Embedded Files
48
Roosha stood before the Elders. She had a black eye and bruises on her face. Scanning the Elders' faces, she saw everything from mild concern to outright hatred for the outsider who had caused nothing but 'problems' since she arrived. She drew herself up and related her story yet again.
“After we had very kindly been rescued by Mr. Dorking over there, my friend and I went to the New-Yorks and were given jobs to do. This brought me into contact with Argentina, a girl who was in another chapter of an association I used to belong to." The prosecuting Elder stood up and spoke.
“I think the word you are looking for, young lady, is 'Gang'".
“If you please sir, yes sir. Sorry. She suggested meeting up and I was reluctant, not because of her particularly, but because the, er, gang is an aspect of my life I wanted to keep in the past. I’d also noticed the red crosses on her knuckles. Each one of those means a killing, so I was even more concerned." The Elder sprang to his feet again.
“HOW DARE YOU! You stand here, accused of an innocent child’s murder, and YOU have the effrontery to call HER a murderer? Ladies and gentlemen, I think we can see what we are dealing with here!" A murmur spread round the closely guarded bunker and there was no doubt of Roosha's guilt among the dozen or so people in the room. Roosha got up again unsteadily.
“May I continue, please?” The Chief Elder shrugged and looked wearily in her direction. Another half an hour and she would be thrown off the top of the multi-storey car park, so what did it matter? He nodded.
“I could see the children were quite near the edge, so I bent over to hold them back. That must have thrown Argentina’s plans and, turning round, I saw her outstretched arms as she had tried to push me. She tripped over some debris and fell." Roosha paused to gather her thoughts. "Have you asked the children? They were there."
“Young lady, We have no doubt that you have brainwashed them to the last syllable, but this is no place for young and tender little ones. I think they have suffered enough, don’t you?” Roosha found this impossible to answer and, shaking, sat down and sobbed with her head in her hands. The children were her last hope for justice and she had been denied the chance.
Dragged to her feet, Roosha was attached to the end of a large piece of rope and pushed out towards the street. She shrank away when she saw the crowd, but the Chief Elder prodded her in the back with his home-made official mace and she lurched out into the throng, screwing up her eyes as they punched and shoved her towards the car park.
49
Jones listened to Dresden, horrified. He stared at the wall.
“So, that’s it then, dead, gone. I’ll never see her again. I can’t believe it. Poor, poor Roosha. Surely..." Bradford shook his head slowly and raised his finger, listening. The ghostly moan of the crowd seeped through the vents.
“There’s hundreds of them, Jones. Thousands.” Jones leant his forehead on the cold damp concrete of the wall and shut his eyes. After a couple of minutes there was a "hey!" in the tiny little room and Dresden tapped Jones on the shoulder. Jones looked wearily over to the monitor and examined the words being banged out by the feverish activity of Bradford's hands. Now they had hacked into the Whisper satellite, they could send orders to Whisper personnel. Bradford typed a fake message and sent it as if it came from Whisper Control. If the Whisper aircrews were tricked by it, they would follow its orders and rescue so-called 'agents' Jones and Dresden.
VERY URGENT: SMALL SHOUT BUBBLEJET NEEDED TO GO TO GOLDEN HOOF HOTEL TO RETRIEVE AGENTS DREDGER AND JOLYON. AIRLIFT FROM ROOF. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. PASSWORD THROUGHOUT THE MISSION: 'GOLDEN FLAMINGO'
SHOUT OPERATIONS CONTROL
Bradford clicked 'send' and turned to the others.
“That’s it, guys. If all this crap works they’ll be here in ten minutes." Jones woke from his despair and scribbled instructions to Bradford.
“Get in touch with Whisper again and tell them to drop us in the desert and have a Bubblejet waiting for our sole use." Dresden gave a sarcastic laugh.
“Yeah, sure Jones, like Whisper are really going to be taken in by that!” Bradford nodded to Jones. Actually, yes, it was feasible. Dresden shrugged. “I mean, great if they do, but..." He shrugged again and led the way out onto the roof.
Jones cradled the hard drive from Bradford’s computer in his pocket. Had handing it over to him, Jones, been a rash, generous gesture on Bradford's part or a wish to be shot of the whole deal? At that very moment, Bradford was cleaning every residue of the operation from his equipment. Nothing had to remain. He’d done his bit as a hacker and the enemy was about to be hovering outside his den.
Jones pointed to the crowd in the distance. He looked on in desperation as he stood there on the roof, small and helpless. Peering into the darkness, he could see Roosha, probably for the last ever time. Her head flickered from light into darkness and back again as flaming torches were thrust tauntingly at her head.
He was woken from his awful reverie by a nudge from Dresden’s elbow. A flashing light had appeared in the sky and Jones heard the unmistakable roar of a Bubblejet’s engines. As it got nearer, the crowd was oblivious and such was the mob’s frenzy that only the odd few gave it more than a cursory glance.
