John held up his headphones. ‘What’s going on, Paul?’
‘I don’t know, John,’ replied Paul. ‘We’re not broadcasting.’
‘Not broadcasting?’ said Berry in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, not broadcasting?’
‘Just that,’ said Paul. ‘The power’s on. But the computers are down. And nothing’s getting through.’
‘Well, ring the bloody technicians.’
‘I tried,’ said Paul. ‘But the phones are out. I can’t get through on anything. Not even the intercom.’
‘Oh Christ!’ exclaimed John, looking up at the studio clock. ‘Renton’s on his way to the station.’
‘I know, John,’ nodded Paul.
‘Well, do some bloody thing.’ Berry stared out the studio window at the view across the ocean. ‘Jesus! It can’t be a storm. There’s not a cloud in the bloody sky.’
‘I know,’ said Paul. ‘I’m hoping it’s the main computer.’
John Berry dumped his headphones on the console and buried his bearded face in his hands. ‘Hoping it’s the computer. Good God Almighty,’ he moaned. ‘That’s all I need.’
In Auckland, New Zealand, it was 9.00 pm and raining. Truck driver Sione Faimu was in a lot of pain. He’d just rolled his delivery van off the NW Motorway and was pinned behind the steering wheel, bleeding from a head wound and internal injuries.
No one had seen the accident. But he’d managed to ring Emergency Services before his mobile phone went out of range and the operator assured him an ambulance and a rescue crew
would be there in no time. Sione hoped so. He knew he was hurt badly and if he didn’t get help soon, the ditch he was in would be a lonely place to die. He stared through the shattered windscreen and tried to shut the pain out by thinking of his wife and five children.
Parked in their ambulance outside a close-by hospital, paramedics Manase Halatau and Grahame Whittle were thinking how quiet it was. In this sort of weather they were generally kept busy. Manase picked up the radio to check with Dispatch. He clicked the on/off button and got nothing but static.
‘Ohh, that’s what’s wrong,’ he told his partner. ‘The radio’s off.’
‘Give me a look.’ Grahame tried the receiver then put it back in its cradle. ‘Must be something wrong in the office. It’ll come good.’
‘Instead of waiting here,’ suggested Manase, ‘why don’t we take a run out to Parnell and get a pizza?’
‘Good idea,’ replied Grahame, reaching for the ignition. ‘A hot chocolate would go well, too.’
In Karachi it was 2.03 pm and taxi driver Sunil Vajpahi was in an excellent mood. Usually a temperamental man, he was sitting smiling in his taxi on Mangopir Road after dropping off a
foolish Saudi tourist and his Italian girlfriend at the Zoological Gardens. Obviously full of hashish, the man had left him with two US one hundred dollar bills instead of two ones. Most unfortunate for the tourist. But indeed a blessing for Sunil. He had started his shift at noon and would normally finish at midnight. Now he would go home to his young wife Zashi, take her for a meal, then stroll with her along the banks of the Layari River. Later they would see a film. Sunil would always ring his wife before he came home, so she could have something waiting for him to eat. And he liked her to ring him at work. Now for some reason his mobile phone wasn’t working, nor was the taxi’s radio. He would have to surprise her.
In Sunil’s modest apartment on Quadin Road, Zashi was lying back in bed with her latest young lover, artist Sanjay Khilnani. Like Sunil, Zashi was also in a good mood. She was always in a good mood when Sunil was at work. Sanjay and Zashi had just finished making love and were enjoying a cool drink.
‘You are sure your husband will not be home?’ asked Sanjay.
Zashi shook her head adamantly. ‘Not until midnight. If he does come home, the pig always rings first, so I can have food waiting for him.’
‘Until midnight, you say?’ smiled Sanjay. The young artist thought for a moment. ‘Then we have much love-making to look forward to.’
‘Oh yes. Much,’ purred Zashi.
Sunil put the taxi into gear and the large hunting knife he kept under the front seat rolled forward beneath the brake pedal. Sunil’s knife would often do that. It was bothersome. But it was easy to get at under the seat and it was an excellent deterrent against villains who tried to rob or abuse him. And Sunil was not afraid to use it. Sunil placed it on the seat next to him and smiled. He would wrap it in its cloth and take it home. Thanks to a foolish tourist, Sunil would not be needing his knife today.
