Nano (3 page)

4

The first nano thread flew out the back of Pete's Silverback. It was almost invisible, no more than a gossamer of pure carbon. Pete's aim was near perfect and the end of the thread hit the receptor pad a metre under the cockpit of Chloe's Silverback
George
, where it was drawn down into the coupler housing. A few seconds later, Chloe fired an identical thread towards Mai's aircraft flying directly under
Thor 1
's starboard wing. Mai then released a thread that was drawn into the coupler aboard Pete's Silverback, forming a triangle.

Almost immediately after the three planes were linked, millions of nanobots inside the tubes swung into action. At regular intervals along the threads, branches began to grow like tendrils sprouting from the branches of a tree. After 2 minutes, five nanocarbon branches along each of the three original threads had cross-linked to form a superstrong but almost weightless framework – the beginnings of what looked remarkably like a trapeze net in a circus. And from these 15 branches more threads began to appear and link up under
Thor
.

Chloe glanced at her screen. ‘Forty-three per cent integrity.'

Pete and Mai could each see the growing infrastructure on holographic displays in their helmets. The network was growing denser as they watched, as though millions of spiders were busy creating a giant web. And in some ways, this analogy was not far from the truth. Each tiny nanobot, a machine so small millions of them could fit comfortably on a pinhead, was working according to a master program transmitted to it from the computer aboard Pete's Silverback. This computer was in direct contact with Sybil on Tintara. Each of the hundreds of millions of nanobots had a set task. Each was self-reliant and self-powered, and each contributed its tiny part to the vast process of building the nanonet.

‘Pete.'

‘How's it going, Tom?'

‘Ready for attempt number two.'

‘Okay,' Pete responded. ‘We're now at . . .' he glanced at the display projected inside his helmet, ‘Seventy-four per cent integrity. We'll need another 66 seconds to complete the net.'

‘Cool. But hopefully we won't need it. Ready to engage link to
Thor
's system. Three, two, one.'

The space plane continued on its course for at least 3 seconds. Then without warning, the nose dipped sharply and the aircraft accelerated earthward.

‘What the . . .?' Pete hollered into his headset.

The three pilots could hear Tom swearing 2000 kilometres away and watched as the plane pulled back up to the horizontal. It started to roll from side to side.

Pete opened a comms link to
Thor 1
and immediately heard screams.

‘Guys!' Pete shouted. ‘Guys!'

‘Yes!' It was Anton, his voice shaking almost uncontrollably.

‘You okay?'

‘Oh, just fucking wonderful!' Richie replied.

‘You're tethered, yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘And the captain?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Check the ties,' Pete replied. ‘It's going to get bumpy.'

‘Mai?' Pete called over to
Paul
. ‘We're at 91 per cent integrity. Everything okay your end?'

‘Affirmative.'

‘Chloe?'

‘A-okay, Pete.'

‘Tom,' Pete said. ‘You have control?'

There was a long pause. ‘We did.'

‘What do you mean? You did?'

‘The nav controls have frozen.'

‘Shit!' Pete glanced at the clock. ‘We have less than a minute, Base One. Then that aircraft will start to glide.'

‘Affirmative,' Mark replied. The three pilots could hear voices in the background at Tintara Base. Mark cursed. There was a slight rustling sound. ‘Right,' Mark said to someone, then back over the comms, ‘What's the integrity?'

Pete flicked a look at the display ‘Ninety-eight per cent. We'll be ready in 15 seconds.'

‘We have a problem. As Tom said, the nav is jammed.
Thor
is travelling on a bearing of 75' 06'' 44'''.'

Pete was listening to Mark and tapping the black carbon-plastic panel in front of him. As the geographical data was processed, he felt a horrible tightening in his abdomen. The computer on board
John
completed its calculations just as Mark started to speak again.

‘Downtown Los Angeles,' he said.

5

‘Holy crap!' Chloe exclaimed.

‘We've got 47 seconds before the fuel tank is empty, then
Thor 1
will start to glide,' Pete said. ‘We'll just have to go with it and try to guide it down safety.'

‘Copy that, Pete. You at full integrity yet?'

‘Ninety-nine per . . .'

‘We're there,' Chloe said. ‘One-hundred per cent.'

‘Okay, keep tight formation,' Pete instructed.

‘
Thor
's going down,' Mai said suddenly.

‘There must have been a secondary fuel leak. Damn it, we've lost another 30 seconds.'

‘Just coming in over the coast now,' Chloe said.

Pete and Mai could see the details flash across their helmet holoscreens. They had dropped to 2300 metres to keep directly under the space plane and had reduced their speed to 520 kilometres per hour. Below them, the three E-Force members could make out the Santa Monica Freeway glistening with early morning traffic.

‘
Thor
's falling fast,' Chloe said. ‘It's 1095 metres and dropping.'

On the holoscreens, they could each see the buildings of Downtown LA directly ahead.