Jones watched the crowd. It was just reaching the upper level of the multi-story car park. The trap door in the bottom of the Whisper Bubblejet slid open above him. Jones put Dresden in the harness and then himself. Within a minute they were sitting on the edge of the large square hatch.
He’d noticed that, as requested, there was only one Whisper pilot on board. Dresden gave a cheery "thanks, mate. You must be the golden flamingo!" to the man in the orange Whisper flying suit who looked back knowingly and gave a thumbs-up at the password.
Peering at the crowd again through the Bubblejet floor, Jones instructed the pilot to hover overhead. Looking down again, he caught sight of Roosha as she teetered on the edge of the top story. The crowd had fallen silent, and two Elders held her arms as the Chief Elder pronounced her crime and decreed the sentence to be carried out.
Hanging in the air and then suddenly dropping himself to the level of the crowd, Jones swung near enough to grab a firebrand. Thrusting it at the Elders, he grabbed Roosha and, wrapping his legs around her, hung onto her for grim life as the pilot lowered them onto a nearby roof. With no time to lose, Jones put a spare sling around her and they were winched up into the darkness. The cheated crowd bayed for their sacrificial due.
Dragging Roosha through the hatch, Dresden smiled reassuringly at her and put a finger to his lips. Following Jones’s instructions, Dresden simply kept communication to mouthing “You OK?” There was no way he was going to do the talking in front of a Whisper pilot; Jones and Roosha were far more used to bantering with each other. Jones followed her up and sat on the floor opposite. Roosha had no idea what the situation was in the Bubblejet so she was too afraid to say anything at all. She simply curled up on the floor and buried herself in Jones’s jacket. Stroking her head, Jones called out to the pilot.
“We owe you, massively. That’s three lives you saved back there. I’m sure a certain country will be very grateful when they realise they’ve got their princess back. I reckon the ransom they paid will keep Whisper in clover for a little while yet. You wouldn’t believe it, but there’s a reasonably respectable looking babe under all that crud. I tell you what though, it’s a good job she can’t understand English, otherwise she’d realise what a tramp me and Dredger reckon she looks." Jones was wondering whether Roosha had gone to sleep, and he quickly realised she hadn’t when he felt the full force of a finger in his ribs.
He looked down and saw a faint glimmer of the old look in the eyes peeping at him from the folds of the survival blanket on the floor. it soon, however, turned back to a troubled, far away gaze. The pilot’s glove waved a gracious 'don't mention it' and went back to the steering wheel. Jones continued talking to the Whisper pilot, curious to know how he’d been contacted. “Whisper Control were quite quick at getting you, then?”
“Yeah. The same old system we’ve had for years, but it works well."
“Yes," said Jones. “In fact," he smiled, turning to Dresden, “I think we can say it all works very well indeed!"
The requested Bubblejet was waiting in the desert and Jones, Roosha and Dresden climbed wearily into the cockpit. Jones leaned down and shook the pilot’s hand.
“Thank you very much. You can rest assured that our glorious Whisper leaders will reward your deeds in a fitting fashion. Have a safe journey back."
“You too."
“Thank you. If we succeed, Whisper itself will be amazed at the transformation of its own good fortune!" Getting in the pilot’s seat and starting the engines, Jones heard the com burst into life and a calm - if slightly sinister - woman’s voice spoke.
“Your safety within Whisper airspace cannot be guaranteed until you have given the correct password for your mission."
“Golden Flamingo."
“Thank you. Proceed!".
Jones looked over periodically from his controls to the figure in the survival bag. After a while, he saw the stirrings of a shock of auburn hair, followed by a pale and bruised face.
“You OK, Roosha?"
“Mm, been better. How long have I been asleep?" She looked over to the other bag. "How long's he been asleep?"
“You, two hours, him, one."
“Jones, you shouldn’t be flying this thing in your state... or has it got automatic?"
“Yes, we’re OK. There was a period of about forty-five minutes when we were all asleep. Actually, I wasn’t going to tell you because I know how much it freaks you out. I’ll be fine now for another few hours, at least. Come and sit by me, Roosha. Talk to me." She sat down and talked through the previous few days. Jones looked at her and realised that she was now more worldly wise, less innocent, less trusting. The child in Roosha had been punched further into its shell.
She opened a food box which had been left in the cabin. Taking out the contents she turned them over slowly and looked at them. Jones watched her hands as they fumbled with bars and snacks, at her face as she puzzled over the simple instructions. Opening a pack she spilled the contents on the floor.
“Perhaps get some more sleep, Roosha?” She nodded absently and climbed back into her survival bag. Jones watched her. The Roosha he knew was missing.
Jones was OK until the final ninety kilometres home. His diet over the last few days had hardly been textbook healthy and, crying out, he gripped his stomach and doubled up. The pain was excruciating and it was all he could do to remain in his seat. Roosha had been dozing and, alerted by Jones’s noise, sat up fully awake. Rushing to the co-pilot’s chair she took the twin wheel to steer the craft for a minute.
