2041 Sanctuary (Genesis) (44 page)

‘GMRC alert code level alpha,’ Joiner said, catching his breath, ‘niner five eight eight two kilo whiskey zulu, code in.’

‘I’m sorry caller, that code is not recognised, what is your emergency?’

‘Check again, Directorate override, GMRC alert code level alpha,’ Joiner said, ‘niner five eight eight two kilo whiskey zulu, code in.’

‘I’m sorry, caller, our systems are down; what is your emergency?’

The sound of laughter could be heard coming from the military handset.

Joiner swore and put the device back to his ear and the voice spoke again. ‘Are you there, Director?’

‘So you’re going to kill me if I don’t play ball?’ Joiner said. ‘I think not. Alive, I still have potential; dead, and that promise of power has gone. I’ll take my chances with the Committee and then I’ll come for you.’

‘You misunderstand, Director, we’re not going to kill you, at least not directly.’

Joiner removed his arm from its sling and tapped a button on the information point to hang up the operator. He then accessed a messaging system to contact the GMRC switchboard.

‘How are you feeling?’ the voice said. ‘How are the headaches?’

Joiner stopped typing. The back of his head still throbbed with a dull ache and it was the same pain he’d experienced before the car crash.

‘Have you not wondered why you woke up in a hospital gown, Director?’

Joiner’s heart beat faster. ‘I was knocked unconscious; they kept me in for observation.’

‘The device they used on your arm and mind wasn’t the Committee’s only play; they had a failsafe if things didn’t go to plan.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You are partially right; you were under observation, but not for concussion. Dagmar Sørensen and Dr. Laurent conducted a delicate …
procedure
on you during your enforced sleep.’

Joiner’s grip tightened on the handset. ‘Procedure?’

‘Yes, they call it a Kill Switch, a small capsule placed—’

‘—at the base of the skull,’ Joiner said, his heart sinking. He recalled the man Agent Myers had interrogated about Project Ares and the seizure that had claimed his life. ‘How is it rigged?’

‘We’re uncertain, but activation due to information dissemination is unlikely, given your occupation. They couldn’t have you drop dead by accident. The most likely alternative is a simple explosive charge set off by a roaming signal.’

Joiner reached up a reluctant hand and touched the back of his neck. After a tentative search he found a stitched incision on the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes in despair. ‘Sørensen always was old school,’ he murmured.

‘The Committee may have the power to end your life,’ the voice said, ‘but we have the power to control it. Your fate now rests in our hands. Do as we say and you get to live. Cross us, and the Committee will see fit to end your life faster than you can blink.

‘What do you want?’

‘What do we want? We want you to infiltrate the Committee, to feed us with information.’

‘To what end?’

‘To the end we desire,’ said the voice. ‘The life as you knew it is over, Director, you belong to us now.’

The receiver went dead and Joiner was left listening to the monotone hiss of a terminated call.

A powerful gust of wind made him look up. A drone hovered overhead and a powerful searchlight illuminated him in blazing light.

‘This information point is the source of an unverified emergency call,’ said a computerised voice, ‘remain where you are and await the relevant authorities.’

Joiner stared unseeing at the light above while a wave of dizzy reality tore through his mind like a storm. Thoughts and long laid plans collapsed to dust and memories of forgotten impotence surged forth from a distant past.

His grip loosened and the handset slipped, clattering to the ground. The control and power had gone, but Joiner knew – perhaps better than any other – that his nightmare had only just begun.

Chapter Seventy Seven

The time was fifteen minutes later than it was before, and ten seconds before she’d question it again. The wait was unbearable! ‘How long did they say, again?’ Trish said. ‘An hour and a half?’

Jason nodded.

‘How long’s it been now?’

‘Just over four.’

Trish stood and paced the waiting room’s white-tiled floor before walking back over to the nurses’ station. ‘
¡¿Cuánto tiempo más?!
’

‘
No mucho ahora , señorita.
’

‘What did they say?’ Jason said when Trish returned to his side.

‘The same as the last ten times, not much longer.’ She slumped forward in her seat with her head in her hands.

