Bionic Agent
Authors: Malcolm Rose
First published in 2010 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House,
83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England.
www.usborne.com
Epub edition © 2011
Copyright © Malcolm Rose, 2010
The right of Malcolm Rose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Cover illustration by Daniel Atanasov at
folioart.co.uk
The name Usborne and the devices
are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.
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of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Epub ISBN 9781409531913
Kindle ISBN 9781409531920
batch no. 01769-01
MALCOLM ROSE ON THE SCIENCE BEHIND JORDAN STRYKER
EXPLOSION
“I need to speak to the Prime Minister.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Wake him up, then.”
“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“No. Put him on the phone now.”
“But...”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Can’t I...?”
“No, you can’t. Only the PM can give the go-ahead to evacuate north Kent and south Essex. And give it right now. Not in half an hour, not in the morning. Now.”
As soon as his secretary switched on the bedroom light and called his name, the Prime Minister was alert. Being woken in the dead of night meant only one thing. There was a
crisis. The chill thought snapped his brain into gear at once. He threw back the duvet and got up. Leaving his wife, he grabbed his dressing gown and said, “What is it?”
“The Head of MI5. She wouldn’t deal with me. Something about evacuating the south-east.”
In the office, the Prime Minister took the secure phone. “Yes?”
“I don’t have time for a full briefing, Prime Minister. You’re aware of the wreck of the
Richard Montgomery
in the Thames Estuary, aren’t you?”
The PM shuddered. “Yes. The one with the explosives.” It was a difficult and costly challenge that the Department of Transport was too nervous to tackle.
In 1944, the SS
Richard Montgomery
was delivering 1400 tonnes of explosives for the war effort when strong winds pushed it onto a sandbank in the River Thames. It broke its back. The
wreck with its deadly cargo had remained there ever since, two-and-a-half kilometres from Sheerness and eight kilometres from Southend. No government had risked moving it or making it safe because
one small mistake could trigger the bombs. If that happened, the blast would be one of the world’s biggest non-nuclear explosions.
“We’re facing an imminent threat,” the Head of MI5 said. “There’s an unauthorized boat moored to one of the warning buoys. The Port of London Authority has got it
on radar. We think a diver’s gone down...”
“Whose boat is it?”
“We don’t know,” she replied.
“Would anyone go there for any reason other than making trouble?”
“Not that I can think of. And the boat’s ignored radio warnings to move away from the wreck. Whoever it is, they’re not answering communications and they haven’t issued
any demands.”
The PM muttered a curse. “What are the options?”
“Very few. We can’t engage the boat militarily. Any disturbance could set the bombs off. As you know, they’re unstable. I have the army, Kent and Essex Police, the Marine and
Coastguard Agency, Medway Ports, and the emergency services on standby. I suggest we evacuate the area, up to three kilometres inland. And get as many as possible away from the gas and oil
terminals around the Isle of Grain and Canvey Island. If they go up, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“How many people is that?”
“Forty thousand. Maybe more.”
The Prime Minister made an instant decision. “Go ahead. Keep me informed.”
In the semi-darkness, the three rusted masts poking out of the water looked like sinister church crosses. The same notice had been attached to each one:
DANGER
UNEXPLODED AMMUNITION
DO NOT APPROACH OR BOARD THIS WRECK
By order
Water lapped gently – as if waiting for something to happen. Tied to a buoy, a small deserted motorboat bobbed around menacingly. Now and again, a stream of bubbles rose and broke the
surface.
Ben Smith couldn’t sleep. He stood by his bedroom window in Lower Stoke and gazed towards the Thames Estuary. The fields in front of him were never truly dark. To his
right the oil refinery was bathed in nightlights and straight ahead the Isle of Grain gas terminal was lit up like a giant fairground. Tapping out a perfect rhythm with his fingers on the
windowsill, Ben thought about the Goss family and Amy Goss in particular.
Earlier in the evening, he’d met Amy in their usual place, between the silos in the messy farm at the end of the track leading from Grain Road. That was their secret place. They’d
sat together on the earth among the grey containers that looked like eight huge, upright tubes of toothpaste. Daylight had begun to fade. In the shadows of the large cylinders, it was virtually
dark. Anyone walking within a few metres would never have known that the two thirteen-year-olds were there. They would not be seen together. They were safe.
