Combustion Read online

  Judd’s friend, ex-astronaut, launch director and fellow member of the Atlantis 4, Severson Burke arrives. Usually it’s extremely difficult to stop a motivated gunman without serious firepower, but Severson manages to do it - with a Toyota Prius.

  The vehicle, almost silent because it runs on electricity most of the time, strikes the oblivious gunman in the back of the legs at forty-five kilometres an hour. The weapon is knocked from his hands and he is launched ten metres across the sidewalk, straight into the glass doors of the Imax Theatre, bounces off and slumps to the sidewalk, broken and unconscious. Considering the speed of the action the camerawoman manages to capture it surprisingly well.

  The camera phone then whips back to the Prius as Severson exits the vehicle to a round of applause. Judd had invited Severson to the movie but, as usual, he was running late. Severson humbly accepts the crowd’s applause, turns to Judd, who has found his feet, and says with a wry grin: ‘Sorry I’m late. Parking was a bitch.’

  Sorry I’m late. Parking was a bitch. It became the catchcry of summer. The clip had over one hundred and seventy million views on YouTube and, it seemed, just as many memes. Judd loved those seven little words because, and thank God for this, it drew attention away from pretty much everything else in the video, most importantly Judd’s inaction.

  That didn’t stop Judd’s embarrassment, though. The fact is, when he needed to rise to the occasion he hid behind a Buick. And even though he’s the only one who knows the truth he still feels the failure acutely. That’s why he doesn’t want to be congratulated by wellwishers, and why the constant hero talk sticks in his craw. It’s like he’s pretending to be something he isn’t. And succeeding in the Orion simulator didn’t make up for it because, as difficult as that was, it was still just a very expensive video game and no one’s life was at stake.

  So why the hell does he watch the video so often? Because he wants to remember that he needs to be better if there’s ever a next time, and nothing motivates him more than being embarrassed, and this video is the most embarrassing thing he’s ever been a part of. It’s walking-naked-down-a-city-street-in-the-middle-of-peak-hour embarrassing. It’s so embarrassing he’s not mentioned it to anyone and never plans to.

  Judd reclines his seat and picks up the iPad. He better get cracking with this screenplay. As soon as he lands he’ll be busy. There’s an interview with Corey at CNN, then lunch with the studio head and his posse at Spago, then they head over to the official press announcement at the Twentieth Century Fox lot, where he’ll link up with Rhonda and Severson, who are due in later this afternoon.

  He glances at his PloProf to check the time. They should be taking off any time now.

  *

  6

  The Southwest Boeing 737-400 sits on the tarmac of the General Mitchell International Airport in overcast Wisconsin, engines turning.

  Rhonda Jacolby climbs the stairs to the front door. She always wonders what it would be like to pilot a commercial jet. This 737 is roughly the same size as a shuttle, but she knows that’s where the similarities end. They have nothing in common except wings and a tail.

  Rhonda has spent the last two days in Wisconsin, vetting a prospective contractor who reached the final round to build the Orion’s solid rocket launch system. As the astronaut member of the selection committee her job is to interview the company’s management, meet the workforce, inspect the facilities then write a report. She’s glad it’s over. The last forty-eight hours have been arduous, to say the least, for the blonde thirty-eight-year-old with the ski-jump nose. She’s looking forward to getting to LA, attending the movie’s announcement then spending a couple of days decompressing at the Beverly Wilshire with Judd. She wants to clear her head before getting back to JSC and tackling that Orion simulator. She hasn’t mastered the damn thing yet and it’s starting to piss her off. She knows, as does everyone else involved with preparations for the Mars missions, that she is the frontrunner for FOM, but if she doesn’t get a handle on the sim soon that opportunity will slip away.

  For the life of her, she doesn’t understand why she can’t crack it. In the past she has excelled at this type of training. The shuttle simulator took her one day to figure out. One day! So why is she dropping the ball on this? It’s like she’s so used to flying the shuttle that she can’t adapt to Orion. Granted, the two are nothing alike, but still, she should be able to do it, she’s a member of the Atlantis 4, for Chrissake. Whatever it is, whatever is missing, she needs to find it - and fast.

