State of Emergency Read online

  'So this is not a NASA training visit?' Maiko Buchanan said. 'That's what I was told.'

  'No, it's not. Nor is it a seminar on a new encryption breakthrough,' Harrison added, looking at Josh. 'I think the best thing is for us to get acquainted. You've been here a few minutes. I guess you've chatted. Let me start at the beginning. A briefing, if you like.' He stood and picked up the remote, clicking it as he walked towards the screen on the wall. The lights dimmed.

  'Peter Sherringham,' Harrison said, and a picture of the man sitting on the far right of the semi-circle appeared on the screen. He had curly sandy hair, blue eyes and a large mouth. Harrison glanced towards him.

  'Born – Newcastle, England, March 1973. Now one of the world's foremost authorities on the manufacture, control and deactivation of explosives. An NCO in the British army from 1991 to 2004. Served in Northern Ireland, Afghanistan and Iraq. After retiring from the army, Peter founded Globex, now a leading specialist in commercial demolition.'

  Pete Sherringham was sitting ramrod-straight in his chair. 'What's this all about?' he asked, with just a hint of irritation. He had a strong accent – working-class Geordie – but it was a soft, controlled voice, the voice of a man who was not easily rattled. 'I'm not complaining about the champagne, mind. But I get the feeling I'm not here to learn the details of a new explosive putty – as advertised.'

  Harrison produced a brief smile. 'No, Pete,' he said.

  Sherringham was about to respond when the screen changed and his face was replaced with that of a blonde woman with striking dark-brown eyes. He realised it was the woman sitting next to him.

  'Dr Stephanie Jacobs,' Harrison continued. 'Born – Sydney, Australia, June 1975. Olympic 100-metre and 200-metre freestyle gold-medallist in 1996 and 2000. Completed medical training in 2001. Specialised in burns treatment. Became consultant at Royal North Shore Hospital, Sydney, 2007. Now heads an internationally renowned burns unit. Husband, SAS Major Edward Trevelyan, died in Afghanistan in 2009.'

  Stephanie Jacobs sat calmly, legs crossed, hands in her lap, saying nothing. Her blonde hair was short, tucked behind her ears. She was wearing a smart suit that accentuated her perfect physique.

  'Maiko Buchanan,' Harrison went on. 'Born – Kyoto, Japan, May 1974. Migrated with parents to Boston, Massachusetts, 1984. Engineering major at UCLA. A-grade soccer player, before being selected for fast-track programme at NASA. Has flown the space shuttle three times, most recently as mission commander.'

  'Wow!' Maiko said, with a broad grin that lit up her small, pretty face. 'Sounds great – I hardly recognise myself!'

  'Josh Thompson. Born – London, 1973. Olympic triathlon gold-medallist in Atlanta, 1996. PhD in cryptography, King's College, London, 2002. Served in the British SAS as an encryption expert until 2007. Retired with the rank of major. Published The Theory and Practice of Cryptography, 2008. Currently professor at Columbia University, New York.'

  The others turned towards Josh, whose legs were stretched out in front of him. He wore jeans and cowboy boots, a black T-shirt and leather jacket. His hair was dark and swept back. Prominent cheekbones made him look younger than his 38 years. He stood and gave a bow, and they saw what a large man he was, six-foot-five and broad-shouldered. As he sat down, he said, 'And what about you, Mark?'

  At a click of the remote the screen changed. A picture of Mark Harrison appeared. They all read the CV.

  Born: Houston, Texas, 1969

  Rhodes Scholar, mathematics major, Oriel College, Oxford, 1987–1990. PhD in computer science

  First African-American Oxford rowing blue

  Head of new technology for IBM, 1991–1995

  Served in the US Special Forces, 1995–2000. Retired with the rank of colonel

  Fluent in Mandarin, Russian, French and Spanish

  Marksman (Distinguished Expert Class)

  Judo master (6th dan)

  The picture clicked off and the lights came up.

  'So,' Josh Thompson asked, 'now will you tell us why we're here?'

  'I can do better than that. Follow me.'