Except that it wasn’t a minute. Jones disappeared to the toilet and sat on the seat. He’d never had anything like this before and if he was going to be struck down on this trip, it could have been something a little more glamourous like a wound from a gun or another scar.
Roosha, meanwhile, was coming alive again. She had watched Jones for hours and picked up enough to feel confident behind the wheel. She had, after all, sat next to him all the way to the Amazon and practically back again. Itching for a go, this was her big chance. Jones pushed the door open a little and watched her... It was a remarkably smooth ride, and he knew that she had been worried enough about flying to 'read the dials for him' from the word go, so the technology wasn’t a problem.
Best of all, he could tell from her posture that the old gung-ho, pain-in-the-butt Roosha was back in town. Just at the moment, he was pretty well past caring whether they crashed into the sea or not because Roosha would have gone down laughing, and that would have been almost worth it.
“Jones; this is FANTASTIC! Ha!" With a final “YEEESS!" She made the Bubblejet go up into the clouds, stepping out of her elation temporarily to avoid a narrow scrape.
“You OK, Jones?”
“Roosha, I feel great! Do you mind if I take over for a while, though; New State are a bit old-fashioned about people with zilch flying experience weaving in and out of other craft." Ruffling up her hair, he pushed his fist against her cheek.
“Ouch, Jones!"
“Sorry Roosha." He looked at her bruised face. For a wonderful moment they had forgotten. She looked at him, sad and still.
But not for long. Suddenly laughing, she pulled him towards her by the ear and snarled at him.
“No, I’m the one who must apologise, Jones, because you know the old Roosha that they wanted out of the way? Well, I’m afraid she’s back". She put her fists in the air and jabbed perilously near to his face. "And let me tell you something my boy, Old Vegas, Las Vegas, Whatever-the-Heck-they-want to-call-themselves-Vegas....they ain’t seen nothin' yet!"
50
Roosha never thought she’d be pleased to see her old room again. She surveyed the explosion of splattered pink roses on the wall with the air of a cat that had decided that the lap she was occupying was comfortable enough for her after all. She had, in the space of half an hour, been to the infirmary, given herself a medical and managed to click 'all clear' on the diagnostic screen with real Roosha-style confidence. It would be several days before the bruises disappeared but if that was all, it was a small price to pay for her life.
What she needed now was someone to talk to, someone who hadn’t been involved and wouldn’t get bogged down in the emotional quagmire. She also needed someone who could lead her through the complex labyrinth of guilt, inner turmoil and overwhelming sense of failure. Julie had done all she could, and a girls' night in staring at Julie’s open fire with a cup of cocoa cradled in her hands had done a lot to heal the wounds, but even Julie baulked at helping Roosha through this one alone.
Had Roosha, Julie wondered, spoken to Jones’s mum? In the cold light of morning it still seemed like a good idea and it was a lighter, more animated Roosha that spoke into the receiver and asked to be put through to Colonel Jones.
It was the day after that that Roosha realised that she hadn’t spoken an awful lot to Jones Junior. He had been buried in the bowels of the command Centre, coming up for air only occasionally. Managing to make contact, she found that he was only too pleased to have a normal conversation. He had, after all, been cooped up for long periods of time with Baker, Dresden and, occasionally, the President.
“Oh, hi. Is that Mr. Jones?” she drawled. “Has Superman got a few minutes for lil' ol' me? Bless you. It’s a good idea for you to converse with mere mortals occasionally... it means you have to extricate your head from up your bottom now and then!" She went over to the window to get a better signal and looked at the grim entrance of the underground bunker where he currently seemed to be spending a lot of his life.
“I went to see your mum, yesterday. She was brilliant. Sorry, what was that? Yeah, I’m a lot better, thanks. Anyway, she reckons she can talk to the right people and set me up with flying lessons. Isn’t that amazing?" She paused and looked at the bunker again. “I’d really like to come over, Jones." She wound a strand of hair nervously round her finger. “That would be great. I’ll be right there!"
She’d never been to the command Centre: it always seemed so grown up and serious. She looked at herself in the mirror, stared into her own eyes. There was a part of her that was grown up and serious now, a part that would never be the same again. There was a part that had looked down and seen Death staring back up at her, a part that saw herself as mortal, more vulnerable than before. There was a part that valued life like she had never valued it before and, looking around her as she walked over to the command Centre, there was even a part that saw the trees greener, felt the air fresher and heard the distant traffic noise as exciting music and a vibrant affirmation of life.
Within a few minutes, though, she was smelling the musty odour of earth and concrete and standing in the cold shadow of a bunker by a steel-plated door. She had made a little detour, but she was sure that her lateness would be forgiven when they saw why. Jones surfaced to escort her to the operations room. He looked pale and tired.
