Max Arena (33 page)

‘Ingot’s tone
remained venomous. ‘Let me be plain, General. You
will
provide me with a challenger.’

‘Mister Ingot,
the vision you just watched from CNN was recorded by two of my
finest soldiers who infiltrated the media gallery. If I was to
provide you with the asset you seek, it would likely have been
either of those two men, but they clearly indicated through the
course of the footage by coded means that they recognise their
skills to be inferior to this Max. In short, they conclude they are
no match for him and their opinions guide my decision. I cannot
help you. If a worthy challenger exists, he or she does not reside
within the United States armed forces.’

Ingot sat bolt
upright and craned forwards, his eyes firing bullets. ‘No way!
You’ve got over two million soldiers at your beck and call and
you’re telling me not a single one of them can beat this Max? No
SEAL. No Delta. No Ranger or any other Special Forces or secret
damn soldier you’ve got hidden anywhere can knock this man
over?’

‘No.’

‘No!’ Ingot
shouted back, banging his fist on the desk. Rising, he leaned
forward on his clenched fists and glared across the room. General
Stratton did not move, his demeanour holding steely cold. ‘Let me
repeat myself, General! You
will
find me a man who can beat
this Max! That’s a direct order!’

General
Stratton remained steadfast, the abuse thrown at him as
ineffectively erosive as a cloud drift against a craggy, alpine
peak. Then, after a few moments, he too rose to gather up his
attaché and peaked cap. Once collected, General Stratton flicked
his cap under his arm and straightened to squarely address the
Chief of Staff.

‘You will note,
Mister Ingot,’ the General began, ‘that I do not salute you as it
is not my requirement. Nor is it my wish. I serve at the pleasure
of the President of the United States and you are not him and as
such, I will ignore your demand. I have other matters to attend to
and so will take your leave. Have a good day.’

‘You will not
turn your back on me!’

General
Stratton continued walking towards the door.

‘Damn it, man!’
Ingot erupted. ‘You
will
find me a man who can kill this
Max, so I can control them in turn and then kill them off!’

General
Stratton paused, his hand clasping the door handle. Ingot stood
ramrod behind his desk. Tension rippled throughout the room.
Finally, General Stratton turned, slowly and deliberately to refix
his gaze on the Chief of Staff whose red, tendon lined face
glowered back. The elderly soldier’s ice blue focus polarised the
politician’s volcanic fury. The General spoke first.

‘Mister Ingot,
you underestimate the nature of my patriotism. Whilst I too wish
the champion of the human race could be a United States born and
bred warrior, that wish will not be borne true from the ranks of
our military. So, to serve the greater good of all mankind, I defer
the honour of champion to the individual who is clearly best suited
for the endeavour and from my estimations, that individual is Max.
He appears to be the warrior we need and as such I encourage you to
leave him unhindered. At the very least, your quest to usurp Max’s
role will gain no support from myself. This conversation is
concluded and again, I bid you good day.’

The two men
stayed glued together for a few moments longer and then General
Stratton turned and opened the door. With fresh colour rising in
his face, Charles Ingot the Third watched the Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs of Staff close the door and leave him alone.

2pm, 15
^th
August (8 days later).
Maximum Exposure

Max walked out
of the dressing shed beneath the clubhouse and down the length of
the tunnel leading to the playing field. As he ventured through the
semi-darkness towards the bright light at the end of the corridor,
he became aware of the growing sound ahead of him. It began as
background static, like the white noise of an aircraft cabin in
flight. Steadily the noise grew to the constant chatter of a
flowing stream and then even more to the incessant drone of traffic
speeding along a motorway.

Reaching the
brink of the tunnel, the shadow of the subterranean gloom ended at
Max’s feet and the stark brightness of the mid afternoon sunshine
pushed up against the toes of his orange sneakers. The sound of the
motorway had now risen to the steady roar of the sea as if standing
on the beach to behold the great majesty of the ocean.