  As she reaches the top of the stairs the man in front of her stops abruptly and she bumps into him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry. Nothing.’

  ‘Get a move on, will you?’

  Rhonda watches the man enter the aircraft and rolls her eyes. The reason the last two days have been so arduous is because that man, good old Severson Burke, who is also a member of the selection committee, accompanied her on this trip. Good Lord he’s a tool. Yes, he can be charming in a Downey Jr-ish sort of way, but mainly he’s a selfish son of a bitch who thinks of no one but himself. He’s also the reason they’re the last to board the aircraft. He took so long in the bathroom they almost missed the final boarding call.

  *

  Severson would happily miss the flight and drive to Los Angeles if he could. Unfortunately that’d mean he’d also miss the movie’s announcement and he can’t have that, no matter how much he hates flying, or being in an aircraft, or being near machines designed to lift him off the ground. In fact, they don’t even have to be machines. As far as he’s concerned ladders are not be trusted. Christ, sitting on a bar stool can cause his collar to feel tight and a prickly sweat to break out across the back of his neck, which is exactly what’s happening now. Yep, his fear of heights (and flying and aircraft) is as intense as when it first afflicted him during his one and only shuttle flight four years ago. He can’t believe it. He’s forty-six and afraid of heights. Forty-six!

  How embarrassing.

  He grits his teeth and wills himself into the 737’s cabin. The tiny, single-aisle jet usually seats about one hundred and fifty, but there’s fewer than half that number on board today’s flight. There’s an audible gasp from the passengers as they recognise two members of the Atlantis 4, then a rousing round of applause. Severson laps it up, Rhonda not so much, then the starstruck flight attendant directs them to their seats halfway along the cabin.

  Rhonda takes the window seat and settles in. The jet starts to taxi almost immediately. After a moment Severson leans over and whispers to her, slightly annoyed: ‘I thought we were flying business.’

  ‘There is no business. The whole plane is coach.’

  ‘Oh. Right. These seats are very narrow.’

  She looks at him with an expression of mock horror. ‘Oh no, Severson’s seat isn’t big enough! Somebody call the cops! How awful! And just when you need to rest - it must have been so exhausting lying around the hotel pool drinking margaritas for the last two days.’

  He turns to her, eyes narrowed. ‘And what, exactly, do you mean by that?’

  She taps an imaginary microphone. ‘Hello? Is this thing on? What I mean is that you are a lazy prick who did sweet fuck-all while we were in Wisconsin - which meant I had to do everything.’

  ‘I went in to the head office.’

  ‘Once. And ponced about for ten minutes, signed a couple of autographs, then left to see a movie with one of the receptionists.’

  ‘There was a Woody Allen retrospective on and she’d never seen Annie Hall.’

  Rhonda fastens him with a laser stare and shakes her head. ‘Wow, it’s like they took all the things that are annoying and put them in one person.’ She turns, pulls on her headphones and looks out the window.

  *

  Severson doesn’t attempt to engage her. She’s giving him the silent treatment which, if everything goes well, will last until they reach LA. Gee, she really does need to loosen up, though, she’s so damn serious all the time. And s
he doesn’t seem to realise these committees are for show. The decision on who wins the contract will happen at a much higher pay scale than theirs, so the trip is just a chance to junket it up and party-hearty for a few days.

  The 737 swings onto the runway as the turbofans run up. They bite the air and jolt the Boeing down the runway. Severson pulls on his eye mask and clamps on his noise-cancelling headphones. He found that if he eliminated as much stimuli as possible it could almost make a plane trip bearable. Almost. That’s why he took so long in the bathroom before this flight. He’d misplaced his last Valium and had to empty out his carry-on to find the little bastard, which had somehow lodged itself in the headphone port of his iPad.

  Unfortunately the pill doesn’t seem to be working yet.