“Who do you think did it?” Amy had whispered even though there was no one to hear them.
She was talking about the biggest thing to happen at school this term. Someone had stolen their science teacher’s mobile phone. And, Ben guessed, she wanted to talk about it because she
thought she’d get the blame. Mr. Bool was a big man – more like a bouncer than a teacher – and he always looked grouchy. He’d been increasingly tetchy recently. His accusing
eyes had turned towards Amy when he’d announced the theft. A lot of the kids had sniggered and eyeballed her as well. But Ben knew Amy better. He hadn’t believed for a second that she
was the culprit. “Well,” he’d said, “I know why everyone looked at you. Your dad’s behind ninety-nine point nine per cent of the crime on this planet...”
“Huh! Exaggeration or what?” Amy had replied. “But he’s the criminal mastermind of Lower Stoke for sure.”
“And Medway.”
“Maybe.”
“And Kent.”
“Well...”
“Everyone knows it. Even the police.”
“They haven’t arrested him.”
Ben had smiled. “Mum says she knows exactly what your dad’s up to. It’s just that she hasn’t got proof.”
“That’s her problem.”
“Yeah, but that’s why she always tells me to keep clear of the Gosses.”
“And I’m told not to mix with you,” Amy had replied with a giggle. “Cop families aren’t to be trusted – to put it mildly.”
As always, Amy looked quirky and cute. Today, it had been the combination of beanie hat and painted fingernails with hummingbird transfers that had caught Ben’s eye.
Perhaps it was the danger of being with Amy that made their friendship irresistible. If Mr. Goss ever found out, he could make life very uncomfortable – even painful – for Ben. And
for Amy. If Ben’s mum found out, she’d ground him for ever. Detective Sergeant Smith’s son could not be seen with a Goss.
As usual, Ben had begun to drum a complicated rhythm with his fingers on one of the metal struts at the base of the grain silo and Amy had begun to complain. “I still don’t know how
you do that. It’s really clever, but it drives me mad.”
“Sorry,” Ben remembered saying. Even though he hadn’t wanted to leave Amy, he’d scrambled to his feet. “It’s getting late. If I’m not back for dinner,
Mum’ll send half the Force out looking for me.”
Amy had got up as well. “Dad would just put some heavies on the street and they’d beat people up until someone said, ‘I saw her go that way with Ben Smith.’”
Poking his head out from behind the silo, Ben had reported, “All clear.”
As they’d walked back down the track together, he’d said quietly, “Anyway, I know you didn’t nick Bool’s phone.”
She had gazed into his face and nodded. “Good.”
“I know because your mobile’s much classier than his. Why would you nick it?”
In response, she’d thumped him on the arm.
They’d split up as soon as they neared Grain Road. They always left the shadows separately.
Now, it was the middle of the night and Ben still felt wide awake. Facing the window with the curtains open, he rubbed his right arm where she’d hit him. The bruise was probably still
there. He smiled because it was a friendly bruise.
It was quiet and calm as a ship, carrying 125,000 cubic metres of liquefied natural gas to the terminal on the Isle of Grain, made its way slowly along the dredged channel 200
metres from the wreck of the
Richard Montgomery
. The true size of
Ocean Courage
wasn’t clear in the gloom but its lights hinted that it was as big as a village. There were only
five small craft in the estuary and they buzzed around the lumbering monster like midges.
Without warning, the peace ended.
In a massive explosion, a vast column of seawater, mud, metal and munitions erupted from around the
Richard Montgomery
and shot into the sky. The instant mushroom was hundreds of metres
wide and over two kilometres high. Unexploded bombs from the cargo hold were hurled across the entire area. Almost at once, every single pane of glass in the town of Sheerness shattered. The Animal
Breeding Station on the seafront at the end of Beach Street took the full force of the blast and crumbled.
One of the airborne bombs crashed right through
Ocean Courage
, another pierced a gas holding tank on the Isle of Grain, and three hit the oil terminal. All of them exploded
immediately.
The night was replaced by giant splashes of bright light as each blast triggered another and then another.
Ocean Courage
became a floating inferno. Its crew of thirty had no time to save
themselves. Its supply of liquefied gas sent giant yellow spheres high into the sky.