‘Altitude: 900 metres,' Chloe said.

‘We can't bring her down anywhere near here,' Pete exclaimed. ‘We have to get right under
Thor
, make contact between the net and the space plane's fuselage. Ready? Ascend 21 metres.'

The three pilots each guided the Silverbacks with incredible finesse, raising them each by 21 metres as they continued hurtling towards the CBD at half the speed of sound. There was a sharp jolt as the nanonet that was stretched between the three Silverbacks hit the underside of
Thor 1
.

‘Now Mai,' Pete said, ‘you need to give a retro blast to starboard. Chloe, you too. I'll give it some thrust. Between us we should be able to nudge this damn thing away to the north.' He ran his fingers over the plastic control panel. ‘Just getting figures now,' he said. ‘Mai, 2 second burn. Chloe 2.4 seconds, 6 seconds after Mai. Got that?'

‘Got it.'

‘Set timers,' Pete said. ‘Mai, fire on three. One, two, three . . .'

There was a slight judder as a retro rocket on the starboard side of
Paul
fired for precisely 2 seconds. Four seconds after it had finished, Chloe gave a burst of her own from the starboard side of
George
and the four aircraft began to swing north.

‘Height: 815 metres,' Chloe said.

Pete glanced at the holoscreen. They had managed to pull the space plane around but they were all still dropping fast.

‘Five-hundred-and-ten metres. Four hundred and five. Three hundred . . .'

‘Pete!' It was Mark. ‘The Aon Tower. You're headed straight for it!'

Pete looked at the display. All three pilots could see the cluster of skyscrapers of Downtown.

‘Altitude: 26 metres,' Chloe declared. ‘One-point-seven kilometres to impact.'

‘Mai, Chloe, we have to engage the main thrusters. Get some height.'

‘But the net. It won't . . .'

‘It'll have to!' Pete roared back through the headset. ‘Now . . . engage!'

At precisely the same moment, all three pilots tapped the instruction into the control panel and the Silverbacks pulled up, dragging the nanonet and
Thor 1
with it.

‘Two-hundred metres to impact. Height . . . 139 metres . . .'

‘Again,' Pete yelled.

They set and fired the main thrusters. The three Silverbacks pulled up, flying vertically. Pete's teeth were clamped together, his left hand gripping the plastic control panel. On the holoscreen, he could see the sheer glass and steel wall of the Aon Building that stood 290 metres above the street. On another display he watched a representation of the nanonet with
Thor 1
caught in it like a fish. The space plane was swinging from side to side.

A few metres away from the port wing a small tear had appeared in the net. Pete knew millions of nanobots would already be there repairing the threads but it was almost certainly too late to do anything about it.

‘Sixteen-point-one metres . . .'

The four aircraft were screaming skyward, shooting up the final few floors of the tower. Over the headsets they all heard the rip in the net and the three Silverbacks jolted violently to port. Each pilot compensated in a fraction of a second and the interlinked jets roared over the top of the skyscraper leaving mere centimetres to spare beneath the net where
Thor 1
hung.

‘Pete? I have a landing site for you,' Mark said, relief clear in his voice.

‘We won't make it,' Pete snapped back. ‘The net's going.'

‘Damn it!'

Pete turned his attention to the nav controls. ‘Chloe? You got net integrity?'

‘Forty-one per cent and falling . . . fast!'

Pete cursed and scanned the three-dimensional map of the ground beneath them as it came up on a display above the control panel.

A loud snap echoed around the headsets of the E-Force rescuers.

‘Get her down!' Pete screamed into his headset. ‘Reverse thrusters. On my mark.'

Another jolt. The four aircraft shuddered. On their holoscreens, Pete, Mai and Chloe could all see the net rip open. The space plane was being tossed around like a skewered toreador.

‘Down, at 180 metres per second. Ready? NOW!'

The three Vertical Take Off and Landing jets shot towards the ground gripping the tattered remains of the nanonet, with
Thor 1
tangled in the framework. One-point-nine seconds later, they were at 27 metres, hovering over a plaza.

‘Please clear the area.' Pete's voice boomed over powerful speakers on the outside of the Silverback.

‘Pete.' It was Mai. ‘I'm scanning the plaza with infrared. We're almost clear. A couple of people are running to the perimeter. No one directly under us.'

‘Okay . . . gently.'

A loud crack resonated around the buildings lining the four sides of the plaza as one of the primary struts of the nanonet snapped.
Thor
slipped through the rip and its port wing crumpled as the four planes dropped the final few metres to the ground. Sparks flew. The stench of ozone filled the air. A flame shot from under
Thor
's tail. In a second, it was quenched by a jet of retardant and coolant spurting from a nozzle under
George
's wings. The fuselage of the space plane hit the concrete with a deep thud and rolled onto its side as the three Silverbacks touched down, their engines shutting off.

‘Bloody hell!' Pete exclaimed. ‘That was something else!'