There was a
crowd outside around the playing field and it had to be five or six
thousand strong. Max could not make out the people in the glare of
the daylight and even if he had not been able to hear them, he
could
feel
them. Tension filled the air like an archer’s
bowstring. He could even feel the ground trembling through the
rubber soles of his shoes. The masses had come. He now had to make
them believe he was their saviour. That was the only way Max could
assure the safety of his family, by convincing the world that he
deserved their unconditional support and that he was not a false
hope that should be challenged or worse, doubted

Kris walked up
behind Max and also stopped short of the threshold. ‘Don’t tell me
you’ve got stage fright?’ she asked.

‘You really
think this is going to work?’ Max asked back.

‘This is
you
we’re talking about,’ Kris replied. ‘You’re the entire
Olympics rolled into one. What’s not to like?’

Max turned to
face her, his expression stone. ‘You know I trust you,’ he said.
‘You’re as good as family to me now and family is everything. If
you
say this will work and will keep us all safe, then
that’s good enough for me.’

Kris didn’t
smile. She didn’t nod. She simply said, ‘It will work.’

Max did nod.
‘Okay. You’ll get everything I got.’

‘I always do,’
Kris replied. ‘You just repeat what you did for the media last week
and you’ll have this lot throwing their underwear and babies at
you. It’s a standard speed and power session today. Forty-five
minutes of dynamic weights and sprints. Easy stuff.’

Max turned back
to the light, his eyes adjusting to the glare. Outside, he could
now see the dense crowd lining the edge of the playing field on the
opposite side. He could see the freshly cropped grass of the
playing surface, its condition mint green despite being the off
season of the local football league. Max could also see some of the
training equipment laid out in the centre of the field. The stage
was set and there was only one thing missing.

‘It’s show
time,’ Kris said quietly, just above the dull roar of the
crowd.

‘Yes, it is,’
Max said in return.

‘You go make an
entrance,’ Kris added ‘and I’ll see you out there in a minute.’

After just a
few seconds hesitation, Max strode over the threshold and out onto
the grass. The crowd instantly erupted. As he walked towards the
centre of the field, he pirouetted a full three hundred and sixty
degrees to survey the full circumference of the playing field.

The crowd
pressed up to the railing at the edge of the field on all sides,
more than twenty deep in places. Just inside the railing, a rank of
plain clothes security guards stood evenly spaced every ten or so
metres, their backs to Max and their eyes undoubtedly dissecting
the human mass in front of them for any signs of trouble. Scaffold
towers bearing cameras atop them were also spaced out around the
exterior of the field with extra cameras mounted on top of the
clubhouse and grandstand. The images they were capturing were not
only being beamed live to a global audience, but also to the
massive LCD screen perched on the roof of the clubhouse.

Overhead, Max
could also count at least three helicopters rattling away. One he
recognised as a TV station chopper, its aerial image of the field
and the swarming crowd surrounding it, currently on display on the
big screen. The other two choppers were unmarked and Max suspected
they carried snipers and general surveillance staff. Max also knew
there were other snipers spread around the grounds, hidden from
view, but clinically observing all.

Max could not
make out any specific sound bites from the crowd as the shouting
and yelling melded into a deafening cacophony, but there were
placards. Some of them supportive, but there were also more than a
couple that did not cast favour on him. At least two of them were
direct, unabashed death threats, but most were just generally
defeatist, predicting the end of the world was inevitable and no
human stood a chance in the arena. Max turned away from them
all.

Casting a
glance up to the clubhouse atop the solitary grandstand, Max
imagined he could see through the glass to where Elsa, Jason and
Millie stood, most likely huddled together up against the window.
He was doing this “show” against his better judgement, but Elsa,
Kris and Abdullah were convinced it was the right thing to do and
he trusted them all completely, so here he was, surrounded by
thousands and on display like a prize pony except this was no
little town show. This was a warm-up for Armageddon.