  The 737 gathers speed as it rushes down the runway. His collar feels even tighter than before; the hot prickly sweat on his neck back with a vengeance. As an added bonus, his stomach feels über-queasy. He takes a deep breath, grasps the side of his seat and squeezes. Ah, that’s better. It’s soft and comforting and, now he thinks about it, much too soft -

  He pushes up his eye mask and glances down. He’s squeezing Rhonda’s thigh. She fixes him with a dark stare.

  Severson instantly removes his hand as the 737’s nose tilts up and the jet rips into the iron-grey sky.

  *

  7

  Crouched on a helipad in the middle of the five-hectare compound, the Tyrannosaur is hidden on all sides by a series of grey-rendered, two-storey buildings. When Bunsen built this place three years ago his priority, apart from making it earthquake-proof, was to locate it in a section of Santa Monica near the airport with no restrictions on helicopter use. He didn’t want neighbours complaining about the Tyrannosaur. After all, it’s the loudest helicopter to ever fly.

  Bunsen and Enrico work at the centre of the Air-Crane. A large V-shaped tank rests in a cradle as they bolt it to the underside of the helicopter’s spindly airframe. The tank is specifically designed so the chopper can haul and drop large quantities of water on fires. It won’t be used to drop water today.

  Kilroy Jones, the aging, ponytailed head of security, cuts across the helipad towards them, a frown on his crinkle-cut face. Bunsen looks up as he approaches. ‘What’s that expression? Everything okay?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ His Tennessee drawl is thick as molasses.

  ‘Then why do you look so annoyed?’

  ‘I’m not - I just need a word.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Privately.’

  Bunsen studies him for a moment then turns to Enrico. ‘Give me a sec.’ Enrico keeps working as Bunsen points Kilroy towards the open garage, which faces the heliport. Once they’re inside Bunsen raises his eyebrows, his cue for Kilroy to speak.

  ‘I think you need to release the video before we begin Phase Two. People need to know.’

  Bunsen studies the old man with the long grey ponytail and sun-wrecked skin, a man he has known since he was four years old and loves more than the father who hired him. Kilroy’s the man who made sure Bunsen was fed and rested and clothed and on time for school, taught him baseball and football, played catch with him when he couldn’t sleep and talked to him about anything and everything for hours on end. ‘You know why that can’t happen.’

  Kilroy exhales, frustrated. ‘It’s our city.’

  ‘This isn’t about one city. This is about - everything.’

  Kilroy looks down, studies the ground.

  ‘And you know this because you were the one who taught it to me. About what’s right. For the future. Not our future, mankind’s future.’

  ‘I understand that, but - people will die.’

  ‘We all die in the end.’

  ‘Don’t be glib.’

  ‘It’s true, and I prefer that to the alternative. Don’t you?’

  ‘But you could warn them. Release the video. Let them leave.’

  ‘There needs to be collateral damage. You have to get your head around that. People must understand the threat is real. It’s the point of the exercise.’

  Kilroy stares at him for a long moment, then nods reluctantly. ‘But afterwards, then you’ll release it and let them know?’

  ‘I promise. And if I forget I’m sure you’ll remind me.’ Bunsen smiles and wants Kilroy to as well. When he doesn’t, Bunsen puts a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Let me remind you of a few things you taught me over the years. I think they’re important to remember, today of all days.’

  Kilroy nods for him to go on. Bunsen can see he wants to be convinced.

  ‘Over a quarter of yearly greenhouse gases are directly related to the acquisition, processing, distribution and burning of fossil fuel for transportation.’

  Kilroy nods, more to himself than Bunsen.

  ‘And the burning of coal for base-load power accounts for over twenty per cent of yearly greenhouse gas, a number that is constantly rising as China brings two power stations on line every week.’

  Again Kilroy nods.

  ‘And finally, the kicker - the one nobody seems to take notice of - the sunlight that strikes this planet in one hour contains more power than the world uses in one year.’

  Kilroy nods once more.

  Silence between them.

  Bunsen breaks it. ‘You know I can’t do this without you, right?’

  Kilroy nods.