“All this must be pretty good Jones for you to forsake my sparkling wit and genteel company!" She brought her hand from behind her back and, looking round with a mock furtiveness, produced a large flat box with 'ENZO'S' on the lid. Jones grabbed it with both hands and stared at it, laughing out loud.
“Wow, Roosha. You sure know how to treat a guy right!"
“It’s not all for you, you little piglet. Dresden must be allowed a teensy bit as well. How’s he coping? Not too many paddies, I hope?" Jones shrugged noncommittally.
“He’s doing fine." Jones held Roosha’s wrist gently and put her hand on the recognition pad and, holding her head, placed her in front of the iris recognition camera. She welcomed this contact. She needed it. Following him down the sloping concrete corridor, she descended into the gloom.
Exciting as developments were, Roosha still found a bunch of chaps huddled round a computer screen rather amusing. She always felt they were but a sliver away from a space modelling club or a weekly gathering of baseball card collectors. Looking past the little group, she saw the screen and soon realised what they were doing.
Logged into the Whisper satellite, they were testing their control over its secret commands by giving it assignments. Jones turned to Roosha, beside himself with excitement.
“This is incredible, Roosha. We’re in the main Whisper computer and we are giving it orders. We are, in effect, controlling Whisper!" Roosha smiled and moved in on the screen.
“I know a good activity for it. Send a consignment of satellite communication gear to the Amazon. I think that’s the least we could do for Patrick and his friends. We could talk to him then. Surely you can check out the co-ordinates of his settlement?" The others looked at each other. They had done enough monitoring to check it out and her idea was a discreet foray into making Whisper actually do something rather than simply spying on the gang’s activities. Jones looked thoughtful.
“If it works out there is, of course, something we must do and all this would make it so much easier. Basically, we still need to get Chen out of Vegas. That, after all, was our original mission.” Jones looked at Julie as she arrived through the door. “Hi, Jules. We were just discussing Chen". Jones cast a cautious glance at Baker as he stooped over his keyboard. “Do you guys mind if we talk outside? This place is doing my head in."
He sat them down on the grass around him and looked at Julie, Roosha and Dresden in turn. Pausing for thought, Jones spoke carefully, deliberately.
“Now, listen, you guys. I’m the youngest here and out of all the service personnel you’ve known me as the most junior. However, I still have my graduation privilege of picking a crew and equipment for my Fire Service activities. That, as far as the outside world knows, is the reason for us being here together". Jones picked a daisy and played with it.
“I have got an idea that would, basically, mean running an anti-Whisper operation from our own base. I have asked for three bubblejets, some rescue gear, state of the art surveillance and communications equipment and an extra staff of two to keep the operatives fed and domestically together. It would look like a sort of small-scale Fire Station, and it would run a few real missions a year to help hide its real purpose as a headquarters for keeping an eye on Whisper. I’ve got to say, the President's been pretty good over this and pulled a few strings." He looked at Dresden, half expecting a sneer at that point, but none came.
Jones took a screwed-up little Velcro name tab from his pocket, picked off the fluff and pressed it onto his uniform.
“As the most senior in rank, the sole responsibility would be mine, and it’s my butt they’d kick when it went pear-shaped. This rank tab came to me automatically with the whole just-been-a-lucky-cadet bit. I’ve actually been Lieutenant since I graduated, but I reckoned a low profile was a good idea... at least, up until now. Even my mum doesn’t know yet." He looked at Dresden’s cynical face and drew a deep breath. “Not everyone would need a rank if they felt uncomfortable with that. Civilian staff would be allowed. The pay would be pretty good either way." Dresden’s face relaxed again. Jones went very sombre.
“There are times when the job would be dangerous, uncomfortable and claustrophobic, not to mention people falling out over petty, stupid little things. Let’s face it, when it comes to people present, we aren’t talking shrinking violets!” He surveyed each face in turn as it turned from doubt to laughter and back again.
“So who’s in?" One hand stayed down. Jones had the awful feeling that Dresden wouldn’t want to do it and it seemed that he’d been right to hold back the confidential information. Julie sniffled theatrically and looked in her bag.
“Roosha, I seem to have run out of tissues, and-” Roosha picked up the hint.
“That’s OK, Julie, you can have- oh, right, you mean your special allergenically treated ones?"
“Mm, you’ve got it. I’ve got a new pack, but the nurses put them in the most dumb ass high places."
“Well, I’d better come along and give you a hand then. See you, boys!"
Jones knew that someone pressed into service was worse than useless. What he couldn’t figure out was why Dresden wanted to back out now. He knew he had to pick his words carefully.
“Is it belonging to an organisation? That’s OK, you can be freelance." Dresden shrugged almost imperceptibly. “This doesn’t make you a State slave, Dresden. You’d have as much say as anyone. Forget the 'Lieutenant' bit: that's just so they’ve got someone they can blame." Jones got to his feet. “Come on, let’s go and find the others."