In Hong Kong, it was 6.07 pm. Wearing a beautifully tailored grey suit, Li Lin Xun, executive with the Bank of China, was seated in his office staring at his computer, smiling and rubbing his fat little hands together. Unknown to the Party, Li Lin had purloined HK$100,000,000 from the Bank of China, which he had zipped round the world on the futures market over the last week and was now about to zip back, leaving him a tidy profit of HK$5,000,000. Such practices were heavily frowned upon by the Party, and
meant a one-way ticket to the firing squad. But Li Lin had covered every angle. There would be no problem. The only problem was what to do with all the beautiful money? Li Lin was about to log on when his computer crashed. However, Li Lin was not unduly worried. This often happened in the Democratic People’s Republic. Li Lin eased back in his leather chair, lit a cigarette and, with inscrutable Oriental patience, waited for his computer to come back online.
In London, it was 10.05 am. Captain Dennis Bigwood was in a holding pattern above the clouds covering Heathrow Airport. He’d just piloted British Airways Flight 379 back from Jamaica packed with tourists—a face at every window and a bum on every seat as one of the female flight attendants had informed him when they took off from Montego Bay. Looking down at the clouds from the air-conditioned cockpit of the jumbo jet, Captain Bigwood was wishing he was back in Jamaica, drinking rum and bonking the vivacious flight attendant he’d met from Air Italia. London in October definitely wasn’t Jamaica. He was checking the fuel gauges when he lost radar and the ship’s computer faded. His co-pilot, Brian Murray, noticed it at the same
time. They were about to comment when the plane’s navigator, Martin Cochrane, spoke up.
‘Dennis,’ he said, a little urgently. ‘I’ve lost radio contact with Heathrow.’
‘Yes. We’ve just lost radar, Martin,’ replied the co-pilot.
Captain Bigwood went over the controls again, then turned to his co-pilot. ‘The power’s on, Brian. And there’s nothing wrong with the hydraulics. It must be a hiccup in the main computer.’ The captain thought heavily for a moment. ‘Well, lads,’ he said quietly. ‘I imagine there’s going to be a bit of a delay. So I’d better inform the punters till we sort things out.’
Captain Bigwood picked up the microphone. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘This is your captain, Dennis…’ Captain Bigwood clicked at the intercom button. ‘Now this isn’t working either.’ Captain Bigwood turned to the navigator. ‘Martin, could you go and fetch the head steward, please.’
Martin Cochrane rose from his seat. ‘Right away, Dennis.’
In New York, it was 4.00 am. Cold but clear. Drug Squad Detectives Joel Vears and Lou Halavic were parked off Flatlands Avenue, two doors from a
suspect crack house on the second floor of a graffiti-covered apartment block in Carnasie. They’d been there almost an hour and to their knowledge the only people inside were a Venezuelan dealer, Hector Guerro, and his girlfriend Coliza. Hector was an up-and-comer in the drug trade and, according to Detective Halavic’s snitch, Hector had just taken delivery of two kilograms of high-grade Peruvian cocaine. A good bust. The two detectives would keep most of the money in the apartment, hand in the coke and take credit for the collar. Nevertheless, Detective Vears still preferred to have back up. You never knew where these greasy Venezuelans were coming from. But his partner Detective Halavic figured it wasn’t worth the effort and any more police would only get in the way when it came to splitting the cash. Besides that, their radio had just gone off the air.
Detective Vears waved his cellphone. ‘This ain’t working either, Lou,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you recharge the batteries?’ suggested Detective Halavic. ‘Anyway, who gives a shit? He’s only in there on his own. Let’s just kick the door in and take the piece of shit down.’
‘I’d like to have rung the precinct first,’ said Detective Vears. ‘Just to be sure.’
‘No. Come on. We can have this creep processed and be sitting down to breakfast by six. On me.’
‘Okay, Joel. If you say so.’ Detective Vears patted his chest. ‘Shit!’ he half-smiled. ‘They say bad luck comes in threes. My cellphone ain’t working. The car radio’s screwed. And I forgot my Kevlar.’
‘So what? Come on.’ Detective Halavic checked his weapon and opened the car door.
Back at the precinct, bull-necked Sergeant Barney Schuman was pissed off and he was letting the whole station know it. A woman had rung in from Carnasie saying she’d just seen a group of Hispanic men entering the rear of an apartment block carrying an assortment of weapons and the phone had dropped out before she could give him the address. Now the radio was out. Yeah, well. Just another night in New York City for the embattled NYPD, Sergeant Schuman grumbled to himself. At least the lights and the coffee machine still worked. Just.
Deep beneath Cheyenne Mountain at NORAD HQ in Colorado it was 2.06 am. Amongst all the other confusion around him in the control bunker, silver-haired Air Force General Davis L. Wainright
couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Every computer, radar screen, satellite monitor and targeting link had just crashed. NORAD had power, the lights were on and the bomb blast doors still opened and closed. But no computers or monitors. The general swore under his breath and turned to the nearest officer in charge.
