm couldn’t help wondering why.

The crowd surged, huge groups of people dancing in the roads. 9mm pushed her way to one side and stood on the pavement, body held casual but eyes still alert. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks roared into the sky and green and white stars sparkled.

A figure moved slowly along the opposite pavement. AnneMarie was tall, a little over six feet, and very slim. Her hair was golden, and tied back in a loose ponytail. Her head sat atop a smooth, slender neck and turned as her eyes sought out her—

Companion. Their gazes met, and both moved to rendezvous on one corner just behind a group of Nex soldiers. The Nex, despite appearing calm, seemed subtly twitchy. They scanned the crowd constantly, conspicuously enough to make both 9mm and AnneMarie smile viciously. To the Nex, a crowd was something to be put down—not actively encouraged.

‘This way,’ said AnneMarie.

They moved again with the crowd as more fireworks erupted to the west and people of all nationalities cheered, united in the excitement of the moment.

Eventually, after carefully checking out the local Nex, the two women slid down a narrow alleyway and halted at the end, scrutinising their back-trail. AnneMarie produced an ECube and scanned their surroundings.

‘We need to get closer,’ said 9mm.

‘We might make them suspicious.’

‘Come on; we can pretend to be lovers out for a stroll.’ Arm in arm, they moved on. Above them, rearing into the evening sky, rose the Sentinel Corporation’s Johannesburg HQ, its glittering surfaces of steel and glass fitting neatly into the skyline of central Johannesburg.

AnneMarie’s ECube scanned, checking data, analysing structures. The two women moved towards the deserted street in front of the Sentinel building, and as they heard soft boots on concrete they embraced, lips touching softly, hands stroking at one another’s clothing.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

9mm broke away from her kiss and turned her dark eyes on the three Nex. She smiled broadly. Her hand moved to rest on AnneMarie’s hip. ‘Sorry, we just wanted some, uh, privacy. Everywhere is so busy tonight! What’s going on?’

‘The EDEN anti-virus is being released tomorrow. The city is celebrating.’ The Nex’s copper-eyed stare moved up and down the two women. ‘Are you armed?’

‘No, sir,’ said AnneMarie, flashing her widest smile. ‘Can’t we stay here, sir?’ She kissed 9mm’s cheek. ‘We have nowhere else to go, nowhere to, you know,
enjoy
one another.’ In her pocket, she felt the ECube give a tiny click.

The Nex made as if to lift its Steyr TMP, but then the weapon dropped back to its side. It pressed a finger to its ear, some unheard communication, and then its mouth moved behind the mask. ‘No. You must rejoin the main carriageway. This area is restricted.’

‘OK, OK, don’t get a hard-on,’ said 9mm. The two women turned, giggling, arm in arm, and strolled back down the street, turning right and heading towards a throng of excited party-goers. The moment they were away from the Nex they killed their giggles.

‘We get it?’

‘We got it.’

‘Have you noticed something?’

‘What?’

‘I haven’t seen a single JT8.’

AnneMarie frowned. ‘You know, you’re right.’ They stood for a few moments, scanning the press of people. Fireworks crackled. Voices sang songs from a decade past. ‘That’s weird. Log it to the data bank. Let’s see if anybody else has noticed.’

‘OK. We ready to Centralise?’

‘Yeah. Got a fast Manta heading in for a two-minute pick-up; we need to shift ourselves, get our kit and make the airfield in—’ she checked her watch ‘—just under an hour.’

‘Let’s move, then. The DemolSquads are waiting.’

Durell hated Africa. Hated it with a vengeance. He hated the sun, the heat, the sand, the flies, the people, the food, the chaos—and he hated the space. People should just stay put, huddled together, he thought.

In one place. Where I can fucking see them.

The black Nex helicopter swept down towards the distant BCB construct, a mammoth grey-black structure which squatted against the skyline, suspended two kilometres above the rolling desert.

Durell watched the Dreadnought drift into view, and pride inflated his chest. He had created this monument, this
space station,
this dream. He had made it possible—his resources, his technology,
his
intention. But his pride swelled even further when his slitted copper eyes swept across the sheer magnitude of the construction. This was not one of the smaller linking Dreadnought blocks as previously witnessed by man and paparazzi alike; no, this was Dreadnought NGO—the first class of the central core units. This core block was now complete, and would be towed into space in twelve hours—in order to start a sequence of events that would lead to the evacuation of Nex from the Earth, and the launch of the EDEN missiles destined to cleanse the world of mankind. Humanity would be destroyed. The slate would be wiped clean. The Earth scorched.

Soon, he thought as the small black helicopter approached the roof of the Dreadnought.
Soon.

The helicopter touched down and Durell stepped free. A powerful wind from the rotors made his robes flap but as this died nothing else stirred—no breeze, no birds flying overhead. The Gravity Displacers made sure of that.