As they approached Julie’s door, Jones played his trump card. He felt mean using her, but it was his last hope. Holding Dresden back he uttered the fifteen words that he had just been rehearsing. He knew that they sounded cheesy but he also knew they would hit home.
“Do it for Julie, at least. She’s already paid the price for all of us.”
Dresden stood still as the depth charge exploded somewhere inside him. Jones watched him. Was that a nod? A minute, involuntary twitch? There it was again, the merest vestige of a reaction. Jones could feel more cheesiness coming on.
“We really want you, Dresden. Correction: we need you.” Dresden hesitated, put his hand out slowly and Jones gripped it fast. Dresden looked at Jones with what seemed a sense of relief. He just wanted to be sure, totally, totally sure. They both heard Julie’s voice calling them.
“Are you two going to stand out there all day? Come in here and get eating!" Jones and Dresden sat down and watched Julie as she glided back into her sitting room from the kitchen.
“Who baked?” said Jones, smelling the warm cakes and the coffee on the table. Julie, her mouth full of bun, put one finger in the air.
“I put them on a timer before I went over to the Batcave this morning. It’s my last piece of domesticity before I turn into a lean, mean fighting machine. Did I tell you I’m going on the same flying course as Roosha?”
“Well,” said Dresden, “I guess that just leaves me. Do you think they take mere men?" Roosha got out of her chair and flung her arms round his neck.
“I knew you’d do it! That’s fantastic!" She laughed as she 'warmed' her hand against his blushes and rubbed them together. “So it’s us four, then? Or five?" Jones shrugged.
“Who knows, Roosha.” He looked round the room and brightened. “I must say, we’re not doing so badly. A computer whiz kid, a medic and a communications specialist is pretty good to be getting on with." Julie narrowed her eyes and studied Jones quizzically.
“So what’s your speciality then, young man?" She looked sternly over her glasses and fixed him in her gaze. “What, if we employed you, could you contribute to the rapidly expanding firm of Dresden, Roosha and Braithwaite, inc.?"
“Well, ma'am, I’m dumb enough to have ideas that keep getting me into trouble."
“Admirable, young feller-me-lad. When can you start?" Dresden cleared his throat, cutting through the laughter.
“I’ll tell you what Jones is good at. Look at us here and what we’re about to embark on. We’ve all got our skills, our little party pieces, but, without Jones, I for one would still be sat in my pokey broom cupboard, bitter and twisted, reliving my pathetic little daydream for the umpteenth time and getting angry because nothing was happening. We are about to do this because of him, and don’t let us forget that."
Jones was embarrassed. More than that, Jones was stunned to hear the speech from anyone, let alone from Dresden. He didn’t know where to put himself. There was only one thing for it. He reached over and helped himself to another bun.
51
Jones had heard of the Presidential Picture Palace, but he’d never actually gone there. It was a project initiated by the President’s children and run by them as a fund-raiser for charities. They would choose a movie and invite people to a viewing in return for a donation. It was quite an honour to be invited and, as the President was often present, it was also a good chance to catch his ear.
The movie that night was "The Italian Job", a film made in the former state of Britain in the Twentieth Century. Desmond was there to greet the guests, complete with slicked back hair and Tuxedo suit. Looking at Jones and the others he broke into a huge grin.
“Hey, guys, great you could make it! I tell you, this is going to be one helluva night. We got this movie on DVD. It’s a disc 'n' it’s that big!" He held his hands apart and laughed. “Can you imagine having to cart those things around every time you wanted to watch something? This is so authentic we even godda ‘DVD projector’ from the museum. I saved you some good seats, too. Catch ya later!"
As the movie was about a gold bullion robbery carried out in cars, the four friends were rubbing shoulders in the foyer with captains of banking and transport, the hand-picked VIP guests for that night. Chatting to a car manufacturer over a drink, Jones knew exactly why he, Jones, was there: this was, albeit ever so small, his first experience of an official engagement. Straightening his tie in a reflection he looked nervously at his friends.
Jones was relieved to see that Roosha wasn’t looking bored and Dresden still had his bow tie on, even if it was crooked. His other concern was Julie. It was her first social occasion since she was shot. He leant over and looked into the eyes of the girl in the silk evening gown and immaculate makeup: it was a shame she couldn’t have done Roosha’s. Still, Roosha looked very glam with her satin dress and sparkly handbag and actually seemed to be enjoying herself.
“Honestly, Jones” said Julie. “Just don’t worry, I’m fine. There’s actually some quite nice butts to look at. I tell you, I’m turning into quite a connoisseur. All the same, I haven’t seen any as nice as yours yet!" She tittered as Jones blushed. Standing up, he caught Roosha’s eye.
“You OK, Jones? You know, Jones, speaking as your doctor, it’s really not good to stand up so quickly!" She looked over her glass to Julie and gave her a wink as he went to speak to Dresden. “You really shouldn’t tease him, you know.” They both burst into laughter.
