‘Jackson,’ said Draven. ‘I want you to do some sniffing around. Something is going down and I need to find out what. Whatever it is — it’s big. Get back to me when you have something.’
Matt regained consciousness about 30 kilometres off the south coast of New South Wales. He felt sick and disoriented, and his neck was stiff. It took a moment for the feeling of nausea to pass. He raised his hand to his neck, trying to rub the soreness from it — his fingers felt the roughness of synthetic material on his skin there. With a grimace, he picked the thing off his neck and looked at it. A patch! He realised slowly that he was on a boat — the room he was in was rocking rhythmically, with the occasional larger wave making the vessel reverberate. Matt looked around — he was in a tiny cabin with nothing but a bunk bed, mattress, pillow and a plastic jug of water. The sound of the engine was a constant monotonous drone. There was no light coming in, as the tiny porthole had been welded shut and the glass painted black on the outside. He had no idea of the time or how long he had been unconscious.
Matt scanned the room, taking in every detail, his head clearing by the minute. He noticed a tiny camera in the corner of the cabin — he was being watched.
The cabin door opened and Matt lurched back on the bunk bed as a large man wearing a black suit and balaclava came into the room and stood by the open door. Another man in identical clothing walked in with a tray of food, placing it on the side table. Without saying a word, they shuffled their large frames out of the room, closing and locking the door behind them.
Matt leapt off the bed when he realised he wasn’t going to be hurt. Launching himself at the door, he started banging with both fists. ‘Let me out! Let me out of here!’
He knew it was pointless, so he stopped quickly and, suddenly ravenous, turned his attention to the food. There were no utensils on the tray, so Matt used his hands, shovelling the food into his mouth.
His mind was still cloudy. What was going on? Why was he here? He tried to retrace his last memories. He remembered being at work, going to Sarah’s, having a fight and then — that was it, nothing. He remembered what the fight had been over — the nuclear bomb. He remembered confronting her about the bomb. He must have been right — Matt remembered threatening to go to the press — this must be why he was being held captive.
After finishing the food, Matt sat back on the bunk bed with his knees tucked up to his chest, both hands to his forehead. He had to get off this boat to warn people, stop this madness… But how? He was being held captive on a boat — God knows where or how far from shore. By the feel of the boat’s motion, they were in deep water.
Come on, think! There has to be a way out of here, Matt thought to himself.
General Draven was at his desk drumming his fingers when MiLA rang.
Draven got straight to the point: ‘Jackson, what have you got?’
‘Nothing much, sir. The only things out of the ordinary are a missing political advisor — Matthew Lang, who did not come into work this morning and is not contactable. Though not suspicious, his disappearance is uncharacteristic and does not fit his psych profile. The only other anomaly is in New Zealand — Christchurch airport was closed last night for “unscheduled runway repairs.”’
‘What’s unusual about that?’ responded Draven.
‘Normally nothing, except it was raining all night there. We thought it strange to conduct repairs at night — in the rain, sir.’
‘That’s it? Nothing else?’ he barked.
‘Well, yes. The only other thing, which is not unusual,’ said Jackson, ‘is that we’re picking up a lot of coded chatter from the US Embassy. They do this now and then, so we don’t think it’s particularly unusual.’
General Draven was silent. He was trying to piece it all together, to understand the link. What it all meant.
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘No, Jackson. But keep me updated on anything else that happens.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Draven knew there was a link — clearing the population in regional South Australia, a meteorologist, a missing political advisor, increased US communications and the closing down of a New Zealand airport. How did it fit together?
‘Matthew Lang,’ muttered Draven — the name was familiar.
Picking up MiLA he hit redial. ‘Jackson, this Lang bloke — he was Hudson’s aide, then helped General Stephens to power. And now he’s missing. He’s involved somehow in whatever is going on. Find Lang — I need to talk to him. He’s the key.’
‘The key to what, sir?’
‘Just find him, Jackson. I want a report in an hour,’ said Draven impatiently.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jackson.
An hour later and General Draven was on MiLA again to Jackson.
‘Where are you at?’ Draven demanded.
‘We’ve located his abandoned car at Bermagui, the small fishing village on the south coast of New South Wales. There is no sign of Mr Lang.’
‘Bermagui?’ repeated Draven. ‘Jesus, I know Bermagui. The Secret Service has a fishing boat there that they use to disappear people that need removing — temporarily or permanently.’
‘I don’t know anything about that, sir,’ said Jackson. ‘But we did learn something else, sir. All government cars are fitted with tracking devices. Even though his device was deactivated last night, I was still able to track where it had been.’
‘Yes, yes. Where has Lang been in the last 24 hours?’ demanded Draven, impatience getting the better of him.
‘You’re going to like this, sir: the last place he visited was Sarah Dempsey’s home.’
‘Dempsey?’
‘Yes, sir. He arrived at Ms Dempsey’s apartment at 2100 hours last night — and that’s it. The tracker was switched off at 2230. Federal police located the car first thing this morning.’
‘Why would he go from Dempsey’s to Bermagui? And why would he switch off his tracking device? I’m surprised he’d even know how to. It doesn’t add up,’ Draven mused.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Jackson, knowing full well that it wasn’t a question.
‘I need to get satellite imagery from last night at that time. Go back over the imagery and see if you can get anything on Sarah Dempsey’s place between 2100 hours and 0300 hours. Send it through to me as soon as you find something.’
‘Yes, sir. It might take a while though.’
‘Then get busy,’ said Draven, hanging up. Pressing MiLA absently into his chin, General Draven contemplated his next move. He needed to get to the bottom of this — and fast.
Sarah Dempsey was in her office staring blankly at the BBCNN 4 pm newsfeed on her screen. In her mind she was convincing herself that what they were doing was the right thing for the country, despite the risks and the consequences.
A knock at the door startled her from deep contemplation.
‘Come in,’ she said shakily, turning off the screen.
‘Ms Dempsey,’ said General Draven, stepping into the room. ‘May I have a moment?’
‘Yes, General Draven, of course. Come in,’ Sarah said, her stomach clenching.
‘Thank you,’ said Draven, taking a chair.
‘What is it General?’
‘Well Ms Dempsey —’
‘Sarah, please,’ she interrupted, trying her hardest to seem warm.
‘Of course, Sarah,’ Draven said, slightly irritated with her interruption. ‘See, the problem is Matthew Lang.’