  5

  Mark Harrison led them into a wide corridor. 'You'll have to excuse the cloak-and-dagger stuff,' he said. 'But I think you'll soon see the reason for it.'

  Harrison ran his hand over a sensor pad on the corridor wall and a panel slid away, revealing a tropical vista. The four visitors were transfixed. The horizon was a line of statuesque palm trees rising above a swatch of jungle shrouded in mist. In the foreground stretched an expanse of turquoise water as flat as a mirror.

  'We're on the island of Tintara, 1240 miles south-southwest of San Diego. And this is Base One. Follow me.'

  The panel closed and Harrison walked quickly along the corridor. A door opened at the end and he led the four into a large room. A bank of plasma screens lined the wall to their right. Men in boilersuits were seated at control panels. Harrison strode past them to a massive window. Through the window, they could see a hangar 200 metres long and 100 wide. It was abuzz with human activity. Dozens of technicians were scurrying around, dwarfed by the two massive aircraft that dominated the hangar's huge space.

  'Impressive, huh?' Harrison said, turning to the others.

  The two identical machines looked like scaled-down but futuristic stealth bombers. Beside these was a line of brightly coloured ground vehicles. One looked like a bulldozer from the 22nd century, and next to it stood a tracked vehicle with a beautiful low profile.

  In the centre of the vast space they could see a cluster of desks with what looked like ultra-thin flat-screen computer terminals. It took the visitors a moment to realise that the screens were images in the air – 3D holographic projections. The keyboards were also light patterns projected onto the desks. Most interesting of all, the computer operators were talking to the terminals – and the computers were answering back.

  'Come, sit down,' Mark Harrison said, gesturing to the comfy chairs just back from the window.

  'So, what's going on here?' the Australian, Stephanie Jacobs, asked.

  'Something wonderful.'

  'We'll have to take your word for that, Mark,' Maiko Buchanan said.

  'Fair enough,' he replied. 'Have you ever watched a catastrophe unfold in the media and wondered why there isn't some special organisation that could go in and help?'

  Harrison's four guests studied his face.

  'Seven years ago I was watching TV when a news flash came on. A submarine was trapped on the ocean floor, just off Costa Rica. It was a civilian sub used by marine biologists. They were 2000 feet under water. Rescue teams could do almost nothing. It took three days for the US military to get involved. By the time they reached them, the five-man crew were all dead.'

  'I remember it,' Pete Sherringham said. 'The Montana.'

  'It was a turning point for me. I knew those men shouldn't have died. They could have been saved. I was angry. How could Western governments spend trillions of dollars each year on arms but not have a global specialist rescue organisation? How come we can precision-bomb Baghdad and get hundreds of thousands of soldiers into combat zones anywhere in the world, but we can't get to Costa Rica in time to save the lives of a group of scientists?

  'I had a few contacts and I started calling in favours. It took me six months to reach the people with the power to make things happen, and another six months to persuade them to act. I envisaged E-Force as a multinational –'

  'E-Force?' Josh Thompson broke in.

  'Emergency Force. Simple, straightforward.' Thompson was nodding in assent. 'It's a multinational effort. The money is partly from governments – the G8 – and partly from cashed-up philanthropists, no names mentioned. A board of governors from six different countries liaises directly with contributing nations through the UN. E-Force is apolitical and non-military, as independent of government control as is possible in our age.'

  'But that equipment,' Maiko Buchanan said, nodding towards the hangar. 'I've seen some pretty advanced stuff at NASA, but nothing like t
hat.'

  Harrison's eyes were alive with pride and excitement. 'No, you wouldn't have,' he said. 'Not many people have. You all know of DARPA, of course?'

  'The US military research group?' Stephanie Jacobs offered.

  'The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. There's an equivalent in Britain, ditto in Russia, China and so on. DARPA is an umbrella name for hundreds of research groups dotted around the USA. Each is financed by the Department of Defense and each works on technological projects that have military applications. Over the years, DARPA has given us the internet, stealth technology, lasers and countless advances in computers. The list is long. What happens is the military pumps billions of dollars into these research projects, and naturally they have first pickings of anything that comes out of them. Years later a technological breakthrough from DARPA filters through to the public. The average delay is about seven years.'