Sitting in the plush red velvet seats, they saw the lights dim and the opening credits roll. Jones found it hard to concentrate on the film because his mind was so full of other matters, but he realised that it was just the kind of night out that they all needed. What’s more, they were all there together.
Leaving the Cinema there was one part of the film that stuck in his mind. They all chose Roosha’s room to go back to, and, although they were chatting nineteen to the dozen, each was thinking their own private thoughts. Dresden wondered what Old Vegas would make of him sitting in a Tuxedo and bow tie in a large, opulent room filled with priceless antiques. Roosha was wondering what her parents would have thought of her sitting in her satin gown in a large, opulent room filled with priceless antiques. Jones and Julie were wondering how they had got to be sitting in posh clothes in a large, opulent room filled with priceless antiques. As they sat round and chatted even he, Mr. Twenty-four Seven, let his idea rest.
It would wait until tomorrow.
52
Jones invited them all to breakfast in his mother’s rooms as it was the only way of making sure that they were not going to be bugged. As they sat down, they found a com in front of them on the table. Jones picked his up and put it on.
“Your new coms, you lot” said Jones proudly. “These are the best ones around and they’re courtesy of the government. Honestly, they are chucking so much money at this project it’s not true. Mind you, even the senators don’t know what’s going on. As far as they are concerned, it’s a new fire-fighting venture and that’s it. When we’ve finished here, we’ll go to our new operations room. It’s our base while we’re on Earth. They didn’t finish kitting it out ‘til yesterday, which is why you didn’t hear about all this until then." A raucous shout came from the kitchen.
“Are you lot ready for your breakfast, yet?" A woman in furry slippers and an apron appeared and staring putting plates on the table. She winked at Dresden and patted his cheek. “You must be the full English breakfast. You look like my kind of whole-fat-total-works-heart-stoppin'-fry-up sort of a man." Dresden looked at her in amazement. Nodding nervously, he watched her as she put a mountain of food in front of him and timidly muttered "thank you". Turning to Jones, she put her hands on her hips, shook her head and squeezed his biceps.
“You can’t take it, can you, young man? I’ll bet beans on toast is about your limit. I blame your mother. Too soft on you, I’ll be bound." She slammed his plate down in front of him and turned to the girls. "So sorry not to serve you first, ladies, but you know what they’re like if they don’t get it NOW. Who was the croissants and coffee? Then you, miss, must be the muesli and fresh fruit. Bustling out to the kitchen she returned with the food. No sooner had she sat down and the phone rang. Dresden stared at her as she winked at them and answered it, immediately dropping the pretend New City twang in her voice.
“Colonel Jones speaking." She raised her eyes to the ceiling and mouthed "the President" over to the table. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell them. Thank you. Good bye, Sir."
“Tell us what, mum?"
“Be patient, young man. Your new equipment is now plumbed in and working and Baker said remember to take Bradford’s hard drive whatever that is."
“Oh, wow! Gotta get over there!"
“And don’t bolt your food, dear; you’ll get frightful indigestion and that would be most tiresome."
“Mum, how much do you know?"
“About what you are doing? Not a lot. I know something about a new Fire Service venture, but that’s it, really. As long as it’s safer than some of the things you’ve been getting up to recently, then I’m not really worried. You’re a big boy now, wise beyond your years, and you can make your own decisions quite well enough without me giving a seal of approval every time you want to break wind. If you need anything, give me a shout!" At that, she went back to the kitchen and left them to it. Dresden tapped Jones’s arm.
“So that’s your mum? And she’s a Colonel?" Jones nodded and looked at him, positive that he saw the faintest smile cross Dresden’s lips: my, how things had progressed. Roosha leant across and whispered.
“Does she really know nothing, Jones?"
“I don’t know, Roosha, I really don’t know.” Julie looked troubled.
“Don’t you think she ought to know, Jones?”
“Sorry, don’t know that either. What I do know is that we need to look at our new headquarters."
After a short walk they were there. Squeezing into the lift, they felt it drop and then everybody piled out at the bottom. Roosha held up her hand and listened.
“Hey, it’s really quiet."
“That’s because we’re ten metres below ground". As they reached a metal door, Jones told them to close their eyes. They heard it whirr as it slid back into the rock.
“OK, you lot: step forward three paces ...open them!" A multiscreen hung on the wall above each of the four desks which lined the room. On each desk was a computer, phone and any number of gadgets. Dresden walked over, switched on a computer and watched a cursor flash in the top left hand of the large, flat screen. He whistled. The computer was so fast that it didn’t even need time to boot up.
“State of the art, Jones.”
Jones nodded and told them to pick a desk. Roosha bagged the one next to a large metal cupboard which she claimed for her medical stores. Jones sauntered over to a hand print reader and opened a sliding door. In a few seconds they were staring at a large store room with rows of metal shelves on which were boxes of communication devices, espionage equipment and medical supplies. Roosha opened one of them.
