Killing Time

CHAPTER 18

I managed to ignore the vessel's Klaxon for several minutes, but then it was joined by the sound of firm knocking on my compartment door. I dragged myself to my feet and soon found myself looking into Julien Fouché's broad, bearded features. He was wearing his body armor and had a sidearm strapped to his waist.

"It's time, Doctor," he said, handing me my own coveralls and boots, as well as the same stun pistol that Jonah had shown me in the arsenal. "The Americans will launch their raid soon, and apparently our Muslim friends are not entirely cooperating. The situation is delicate — Malcolm feels your assistance on the ground will be of great value."

"Mine?" I said, trying to get into the coveralls. "But why?" "Their leader is a particularly neurotic and unpredictable fellow who seems genuinely prepared to make a martyr of himself, which would be perfectly acceptable to all of us, if only he had not convinced his wives and children to remain with him by offering assurances of favored places in Paradise. Malcolm seems to think that you may be able to persuade him to change his mind." Watching me struggle half-wittedly with the coveralls, Fouché began to help me into them impatiently. "Tonnerre, Gideon, one would think you had never dressed yourself!"

I made a more concerted effort to focus, and as I did, a question occurred to me: "Say, Julien, there's one thing I don't understand. It was the Chinese, not the Afghans, who killed President Forrester, right? And that's why we're here. But what made the Chinese do it?"

"Your Madame President had something resembling scruples," Fouché answered, "though they were well hidden. When shown pictures of the final massacre of the Falun Gong cult in 2018, she told her cabinet that she intended to bring Beijing's trade status up for congressional review."

"Her cabinet? So how'd the Chinese security forces find out?"

"Gideon," Fouché scolded, hustling me down the corridor, "are you really so naïve? Since the turn of the century the Chinese have made a point of having at least one American cabinet minister in their pockets — further proof, of course, that increased trade with the outside world has done nothing to change the way the Chinese do real business. No amount of money, however, would have prevented a crisis if the truth about the assassination had become known. And war between America and China would have been—"

"Catastrophic," I said with a nod. "So that's why Malcolm doctored the footage."

Fouché smiled. "Righteous mischief is irresistible to him."

We arrived amidships, and Fouché reached up next to one of the golden-framed paintings that hung on the corridor wall to touch a concealed control panel. "The others have gone on ahead to clear a path, and Larissa will cover us all from the turret." Suddenly a section of the deck below me began to rise, revealing a hatchway that contained a retractable flight of steps extending down to a few feet above the ground. Echoing up through the hatchway, I could hear voices shouting and the sounds of helicopter and diesel automotive engines.

But what I noticed most was the fantastic heat that was radiating up from the ground: it was far in excess of anything I'd expected or could explain.

"Yes," Fouché said, catching my consternation. "The apparatus has engaged. We have less than an hour."

"Until what?" I queried nervously as he started down the steps.

"Until any human foolish enough to remain in this area burns up like so much paper," Fouché answered, jumping to the ground and then waving me down. "Come! Time presses!"

The landscape surrounding the ship was not unlike that of many other countries in the "analog archipelago," that patchwork of countries that had fallen so far behind in the digital technology race that they'd given up the struggle. But the chaos that was enveloping this stretch of the valley of the Amu Darya was alarming even for one of the most backward of nations. Emerging from large tunnel entrances supported by enormous timbers and fortified with sandbags was a host of people, some dressed in military fatigues and some in traditional Islamic garb, all rushing toward a great collection of buses, helicopters, and jeeps. Many of the women bore small children who were, for the most part, screaming, and small wonder: the noise and the heat, combined with the looming silhouette of Tressalian's ship, would have been enough to terrify much older and more comprehending souls. Me, for instance.

Looking ahead and through the dust whipped up by the chopper blades, I could see Slayton, Tarbell, and the Kupermans fanned out with weapons drawn. They were moving toward one tunnel entrance in particular, using their own stun guns to incapacitate the occasional confused man who, apparently mistaking our team for members of the approaching American task force, stepped forward to try to stop us. As Fouché and I followed the others to the tunnel, I called out:

"Julien! Just what «this 'apparatus,' anyway?"

"A euphemistic label, eh?" Fouché answered with a laugh. "It is a weapon that your country's air force began to research in the late twentieth century — but they were never able to build a successful prototype. Colonel Slayton brought us the plans, Malcolm and Larissa refined them, and observe — a small glimpse of Hell!"

"But what does it do?" I asked, realizing that although the sun had only just come over the eastern horizon, the temperature was climbing fantastically from one minute to the next.

"Destruction of the ozone layer over a confined area!" Fouché shouted back. "The Americans were never able to keep the hole stable or to close it when they wished!"

"And you can," I said, astonished. "But where is the damned thing?"

"The projecting unit is on Malcolm's island in the North Sea! It operates through a series of satellites — Tressalian satellites!"

Suddenly and from all too close came the sharp report of small-arms fire. With a speed that shocked me, Fouché almost flew in my direction, enveloping me in his big arms and then gracefully rolling with me behind some nearby rocks. When we looked up, we saw that the shots had been fired by a man who was trying to keep any more people from boarding his already overloaded helicopter, which in a few seconds took off and began a flight toward the southeast.

"Do not stand," Fouché said, "until we have received the all clear from the colonel."