From Base One came only a stunned silence followed by loud applause and the roomful of techs in Cyber Control whooping loudly.

6

Dakota Building, New York City, two days later, 8 December, 9 pm

It was a rare occasion. The four men seated around the mahogany dining table had met in the flesh only a handful of times during the years they had known each other and most of their communicating was done via encrypted video links that spanned the world.

They referred to themselves as the Four Horsemen and they were each among the
Forbes
Top 10 billionaires. They had named themselves the Four Horsemen as a little private joke and had individually appropriated the names Death, War, Conquest and Pestilence from the Book of Revelation. Until a year ago, their identities had been completely secret, but then they had plotted the assassination of Senator Kyle Foreman in Los Angeles and, although they had escaped prosecution and public censure, they were known to at least one influential group: the members of E-Force. Because, thanks to the brilliance of Tom Erickson and the unmatchable power of Sybil, the organisation had succeeded in putting faces to names. However, such knowledge had proven to be of little practical value. A year earlier, E-Force had been forbidden by the highest authority from exposing these men.

Times, though, had changed. The Four Horsemen knew that and so did E-Force. The new man in the White House was an intellectual, a pragmatist, a man of vision who wielded his power wisely. His name was Kyle Foreman.

‘So everything is in place, I trust?' Death asked Pestilence, the man who had been given the task of selecting the frontline operative who would be at the sharp end of their next project. Death peered around at the others. He was an American, mid-forties, buff, arrogant as hell.

Pestilence gazed at the polished table for a moment and when he raised his head he wore a thin smile. ‘Naturally, Death. All is ready.'

Then he turned to the other two: Conquest, a tall, well-built British aristo, fiftyish, suave in a Roger Moore sort of way; and at the far end of the table, War, the fourth Horseman, a lump of lard, 170 kilograms of perversity and animal aggression, drenched in almost incalculable wealth. Now 71, War was a genuine Mafioso, a manipulator of governments, a mongrel of German-Brazilian descent who, some claimed, was the son of a Nazi war criminal. A rumour he never denied. He was pouring his sixth snifter of 1833 Henri IV Dudognon Heritage, the most expensive cognac in the world. Between sips, he stuffed chunks of Turkish Delight into his mouth. He was particularly fond of the cherry-flavoured variety.

‘When do we strike?' Conquest asked, his black eyes narrowing to slits.

‘What is that fucking noise?' War exclaimed and heaved himself to his feet. Lumbering two steps to the window, he peered out. ‘Oh yes! Oh, how fucking wonderful!' And he started to giggle.

‘What is it?' Death asked. It was his apartment and he was irritated by War's tone. He already loathed the man and was quite aware War hated him. Indeed, one thing that held all Four Horsemen in check within the cabal was their mutual distrust and detestation.

‘Oh, come and look.'

Death pulled himself up from his Charles Rennie Mackintosh chair, brushed some imaginary flecks from his Savile Row suit, his saturnine features expressionless. He walked over slowly to where War was chuckling, his fat wobbling.

‘Just look,' the older man said and pointed towards Central Park. ‘Isn't that just hysterical?'

On the corner of the park at 72nd Street, directly across from the Dakota Building, a large crowd had gathered around John Lennon's memorial. They were singing ‘Imagine'.

Death shrugged and walked back to the table. War was now doubled up, his face red with mirth.

‘Shall we proceed?' Death said and flicked a look at War, a look that said, ‘Please sit down, or I might just have to kill you . . . now!'

‘Everything is ready,' Pestilence said.

‘I would like to do a little more,' War replied, scanning the room with his dark eyes shrouded under heavy lids as he returned to the table and lowered himself into his seat with a groan. The others stared at him blankly.

‘More?' It was Conquest.

‘You may have forgiven our friends in E-Force but I haven't.'

There was silence around the table, then Death began to tap his fingertips on his mahogany table. ‘Definitely not. Do you understand?' He turned on War with a vicious look in his eye.

War giggled. ‘And what? You're the boss of me?' he said in a babyish voice.

Death shook his head and started to pull himself up.

‘Death . . .' Pestilence and Conquest said in unison.

War burst into hysterical laughter again and looked from one of his companions to the other. ‘Oh deary me, guys. Deary me. We are a little tetchy, aren't we?'

Pestilence glanced at Conquest. Death looked at Pestilence. ‘We are in agreement, War,' Death said, his voice calm. ‘We conduct this mission as discussed, no embellishments. None at all. Do you understand? With Kyle-fucking-Foreman in the White House, it's risky enough. Be satisfied with the guaranteed payout.'

War looked down at his lap. The others could see him grinning. Then his shoulders started to judder. The man was beginning to laugh again. Death made to stand but Pestilence gave him a sharp look and shook his head ever so slightly.

War lifted his head and was just managing to keep his face straight. He stretched his arms outward in an embracing gesture. ‘Of course,' he said slowly. ‘Of course, gentlemen. We
are
agreed.'