  ‘I need to know you’re with me one hundred per cent, that you’ve got my back.’

  ‘I do, of course.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Bunsen smiles, glances at his Patek. ‘Are you ready to begin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  Kilroy turns and moves across the helipad to the right. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s done.’ Bunsen nods and watches him leave through the helipad’s only access point, a large metal door.

  *

  8

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Alvy looks up from his microscope as Kilroy enters the laboratory. Alvy’s surprised Bunsen isn’t personally checking how production of the Swarm is progressing, but keeps it to himself. He gestures to the line of black plastic Rhino drums on the far side of the lab. ‘We’ve made thirty batches of one hundred litres each and are testing each individually. The first twenty are good.’ Alvy turns to Jacob. ‘You have slides for the last ten?’

  ‘Indeed I do.’ Jacob brings them over on a metal tray and places them beside Alvy. Each slide sits in a sealed petri dish. Jacob jabs a thumb towards the door. ‘Gonna hit the John.’

  ‘I’ll alert the media.’

  Jacob shoots Alvy a wry grin then makes an exit. As the heavy metal door hisses closed behind him, Alvy raises his head to remind him to lock it. Too late, he’s already gone. For nearly three years Jacob has forgotten to lock the door behind him. It’s the only thing Alvy finds annoying about his assistant.

  The scientist turns back to his microscope, inspects the remaining slides, then looks up at Kilroy with a smile. ‘They’re all good. We’re ready to roll.’

  Kilroy nods. ‘And the counteragent?’

  ‘All done.’ Alvy points at three canisters, each the size of a large thermos, milled from solid aluminium, which sit on a table to the right.

  ‘Excellent.’ Kilroy might be saying something positive but it’s not registering on his face. Alvy had taken to calling him Killjoy when he wasn’t around.

  ‘It is. It really is.’ Alvy believes the Department of Defense will be so impressed by the Swarm’s raw potential when they see it in action that it will fundamentally alter their approach to warfare and, as a happy bi-product, save countless lives. It is, far and away, the most important thing Alvy’s ever worked on, a game-changer that will, he believes, make the world a safer place. ‘So what time is the test scheduled for?’

  Kilroy’s expression remains neutral. ‘There isn’t going to be a test.’

  ‘It’s been cancelled?’ Alvy’s clearly disappointed.

  ‘It was never going to happen.
’

  ‘It - what? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The Swarm wasn’t created for military use.’

  Alvy’s just confused. ‘I don’t - what does that mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said.’

  ‘Then what’s it for?’

  ‘Urban deployment.’

  Alvy thinks it’s a joke, a bad one but a joke nonetheless. He grins - then takes in Kilroy’s blank expression and realises it isn’t. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’m dead serious.’

  Alvy stands instinctively, his face grim. ‘No, no, no!’ His voice rises an octave as he says it. ‘You can never do that. Ever!’

  ‘And yet we can and we will - today, in fact, and as you’re the only person who can synthesise the counteragent you can’t be around when it happens.’

  ‘“Can’t be around?” What the hell are you talking about?’

  Alvy understands exactly what he’s talking about as light glints off the silenced Glock 9mm pistol Kilroy draws from inside his jacket.

  ‘Oh, shit-’

  The weapon swings towards Alvy as he drives a hand forward and bats the metal tray off the table in front of him.

  Bam. The pistol fires and Alvy feels a sharp pain high on his left shoulder.

  Clank. The spinning tray smashes into the bridge of Kilroy’s nose. He cries out and both hands fly to his face.

  This is a positive development for Alvy as the pistol now points at the ceiling. Belying his husky appearance the scientist is surprisingly nimble and springs forward, swings a foot and connects with the side of Kilroy’s left knee.

  Kilroy grunts and crumples to the ground. As he falls, Alvy grabs the Glock in his hand. The big surprise is that the pistol twists out of Kilroy’s grasp with minimal effort. Alvy was expecting some resistance but the pistol’s grip is slick with blood, courtesy of the metal tray, which has, he can now see, not only stunned Kilroy but also left a deep gash across his nose.