‘Lieutenant, patch me through to Washington. I got to let them know we have a situation here.’
‘Sir,’ replied the fresh-faced lieutenant. ‘All, I repeat all, communications are down, sir.’
‘What?’ thundered the general. ‘Well, send a message in freakin’ morse code if you have to. But get me through to Washington.’
‘Sir. With respect, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I must reiterate. We have zero communication capability.’
‘Sir,’ another officer interrupted politely. ‘We’ve just lost Aquacade.’
‘What? Jesus Christ!’ cursed the general. ‘What about Stryker?’
‘That’s offline too, sir.’
‘Goddamn.’
General Wainright had to think for a moment. He was a God-fearing Southern Baptist and a neo-con who would gladly blow up half the world if it was in the interest of freedom and
democracy and the USA. The general had an idea what was going on and he was going to have to take bold steps.
‘Sir,’ asked the officer in charge, ‘what are your orders, sir?’
The florid-faced general stared directly at the young officer. ‘I know who’s behind this,’ stated the general. ‘The Russians. They’ve jammed our systems and the sneaky sonsofbitches are up to something.’ The general nodded conclusively. ‘Trust their timing.’
‘I’m not sure…?’
‘Can we still program the missiles manually?’ asked the general.
‘Yes, sir.’
The general looked at his watch. ‘Okay. I’m going to give this twenty minutes. If I haven’t heard from Washington by then, I’m going to initiate a launch sequence.’
‘But, sir. What about the President?’
‘Screw the President.’
Four thousand metres up and fifty kilometres out from Moscow, it was heavily overcast and 1.02 pm. Air Force One was approaching Sheremetyevo Airport from the north-west. The plane had picked up a tail wind and was ahead of schedule.
On board was the President of the United States, the First Lady, his immediate staff and a phalanx of secret service people, along with the upper echelon of the White House press corps. Waiting on the cold misty tarmac was the Russian President, his wife, half the Politburo, a brass band, an honour guard and a twenty-one gun salute: all being closely scrutinised by several advance teams of American secret service people. The red carpet was out and soon there would be a flyover by twenty-five of the Motherland’s latest MiG jet fighters. It was the first visit to Russia by an American President for some time and the Russians weren’t going to miss an opportunity to impress.
The specially equipped jumbo jet was preparing to land when Captain Kyle O’Connell slapped his headphones and turned to his co-pilot, Glenn Lidster. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the ship’s navigator, Rusty Skepper.
‘Kyle. I’ve just lost radio contact with Moscow,’ said Rusty.
‘Funny you should say that, Rusty,’ said Captain O’Connell. ‘We’ve just lost radar and a few other things.’
‘If you ask me, Kyle, it’s just a temporary bug in the main computer,’ Glenn said casually. ‘If it
doesn’t clear itself, I should be able override it easily enough.’
‘No problem, Glenn,’ replied Captain O’Connell. ‘Okay, gentlemen. In the meantime I’ll throttle back and put the ship down manually. The weather’s bad and I’m not going into a holding pattern with the President on board and no radar or communications.’
‘Visibility’s extremely poor down there, Kyle,’ warned Glenn. ‘And there’s more clouds coming in.’
‘Yeah. But the lights will be on. And we’re cleared for landing. If it comes to the worst, I might overshoot the runway a tad.’ Kyle turned to the navigator. ‘Rusty, will you inform the President we’ll be landing soon and it could be a little bumpy. Make sure everyone’s buckled up.’
Rusty put his pen down. ‘Sure, Kyle.’
Idling on the adjacent runway, Captain Erwin Dorpmuller, pilot of Lufthansa Airlines Flight 133, was shaking his head. He took his headphones off and rubbed his eyes.
‘Of all the times for Moscow control to stuff up,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve got Air France and Aeroflot up my backside. No radio contact with the tower. No permission to take off. And now, it appears, no radar.’
‘And Air Force One will soon be approaching,’ added his co-pilot, Wilhelm Stumpfegger.
‘I cannot understand what is wrong with the radio,’ said navigator Gregor Kaulbach.
‘Good old Moscow,’ sighed Captain Dorpmuller. He stared out the cockpit. ‘And visibility is getting worse too. Okay, Wilhelm. I’m not sure what’s going on. But I’m not going to sit here blind and twiddling my thumbs. I’ll taxi to the end of the adjacent runway and we’ll wait there till this all sorts itself out. At least I can see the lights.’ Captain Dorpmuller flicked sourly at the intercom. ‘Gregor, will you tell the head steward to inform the passengers there will be a short delay? This damn thing doesn’t appear to be working either.’