Turning back to
the front, Max reached the middle of the playing field. The roar of
the crowd was unyielding, but he had relegated it into the
background, his senses piquing. Scanning about, Max noted the
course spread out across the playing field. He locked into memory
all of the equipment Kris had laid out, what it was, its location,
the patterns the lay out formed and the various ways in which he
would be instructed to utilise each piece and in what order. The
kit comprised a collection of dumbbells, weighted barbells, heavy
kettlebells, cones and metal boxes. All standard stuff, but in the
hands of an expert physical trainer, it was a recipe for torture.
Max felt another presence come up behind him.

‘You know
they’re already loving those orange shoes,’ Kris shouted above the
din.

‘Let’s give
them something else to love,’ Max shouted back and then from his
pocket, he retrieved a single communications earpiece, slipping it
in place over his right ear. He then retrieved a tiny transponder
from his pocket and taped it onto the base of his throat. Finally,
he turned back to face Kris.

Kris smiled and
placed her headset on, positioning the microphone arm directly in
front of her lips. ‘You got me?’ she asked.

‘Loud and
clear,’ came Max’s reply in her ears.

Kris looked to
the side to see a group of burly men jog out onto the field to
disperse in groups of three to the four quadrants of the field.

‘In case you’re
wondering,’ Kris added, ‘the hired help double up as extra
security. I’m safe as houses out here.’

‘I know. That’s
because
I’m
here.’

Kris’ smile
broadened. ‘Let’s get this party started.’

She then held
up both hands and the massive, LCD clock display perched on top of
the clubhouse lit up, showing the number ten. The crowd went nuts.
Kris paused and then dropped both hands. The clock began to count
down.

‘Let’s start
with ten burpees,’ Kris said, ‘and then haul arse over to the boxes
and get creative. Your call, but after that, you’re doing tumbling
runs back and forth across the field. At least six and spice it up
too.’

Max nodded.

Kris’ gaze took
Max in and again awe consumed her. Max had assumed his typical
stance. Amidst this throng of humanity, he didn’t just stand firm.
He was absolutely unassailable, his face cast iron and every fibre
of his body taught as steel. The clock hit zero. A horn blasted and
Max launched into action. The crowd exploded.

For the next
forty-five minutes, while Max ripped through the routine, Abdullah
stood up against the full length windows in the clubhouse, unmoving
and unblinking. He had witnessed Max perform similar, Herculean
feats on several occasions prior to today, so instead he directed
his attention to the crowd.

This
performance was crucial. It had to serve two purposes. The first
was to force Max to integrate with the public. His focused,
personal drive to safeguard his family through victory in the arena
was admirable and noble, but for Max to reach his full potential,
he needed to know that the world itself was worth saving. Knowing
that fact, believing that fact and fighting for that fact could
only lift him even higher. By performing in front of the public and
inspiring them to support him, Max might just realise that the
world beyond his personal space is in fact a wonderful place full
of good people.

The second
purpose was the complete reverse of the first. The public needed to
see Max. They needed to get to know him and realise that if the
world is going to be saved, then there is undoubtedly no better or
greater champion than Max. Abdullah himself had no doubts what so
ever that Max would win over the public. His physical prowess had
already won over the most powerful leaders in the world and as for
the public, Max would easily be the most exciting athlete they
would ever see. Then, with the public won over and in full support,
the constant security threats and negative sentiments would die off
and not only would he and his family be safe, but he would be the
hero everyone needed right now.

So, instead of
watching Max charge through the training session like a god come to
Earth, Sheikh Abdullah watched the crowd. Before Max strode onto
the field, the crowd was generally restless, just eager to see this
mystery man who had been selected not by them, but
for
them
by an alien race, to defend their lives. It was hard to tell if the
crowd was for or against Max with some clear pockets of support and
other clear pockets of dissent and unfortunately, hatred. Then when
Max started his routine, the crowd ramped up the volume with the
sentiment becoming clearly negative, mainly as they realised there
would be no weapons on show, only physical training. It made sense.
The crowd needed to know their ordained champion was skilled at
killing and drawing blood. The public needed to see swords and
knives, not push ups and weights exercises.