  'But you said E-Force is non-military.'

  'It is. Our technology doesn't come from DARPA. Back in the late fifties, when DARPA was established, some nervous congressmen didn't like the idea of the military having exclusive access to new technology. You have to remember this was at the height of the Cold War – McCarthy, reds under the beds. A small group of politicians created a secret offshoot of DARPA. They called it CARPA – the Civilian Advanced Research Projects Agency. The military had nothing to do with it. Didn't even know about it.

  'CARPA survived, and thrived, in secret. Money was siphoned off to feed it, and like DARPA it has been responsible for some of the most important technological advances over the past fifty years. The thing that distinguishes the civilian branch is that the leaders of the organisation have a remit to spend at least half their annual budget on what they call "far future projects". DARPA isn't interested in looking too far ahead, but a large chunk of CARPA's money and energy goes into projects that are at least two decades beyond mainstream research. Some of this has been fed directly to organisations such as NASA,' Harrison said, glancing at Maiko Buchanan.

  'All our equipment is from CARPA. The machines you saw down there won't be commonplace for at least twenty years. In fact, even the military won't have stuff like that for a decade. CARPA is our primary sponsor. They like to think of E-Force as their test dummies. Not a view I share, by the way. But I don't mind them thinking it in exchange for their technology.'

  'So, what's the idea?' Pete Sherringham asked. 'You have an organisation of what, several thousand people? How do you operate? What's the infrastructure?'

  'Good question. Yes, there's a large team at work here. This is Base One. We have smaller establishments in half a dozen key locations around the world. Over 1300 people are involved with E-Force. But at its heart it will always be a team of specialists. A small, elite group of gifted, super-intelligent, super-fit, highly trained individuals who will operate at the coalface. They will have all this behind them.' Harrison waved his hand towards the hangar. 'Ultimately, they will be E-Force.'

  'You've suddenly started speaking in the future tense,' Josh Thompson said.

  'Yes, I know. That's because I'm hoping that we will be that elite group.'

  6

  They all started talking at once. After a moment, Harrison put up his hands. 'Okay, okay. Controversial suggestion.'

  'Are you serious?' Stephanie Jacobs asked. 'How could we possibly –'

  'Of course I'm serious.'

  The four guests were suddenly quiet.

  'You're all perfect candidates,' Harrison went on.

  'Except that we all have lives already,' Pete Sherringham retorted.

  'I realise that. Look, no one expects you to give up your careers. After an initial three-month intensive training period, you will all return to your everyday lives and be . . . well, for want of a better expression, on-call.'

  'Three months! How can I give up my research for three months?' Stephanie Jacobs exclaimed.

  'I will take care of everything. Each of you has individual needs. Each of you will be remunerated in full for any financial losses, and you'll be paid handsomely for your time. Josh, I know your new book isn't out for six months. You can still work on the next one if you want to. We have peerless research facilities. Pete, your number two can run Globex for three months and you can be in constant touch with your managers from here. And Stephanie, the same applies. You have our resources at your disposal, and the everyday running of the lab can be managed. Maiko, there'll be no problem arranging a sabbatical from NASA for you.'

  There was a heavy silence for a moment. Then Pete Sherringham spoke up. 'Okay, you seem to have all bases covered, Mark. But why should any of us agree to give up our time and jeopardise our hard-earned careers?'

  Harrison looked around the table. He knew the answer. Each of the four were high achievers, determined and truly exceptional people. But he had studied their profiles. He knew, for example, that each of them had reached a point in their lives where they needed a new challenge. 'The decision is entirely yours,' he said. 'But there is one last thing I want to show you.'

  He stood up and led them back to the seminar room where they had met. Harrison picked up the remote and flicked on the screen behind him. 'This happened just before I came in here to introduce myself,' he said.