Jason put his arm around her shoulders and she lent into his chest for comfort, but just as they’d resigned themselves to more hours of endless worrying, a set of double doors banged open and a surgeon emerged.

Full of anxiety, Trish and Jason jumped to their feet.

The doctor said a few words to one of the nurses and then turned towards them. ‘
Ah, bueno
, you’re still here.’

She removed her face mask and surgical gloves, dropping them into a clinical waste bin before walking towards the two friends; Trish couldn’t help but notice the gloves had glistened with the sheen of blood.

She gripped Jason’s arm as they waited for the news, good or bad, but the woman merely looked at them with suspicion and remained silent.

‘Well?!’ Trish said.

The woman blinked. ‘There were complications,’ she said in a rich Honduran accent. ‘
Su compañera
– your friend – was suffering from serious haemorrhaging throughout her body, including an intracranial bleed.’

Trish put a hand to her mouth in dismay.

‘The slurring speech you mentioned was probably a sign of a stroke. We had to carry out an emergency operation after she was stabilised.’

‘But she’s okay now?’ Jason said. ‘Sarah’s okay?’

The surgeon’s expression remained deadpan. ‘We’ve had to put her into an induced coma; it will be hours, maybe days, before we know if our intervention has been successful. I suggest you let us see to your wound,
señorita
,’ – the surgeon gestured to Trish’s bandaged arm – ‘you experienced an open fracture, we will need to operate.’

Trish shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘The anaesthetic we gave you will wear off. The wound needs to be cleaned and the bone set; if we do not do this, you risk serious complications.’

‘You should do as she says.’ Jason inspected his palms, which had been stitched and wrapped in gauze. ‘They did a good job on my hands and ankle.’

Trish looked down at the strapping that encased his foot and lower leg. ‘You didn’t need surgery, though; I want to be here when she wakes up.’

‘Listen to your friend,’ the surgeon said, ‘let us help you. Then you can get some rest and return tomorrow.’

Trish shook her head. ‘We’re not leaving her here alone.’

Jason nodded his agreement.

‘Can we see her?’ Trish said.

‘No. She is in UCI, intensive care; visiting restarts in eight hours.’

‘Eight hours,’ Jason said, ‘that’s ridiculous!’

‘Those are the rules,
señor
.’

‘Let us see her and I’ll let you operate,’ Trish said.

The doctor considered her offer, glanced back at the clock and then exchanged a flurry of words with one of the nurses. She sighed and waved them forward. ‘
Vamos
,’ she said, and moved towards the doors she’d just come through.

Relieved and anxious in equal measure, Trish and Jason followed as they were led through a series of corridors.

‘Be prepared,’ the surgeon said. ‘You may find her condition distressing.’ She stopped outside a glass wall and gestured inside.

Trish looked through the window to see a large room housing three beds and a host of medical apparatus. On the far wall, a large wallscreen displayed tables full of fluctuating numbers for each patient, along with various charts and graphs that plotted in real-time. The two beds to the left held male occupants and Trish’s gaze turned to the bed directly in front, where two nurses blocked the view beyond. A moment later they moved and Sarah’s stricken form emerged from the surrounding distraction. A myriad of cables and tubes fed into her body and her chest rose and fell in time with a nearby ventilator. White bandages encased the top of her head and her chest, and her hands and feet had been similarly treated.

‘She looks so pale.’ Trish said, holding Jason close.

‘We’ve made her as comfortable as we can,’ the surgeon said. ‘She feels no pain.’

Jason reached out to touch the glass. ‘And she’s stable?’

‘Yes, stable, but critical.’

Trish wiped away a tear. ‘Can we go in?’

The surgeon shook her head and Trish went back to studying her friend as a sense of helplessness sought to overwhelm her.

‘We have left the foreign object alone until she recovers consciousness and strength,’ the surgeon said, ‘then we will operate again.’

‘Foreign object?’ Jason looked confused.

‘
Sí
.’
The woman pointed to the right hand side of the room where a number of X-rays had been clipped to a light box.

Trish looked at the images which showed the pentagonal outline of the Anakim artefact positioned squarely on Sarah’s breastbone.

