The heat is generated by a large grey junction box that sits in the centre of the room and hums with a deep vibrato. Out of the left wall run three cables that terminate at the grey box. From the right wall three similar cables enter the room and terminate at the box too. From the middle of the box emerges a set of three large conduits. They disappear into the far wall.
Tam flies the chopper to a position above the large conduits then releases the joystick’s trigger. The chopper’s blades stop and it drops onto the central conduit. The suction-cap feet at the end of its metal legs grab the PVC casing and hold fast. With a shaking forefinger Tam types on the MacBook’s keyboard.
C U T
The underside of the chopper’s fuselage slides open and a tiny circular saw flips out and spins to life. It slices into the cable’s PVC casing and cuts an incision. The saw then pivots and cuts another incision at a right angle to the first. A camera buried within the chopper’s fuselage shows Tam what the saw is doing.
He reaches into the box that housed the joystick and pulls out a right-hand glove. Five thin computer circuit ribbons sprout from a matchbox-sized terminal at its wrist and connect to its fingers at the first knuckle. A USB cable emerges from the rear of the terminal. Tam pulls the glove onto his swollen right hand. It’s tight but he ignores it, plugs the cable into the MacBook’s second USB port. He glances at his GPS unit. Two minutes and fifteen seconds remain.
The saw pivots again, starts its third cut, parallel to the first, then pivots again, cuts to the point where it started, a small square now sliced into the conduit’s PVC cover. Tam then, with his unbitten hand, pecks on the keyboard.
H A N D
The saw slides into the belly of the chopper and out flips ‘Thing’, named as such because Tam couldn’t think of anything better. It resembles the skeleton of a small hand, except instead of bone the fingers are titanium alloy, the muscles are microactuators and the knuckles are bidirectional hinges. Each finger has a hook at its end and its wrist pivots on a motorised ball joint.
Tam wiggles his fingers in the shaking glove. On the screen, Thing’s fingers move in unison. He extends its index finger towards the cut section of PVC and flips it away to expose a myriad of wires. He studies them. There are dozens of different colours and sizes. He needs to find the wire with yellow and red stripes. He works the glove and Thing delves into the mass of spaghetti, pulls away wire after wire. It’s all been for naught if Tam can’t find it.
‘There!’ Thing grabs it, pulls it towards the camera. It’s not yellow and red! It’s orange and purple. Tam releases the wire, glances at the GPS unit. Forty-one seconds to go.
He continues the search. ‘Where the hell is it?’ There. He’s sure this time. He works the trembling glove and Thing snags the wire. It slides off. He grabs at it again, hooks it, lifts the wire towards the camera. Yellow and red stripes. ‘Yes.’ He glances at the GPS unit. Twenty-three seconds. His free hand pecks at the MacBook’s keyboard.
C U T
The saw flips out of the chopper’s belly and spins to life. Tam moves the glove and Thing jams the wire against the saw, slices it in two. Tam’s fingers work the glove and Thing pushes one end of the wire towards one of four numbered slots on the underside of the chopper. It’s difficult, his hand shakes so much. He’s practised it a thousand times before but never after he’d been cottonmouthed. He glances at the GPS unit. Ten seconds.
He guides the quivering wire into slot number one. One more to go. His eyelids sag. He forces them open, works the glove. Thing picks up the second piece of wire, pushes it towards slot number two. It misses.
‘Come on!’ He tries again. It slides home. He types three letters on the MacBook’s keyboard:
O F F
Every light on Launch Complex 39B blinks out and Atlantis disappears into darkness. A thousand feet above and a thousand feet to the east, Henri and his three bat-men approach. Henri checks the GPS unit on his chest and grins. Tam and Gerald completed their assigned task with exactly one second to spare.
A smattering of emergency lights blink on and outline the Launch Complex with a muted yellow glow. It’s enough light for the job ahead but not enough for the Frenchman’s team to be seen. He tips the delta wing into a steep dive and plunges towards the complex. The other bat-men follow suit.
A thousand feet instantly becomes 700 then 400. Henri unlatches the delta wing, pulls the ripcord and a black ram-air parachute explodes open behind him. It stays that way for exactly five seconds, just long enough to break his fall.
He lands hard beside the hammerhead crane atop the Launch Complex and rolls to a stop. In quick time he yanks off his helmet, flips off the oxygen mask, unstraps the wing’s frame, pulls in his chute and picks up the delta wing. Ten seconds later Nico lightly touches down beside him. Five seconds after that Dirk lands next to the Italian. They quickly perform the same routine as Henri.
Cobbin is last down. He comes in too hot, almost horizontal, and slams into the middle of the lightning mast. The sound reverberates. He falls, then his chute snags, jolts him to a stop. He’s hung up, 15 metres from the ground.
The Frenchman exhales, the expletive ‘merde’ buried within the expelled air.
Cobbin lurches, drops four metres. Henri, Dirk and Nico move to the base of the mast. As he goes the Frenchman reaches to his waist, unclips his Glock’s holster. If Cobbin is incapacitated, be it a ruptured cruciate or a heavy concussion or a broken foot, then Henri will use the weapon swiftly and without remorse. They will not carry an injured man and endanger the mission or the rest of the crew.
Cobbin drops again, five metres from the base now. Then again. Faster this time, he plummets towards the deck then jolts to a stop, half a metre from the surface.
He’s physically fine, has cut the chute’s cords and let his weight pull him down. He slices the last cord and drops to the deck. Embarrassed, he doesn’t make eye contact with the others. ‘Sorry.’
He removes the helmet and oxygen mask then notices Henri’s unclipped holster. ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, right, Commander?’
Henri clips the holster shut. ‘You will do the same for me if necessary.’
‘Of course.’
Henri has a comprehensive disdain for American culture, rails against an imperialism that makes rap the preferred music of youth in his beloved Paris, yet he venerates one quintessentially American icon. Star Trek. What he admires about it is the code under which the characters live and work.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few is that code crystallised, a line of dialogue he heard in a movie many years ago, on a first date with the woman who would become his wife. It’s an ideal he has painstakingly instilled in his men. He’s always wondered if it would have the same resonance if they knew he’d borrowed it from Mr Spock.
Henri looks up at Cobbin’s parachute, still snagged on the mast. ‘Let’s get it down.’ They each grasp a severed line and pull. The chute rips away, drops to their feet, leaves only a small patch of material halfway up the mast, not enough to draw attention.
Henri turns to the others. ‘Be ready to move in ninety seconds.’
They nod, kneel and open their delta wings.
10
The White Room’s emergency lights cast a dull yellow pall that makes everyone look like they’ve spent too long in the solarium. Judd had been halfway through checking the seals on pilot Rick Calvin’s flight suit when the lights, and everything that runs off mains power, went bye-bye.