“Wow, Jones! I reckon the metal cupboard will do for my hair braids." Jones opened the door.
“Ha blimming ha. It’s actually for spare computer parts." He watched Dresden take a box off a shelf and open it.
“Jones, Bradford’s been after one of these for months, and we’ve got twenty of them. Any chance of...?"
“Of course. And over here is the kitchen." He opened the fridges and freezers and his friends laughed as he turned on taps and swung open cupboards with the air of a showroom demonstrator. He picked up a small sticker and walked along the length of the room. The units and sinks adjusted themselves to the height of a hover chair.
“If you put this on your chair, Julie, you’ll hopefully find this place as easy to use as the rest of us.”
Sliding another door, Jones led the others into a large underground room with a purple silk wall, orange tent ceiling and beanbags. The other walls were natural rock and stalactites picked out in coloured light. Plants surrounded a waterfall in the corner and one of the walls was glass with fish swimming behind it in an eerie, turquoise glow. A sound system and multiscreen hung over a stream that ran by a large, low table surrounded by floor cushions. Jones pressed a remote control and the room was filled with the glow of tiny, real flames.
“Any questions?" He looked at Roosha’s gaping mouth. "Well Roosha. Have we hit the spot? I’ll take that brain-dead expression as an affirmative."
“Jones, it's... It's... WOW!"
“Thank you, Roosha. You say the nicest things. Right, guys, does anyone have anything to say?" Julie felt uneasy. Eventually, she put her hand up.
“Sorry, everyone. I don’t want to be a party-pooper, but I’d just like to say that I’m going to need assistance now and then. Totally destroying Whisper is the easy bit. Helping me is a different matter. We don’t know who’s going to be left here with whom, so everyone’s got to be prepared to do it… you know… toilet and things… I’m OK about it. I had to give up the luxury of feeling embarrassed ages ago." She looked at them all. “I just thought I’d mention it." Dresden stared at the floor, avoiding Julie’s gaze. He hadn’t thought about this bit. Julie prodded him in the leg. “Just think, you might be first, Buster!" My, thought Roosha, didn’t he blush easily? He smiled apologetically as Julie took his hand.
Roosha changed her mind about her choice of desk and picked the one next to the toilet.
“Can I have this one? Not so far to walk." Jones pointed out that it was the adjustable one and therefore Julie’s. Could Julie spot just the slightest resentment in Roosha’s face? Jones offered Roosha the one next to the kitchen instead which soon made her eyes light up again.
“Wowee! I’m the one next to the fridge!"
“Correction," taunted Dresden, “You’re the one next to the coffee machine and, while you’re there, mine’s white with no sugar, please. So what was this place, Jones?"
“It’s the old Presidential arms dump. Weapons are much smaller nowadays, so they’re kept somewhere else now. There’s another three rooms. I’ll show you.” While in one of the rooms, Jones’s com buzzed. “That’ll be Blake and Armstrong. I’ll just go and meet them." He didn’t need to, but the others hadn’t had a chance to talk behind his back yet and that was important.
Julie went up to Roosha.
“Are we all going to be OK, Roosha?” Roosha sat on a chair and leaned over towards her. Nodding, she jerked her thumb towards the door.
“He’s devious, that Jones. Did you know anything about this?" Julie shook her head. “How about you, Dresden?”
“No.” He was tapping away at his keyboard and obviously didn’t want to be disturbed. Julie and Roosha raised their eyes heavenward.
Roosha stopped smiling and looked troubled.
“What’s up?”
“I knew a Blake at some point. He was the bully on board FS6”. Couldn’t be him though.” As the man and woman came through the door, Julie noticed Roosha stiffen.
“It’s him!" Blake picked up her hostility and turned to Jones.
“You never told her, did you, Jones? Good man!" Jones explained.
“Blake was a government agent on board FS6. He hid his identity by pretending to be a thug. That’s why Roosha is about to smack him one.” She went over to Blake hesitantly and shook his hand. Far from being hostile, she could feel herself melting in the warmth of his apologetic smile. She bent down and whispered to her friend.
“I never noticed before, Julie... Hot, or what?”
“Stop it, Roosha. I'm trying to concentrate on Jones".
“I know," grinned Roosha. Hard, isn’t it? Anyway, I bet Blake’s attached to glamour girl over there.” Armstrong introduced herself.
“Hi, I’m Sarah Armstrong, and I’m also a government agent. Like Blake, I know a lot of what you are about down here. I think it’s fantastic and wish you all the best. Unlike Blake I’ll be based down here a lot of the time.” She went over to Julie and whispered in her ear. Julie nodded, smiled, and prodded Dresden in the leg again.
“You can breathe again, chum; Sarah’s a trained nurse." Dresden tried desperately hard not to show it, but deep down he was very, very relieved.
53
Jones called the four of them together after lunch.