‘Yes, the pendant.’ Jason massaged his eyes. ‘Of course.’

‘And you say lightning did this,
relámpago
?’

Trish nodded.

‘Why?’ Jason said. ‘Don’t you believe us?’

‘Anything you can tell us, no matter how small, may help us help your friend. What you say to us, the lightning … the necklace and melted shoes are unusual, yes. And this degree of haemorrhaging is also … I’ve never heard of such an extreme case. But the cuts to her palms … and then there is also …’

The surgeon failed to continue, her expression uncertain.

‘Also what?’ Trish said.

‘She has high toxicity levels, like she’s been poisoned. Her immune system is attacking itself and we don’t know why.’

‘Poisoned,’ Jason said, ‘poisoned by what?’

‘We don’t know. The results came back inconclusive. I was hoping you might be able to tell us more.’

They shook their heads. What could they say? The truth was liable to get them taken away by men in white coats.

The surgeon reached out and touched Trish’s jacket. ‘Deep Reach,’ she said, ‘USSB Sanctuary. What are these? Your friend had the same uniform.’

Trish looked down at the emblems, then back up. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

‘It’s a potholing club,’ Jason said, ‘united submerged subterranean …’

‘Bandits,’ Trish said.

‘
Potholing
, I don’t know this word.’

‘Caving, spelunking,’ Jason said, giving Trish a look of reproach. ‘We explore deep holes in the ground.’

The surgeon frowned, her expression telling them they’d failed to convince, but the uncomfortable silence ended when a nurse called her away.

‘Bandits?’ Jason said.

Trish turned back to look at Sarah. ‘It’s all I could think of.’

‘She doesn’t believe anything we say.’

‘Would you?’

Jason murmured, ‘No,’ and they remained in silent vigil for a few minutes until a nurse approached them with a wheelchair.

‘You better get that arm sorted,’ Jason said. ‘I don’t think they’re going to take no for an answer this time.’

‘Stay here with her,’ Trish said, ‘I don’t want her on her own.’

‘What about you?’

Trish got into the wheelchair. ‘I’ll be fine. Promise me you’ll stay here?’

He bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘I promise.’

The nurse wheeled Trish away and she glanced back to see Jason watching her go, and she held his gaze until he was out of sight.

A thousand thoughts bombarded Trish’s mind as she travelled through the network of corridors, but as she continued to worry about Sarah a troubling sight broke her abstraction. A couple of police officers walked towards them and one of them carried two familiar objects: hers and Jason’s Deep Reach helmets. She tried recalling where she’d last seen them.
We must have left them in the foyer
, she realised, and she covered her face with her hand as the officers strode past. One of the men gave her a cursory glance, but they didn’t stop. Trish made to get up, but the nurse was already pushing her through double doors. A host of medical staff bustled around her and she was forced to submit to their care.
Jason will know what to say
, she told herself as she was guided into the operating theatre,
won’t he?

Chapter Seventy Eight

Hospital del Valle, San Pedro Sula, Honduras

Six days had passed since Trish’s operation and her initial fears about the police had proved unfounded. They’d asked Jason some searching questions about the events leading up to their hospital visit, but his answers had satisfied them and they’d returned their Deep Reach helmets and left. Jason had theorised they had more important things to worry about than three injured foreigners, and Trish had decided he was probably right, especially considering the civil unrest that continued to blight the country’s streets.

As soon as she’d been able, Trish had rejoined Jason and they waited together for Sarah’s condition to improve. Sadly, any progress had been minimal which was why Trish found herself kneeling down inside the hospital’s chapel and praying for the miracle that might never come. A numb silence hung over the small place of worship, its whitewashed walls dull in the low light that filtered through a stained glass window above. Trish was amazed any light came through at all, but during their time back in civilisation they’d learned that the dust cloud had thinned the world over.

She thanked God again for bringing them out of the dark and then sent another prayer for Sarah’s recovery fluttering into the ether. So far her pleas had gone unanswered, but she took strength from Jason’s encouragement. When she’d told him of her trips to the chapel she’d thought his scepticism would show through, but all he’d said was, ‘I’d take a bit of divine intervention right about now.’