  The lights dimmed and the screen lit up. It showed the perilous scene on the Cretan mountainside. A rescue worker was making his way under the stricken coach when lightning struck. They all watched him fly through the air. Then, moments later, the coach began to slide. The camera followed it until it hit the rocks below and exploded.

  7

  Aldermont Correctional Facility, New York State

  Mark Harrison was driven in silence through the prison gates. Twelve-foot-high grey fences stood to left and right. The view through the windscreen was swept with rain. So different to Tintara, he thought. He had got used to the sunshine and lush vegetation, and autumnal New York State just didn't cut it.

  Letting his mind wander, he felt a familiar knot of excitement. His dream of creating E-Force was finally coming together. It was the culmination of his ambitions, a blend of all his talents, education and experience. Since growing up in Texas as a super-intelligent kid out of sync with his classmates and even his own family, he had been extraordinarily successful. He had savoured his time at university in England and had been extremely popular, becoming the President of the Oxford Union. After that, his career in IT had been a simple progression from one triumph to another, and then his switch to the US military had brought him immediate rewards.

  He had been destined for great things, but no matter how much he achieved he always wanted more. It was clear to him now that something had always been missing, and that something was E-Force.

  Mark cast his mind back over the meeting with the four people he most wanted as members. They had spent the night at Base One and he had shown them around the complex, trying, in his enthusiasm, not to go overboard.

  He had even attempted to play down the state-of-the-art facilities at Tintara. His guests had all left deeply impressed.

  He hadn't expected instant commitment, and of course none of them had signed up there and then. He hadn't pushed them. Better to let them mull it over.

  He was confident about three of the visitors – Pete Sherringham, Maiko Buchanan and Dr Stephanie Jacobs. Josh Thompson was the problematic one. Josh was almost a celebrity – in some ways he had the most to lose.

  And now, Mark thought, here I am, hoping to enlist the vital sixth member of E-Force.

  When Mark was led into the cell he found Tom Erickson with his back to him. The light from a laptop cut through the gloom. The guard retreated and locked the door. Erickson spun his wheelchair and snapped shut the laptop.

  He looked like a surfer except his legs were limp and twisted. Tom Erickson had marked his nineteenth birthday just a month earlier. His IQ had been recorded at 202 (four points higher than Stephen Hawking). He was wearing baggy jeans and an oversized Ramones T-shirt. His dark hair was lank and h
ung to his shoulders. His face was gaunt, but his dark eyes were alive and childlike.

  It was a face Harrison knew from the cover of Time magazine, for Erickson was the most gifted computer hacker on earth. And it was this gift that had landed him here in Aldermont Correctional Facility with a six-year prison sentence. One year earlier he had been convicted of defrauding a private bank in Washington to the tune of $60 million. He had done it without ever moving away from his laptop.

  Erickson was only ten when a truck had hit him outside his home in Baltimore. He had come so close to death that a priest had been called to the ICU. But he had survived, although his legs were rendered completely useless. Bedridden for a year, he had turned to computers and learned he had an intuitive understanding of them. He could almost merge with them. He played a hard drive the way Hendrix played a Strat – by instinct.

  Tom's problems started when he hit puberty and began to resent his predicament. He could blame no one, but that only made it worse. He started to rebel against everything – his parents, school, but most of all some nebulous thing called 'authority'.

  At his trial, public opinion had turned against Tom when he admitted he had robbed the bank simply because he could – because he wanted, as he put it, to 'fuck people around'. In a world in which money was more important than anything else, the trial had made Erickson infamous. National headlines dubbed him an 'Evil Genius' and 'Doctor Frankenstein of Cyberspace'.

  He was no such thing, Mark knew. He was a kid with a great talent and no respect for authority. In other words, extremely dangerous but not inherently evil. 'I'm amazed they still let you near a computer,' he remarked.

  Erickson looked Mark up and down. 'They think it's safe as long as I'm not online. Which would be true . . .'

  Mark couldn't resist a smile. 'An odd thing to admit to.'

  'Not really. Think you can prove anything? Good luck, man!'