“OK, who’s on for a trip to Las Vegas? I had an idea during the film last night. Do you remember the bit where the gold robbers swapped the tapes over in the city’s computer and made the traffic lights go loopy? It caused chaos in the city and the traffic ground to one big stop. I reckon we could do that in Vegas. If we messed up all the air lanes it would ground all aircraft. The difference is that we could do it from right here. We then go in as a group of consultants to “sort it out” and get a good chance for a snoop round, pick up Chen and scarper. If we give it three weeks you can all do your Intense Flying Course and get a fair bit of flying in. Who’s OK if we go with that?" He saw three hands go up.
“Good". I’ll get on to Graphics and get the stationery and logo sorted out for our so-called 'company'." Roosha put her hand up.
“I could do that, Jones. It’ll keep it more confidential."
“It's a skilled-"
“Look, Buster, are you doubting my capabilities?" Jones shrugged and put his hands up.
“OK, OK! I give in. You’ve got a week, Roosha. After that it goes to Graphics. Right, all of you, get over to the airfield and report to the flying school. They’re expecting you!"
Three weeks passed quickly and Jones hadn’t been idle while the others were learning to fly. He and Dresden had, via the satellite, managed to mess up Whisper food supplies. His next task had been to commission a detailed report on why the Amazon was a bad place to build a base and circulate it to all top Whisper officials.
After that Jones and Dresden used the satellite link to jam The Big Whisper (an online channel used by Whisper for brainwashing teenagers) with interference and clogged it with pop videos from the nineteen-eighties. He chose that era because the music had a quality which he knew would really get up the noses of high-ranking Whisper officials.
He was single-handedly turning a whole generation of Whisper children into devotees of Michael Jackson, Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran: within two weeks the majority of Whisper youth had a good working knowledge of eighties pop music. He knew Whisper were going to hate the anti-Whisper propaganda that he was going to dish out, too.
Three days before he started broadcasting, Jones had passed a very enlightening day at New State University where a rather nice old gentleman had given him tea and let him loose (albeit it heavily supervised) in the New State University Music Archives. Delighted that a youngster should show such interest in classical music, he had allowed him to spend hours retrieving antique vinyl, cassettes, CDs, videos and DVDs from dusty shelves to download long-forgotten music onto his com. Jones, in the course of a week or so, became a one-man ‘illegal’ radio station and the others would return to find him chatting on air to any Whisper youngsters who had had the courage to phone in. Whisper Headquarters were listening in and they were worried. Very worried. Here was a pirate radio station they couldn’t trace and it was turning their young against them.
The Deputy Head of Whisper looked at the Head Of Whisper Personnel and tutted. Stella had one silver lurex glove on and white socks peeped out over her patent leather loafers. The Deputy Head had noticed her looking more and more like Michael Jackson each day and it had to stop. The insidious indoctrination of Whisper Youth was bad enough, but to have it in the higher echelons was positively obscene.
“Do you realise what you look like, Stella?" She nodded her newly dyed black hair.
“Yes, sir. Michael Jackson, sir." Twitching her pet chimpanzee’s diamond collar, she managed to persuade him to vacate the Deputy Head’s desk. She leant forward and nervously started to tidy the official’s messed-up desk. "I haven’t had Bubbles very long, sir. He can be a bit of a handful sometimes." The deputy banged the vast expanse of antique mahogany.
“LEAVE THE DAMN DESK ALONE, WOMAN!" His neck was twitching. Not a good sign. With one violent sweep he scattered his desk set all over the floor and grabbed Stella’s narrow leather tie. "I don’t care what you do, but just get them!"
“Them, sir?"
“The phone tappers, woman, the traffic light tamperers, the sneaky beggars spiriting away our funds, the pathetic youth channel which is, somehow, getting through our technological defences and poisoning the minds of a whole Whisper generation!"
“I want you to hunt down the clowns who are responsible for half of Vegas going round in nineteen-eighties shiny double-breasted suits, white socks and loafers. Sniff out the idiots with the perverse sense of humour who have been making converted nineteen-eighties phones the latest must-have retro com accessory. Have you seen the damn size of them, Stella?” Stella had, and she was praying that she wouldn’t have to open her exclusive Gazebo Pratte bag. Mind, there was enough nineteen eighty-seven Motorola phone in there to inflict quite a serious injury should she so wish and she was beginning to feel that moment wasn’t far away.
The Deputy Head of Whisper had removed his grip from her tie and was now screwing up her white trilby hat. Taking a large gun from his desk drawer, he hurled the hat towards the door and lasered two holes in it in rapid succession. Stella heard a shriek from the receptionist’s office. Perhaps that stupid girl had stopped one of the rays? Even this humiliating ordeal had to have a silver lining somewhere.
“Let me make this clear, Stella: the next time I do that, I’m not going to wait until you take the damn thing off. Now get out. I want all staff vetted and the culprits found. comprende?"
“Yes sir. Right away, sir!”
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