The four choppers had blacked-out windows and one
passenger each. They flew low over the ocean, ten minutes
apart. Each of the passengers was given the full VIP treatment
– champagne and canapés. But before boarding they had
been told the trip would only be possible on the condition
they signed a contract binding them under international
law neither to speak nor write of anything they would see
that day. Curiosity had won them over.
As each chopper landed, a black car docked with its door
and its passenger was escorted into a waiting car. Like the
choppers, the cars had windows made from polarised glass.
Still ten minutes apart, the cars arrived at a reception area
and drove into a windowless hangar. There each guest was
met by an official and an armed guard. They passed through
a metal detector, and then were taken to a comfortable but
windowless room. There was a coffee machine, sandwiches
and cake. Soft sofas hugged three walls and a low table
stood in the middle of the room. On top of this was spread
a collection of glossy magazines.
Thirty minutes after the first guest had arrived, he was
joined by three others. Two men in slacks and open-necked
shirts appeared. They shook hands with the four guests and
led the way to another, smaller room that looked like a
college seminar room. The escorts left without a word.
For 24 hours the world was gripped by images of a tour
coach dangling on the edge of a promontory in Crete. They
watched as rescue teams did everything they could to save
the passengers. Mark Harrison was no different. Like millions
of others around the world, he was glued to his TV screen.
Unlike those millions, he could do something about it . . .
almost.
The coach had lodged on a rocky outcrop 30 feet below
the road. Beneath it loomed hundreds of feet of air.
The passengers had moved to the back of the coach to
take the weight off the front end. The dead had been dragged
along the central aisle, while the injured lay stretched out
on the rear seats. A handful of survivors had managed to
scramble through the shattered windows and onto the cliff,
where they had been picked up by helicopters.
Emergency rescue teams had tried everything, but it
was impossible to get into the coach without disturbing its
precarious balance. Military choppers lowered massive metal
jaws to clamp around the stricken vehicle, but the operation
almost ended in disaster as the coach rocked wildly. After
that, the rescuers backed off to work up a new plan.
Now the wind was getting up and, after a spell of clear
skies, a storm was approaching. The choppers were grounded.
In a last-ditch effort, a team of climbers abseiled down the
cliff face, planning to secure cables around each end of the
coach. These were connected to a massive haulage vehicle
on the road high above.
The world watched as the sky turned an unhealthy black.
The rain thundered down, drenching everything. A lightning
bolt ripped across the sky, casting a horrid lemon light over
the scene. The coach rocked in the high winds. Thunder
smothered the sound of metal scraping on rock.
Harrison saw the first two rescuers reach the coach. One
shuffled along a narrow ledge of rock with a two-inch-wide
cable in one hand. A second lightning bolt hit the cable,
sending over a million volts through the rescuer's body.
He flew 20 feet into the air, his severed hand still gripping
the cable.
Around the world, hundreds of millions of viewers gasped
in unison. Nothing like this had been seen since two airliners
had ploughed into the Twin Towers in New York City.
Harrison was alone in a white-walled room. He was sitting
on the edge of a desk. He could feel his heart pounding.
Without realising it, he was picking the skin around his
right thumb.
A phone rang and he turned to answer it. 'They're all
here, sir,' a voice said. 'Room 17.'
Harrison replaced the receiver and turned back to the
screen, just as the coach lurched and slid away down the
cliff.
Mark Harrison walked into Room 17. He was escorted by
two men in black boilersuits. At a nod from Harrison, the
men retreated from the room and closed the door behind
them.
Harrison was wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt
without a tie. A few years back, one of his superiors had
dubbed him 'Denzel' because of his striking resemblance to
the Hollywood star. And indeed he did have something of
the actor's commanding presence and air of authority. Aged
42, Harrison was six-foot-three and just shy of 200 pounds,
without an ounce of fat on his broad frame. His hair was
cropped short, and his face was taut and muscular, with
narrow eyebrows and eyes the colour of burnt ash.
There were four people in the room – two men and two
women. Harrison knew two of them personally, and the
other two only by reputation. They were seated in a semicircle,
and in front of the group was a vacant chair and a
small table. On this stood a jug of water, a glass and a remote
control. On one wall of the room was a large flat-screen TV.
'Good morning.' Harrison placed a green folder on the
table and looked at the four faces. His voice was deep, with
just a hint of a Southern drawl to it.
One of the men leaned back in his chair. 'Mark bloody
Harrison. I might have guessed.' He stood and the two men
shook hands.
'It's good to see you, Josh,' Harrison replied.
One of the others, a Japanese woman in her early thirties
with jet-black eyes and black hair cut into a bob, was shaking
her head and getting up. 'Mark. You're well, I hope?'
'All the better for seeing you, Maiko.'
The other two in the room looked on, a little bemused.
Harrison sat down and folded his arms. 'I guess you all
deserve an explanation.'
'That would be nice,' Josh Thompson said.
'First, I'd like to thank you all for agreeing to come here at
short notice. The fact is you've all been brought here under
false pretences. But –' and he raised a palm when he saw their
frowns – 'let me assure you, it's for a very good reason.'
'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.'
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 that.'
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.'