Breathing hard and shaking my head, I studied my companion for a moment. "Julien," I gasped, "what the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

He smiled again. "Saving your skin, just at the moment, Gideon."

"You know what I mean," I said. "What are you doing out here with this bunch? You were one of the most renowned and respected scholars in your field."

"Yes," he said with a nod. "And one of the unhappiest." Then, catching sight of a signal from Colonel Slayton, he pulled me up. His voice softened somewhat as we continued to move forward through the dust and the heat toward the target tunnel's entrance. "You see, Gideon, my wife was one of the first victims of the staphylococcus epidemic." I tried to express my sympathy, but he quickly waved me off. "There were many millions who shared my tragedy. But what troubled me most was that she had predicted the manner of her own death years earlier. She was a surgeon, you see. And she had repeatedly told me that economic pressures were causing her colleagues and their nursing staffs to attend to so many patients that they had begun to ignore fundamental practices that took up precious minutes — such as washing their hands. Did you know, Gideon, that the breakdown of hospital hygiene was the single greatest cause of the '06 plague? And why? Why should people like doctors and nurses, people with lives dependent on them, feel such pressure?"

He spat at the ground, anger mixing with his sorrow. "Because our world had sanctified the goal not of success but of wealth. Not of sufficiency but of excess. And nothing has embodied and propagated that philosophy more than the Internet and all that has followed in its wake. All that mindless, endless marketing of useless goods to those who do not need them, who cannot afford them— until one day compassion is utterly destroyed by avarice gone mad. Politicians, insurance companies, and, yes, even doctors and nurses become so madly bound up in the desire for profit and acquisition that they forget that their first duty is to serve and to heal. They neglect every fundamental principle and practice — even something so simple as washing their hands…"

So there it was. Of all the people on the ship, Fouché was the one whose reasons for participation I hadn't yet been able to fathom, simply because molecular biology didn't seem to have any obvious connection to the business of revising history and combating the information society. And, as it turned out, it was less a professional imperative than a personal one that had driven him into this active exile.

"At any rate," he went on, "when I was a teacher to Malcolm and les frères Kuperman, I at first thought them simply an amusing collection of university pranksters. But when I later learned how deep their convictions ran, I decided I would cast my lot with them. And perhaps if we succeed — perhaps if Malcolm is right and the great body of the world's people can be shown the dangers of this age— then perhaps also the deaths of the millions in such nightmares as the epidemic will mean something.''''

His eyes went narrow as he continued to watch the others, and then his voice picked up strength: "Ah! We are cleared to enter the tunnel, I see. Time for you to make your first appearance on the grand stage, Gideon!"

The events of the next hour or so were a strange but exhilarating combination of a visit to a hospital for the criminally insane and some boyhood adventure tale brought to life. Leaving the Kupermans to stand guard at the tunnel's entrance, Slayton, Tarbell, Fouché, and I made our way down through the Islamic terrorists' labyrinthine underground lair to an enormous chamber that was hung with silk banners. Against the walls of the chamber sat a collection of young women who appeared, through their veils, to be extremely beautiful, along with a dozen children. And atop some cushions placed on a plush carpet in the center of the space reclined its sole male occupant, that internationally infamous character who went by the rather ambitious name Suleyman ibn Muhammed. From the look of things in the chamber I guessed that ibn Muhammed was a firm believer in polygamy; and from the look in his eyes, I could see that he was also quite a disciple of opium, the sickly sweet smell of which mingled with the strong scent of earth to produce an oppressive atmosphere around us.

It was obvious that ibn Muhammed was in a deranged state, so I focused my attention on his women. Speaking through Tarbell— who turned out to be a master linguist, in keeping with his work as a consummate forger — I described what was about to happen to the countryside around them, using what imagery concerning divine fire I could remember from a college reading of the Koran. As I was speaking, the temperature, even that far underground, continued to rise at an alarming rate, and I pointed out that this had nothing to do with the Americans, which meant that if the women and children died, they would not enter Paradise as martyrs. Ibn Muhammed tried to voice protests but could make no sense; and so eventually the women took their children and followed us out, boarding one of the last vehicles to depart the area and leaving their leader behind to bake in what would shortly become an underground oven.

Our team got quickly and safely back aboard our vessel, to be greeted by Malcolm, whose condition was much improved. As the ship began to withdraw to the. north, he asked a flood of questions about the mission, but I for one was utterly spent and told him that I couldn't possibly talk without getting some more substantial rest than I'd had that morning. Stumbling back through the corridors and into my quarters, I found them darkened, save for the glow of a lone candle that was sitting on an antique night table—

And by the light of that singularly low-tech implement, I could see Larissa waiting in my bed, naked under a comforter and smiling her most charming smile. Ordinarily this would hardly have been an unwelcome sight; but given all I'd heard that morning, there was nothing ordinary about the situation.

Larissa instantly read the trepidation in my face. "Oh, dear," she sighed, the silver hair wafting around her face and the dark eyes glittering. "The boys have been talking, I see."

"Yes," I said.

She studied me carefully, and behind the coyness I thought I could see genuine disappointment. "Scared you off, did they?"

I shook my head. "Not necessarily. But I'm curious, Larissa. You see, they didn't tell me the only story I really need to hear."

"Oh?" She dipped a finger in the candle's pooling wax. "And which one might that be?"

I took a tentative step inside the doorway. "What drove you and your brother to do all these things? Originally, I mean. I'm sorry, but I am a psychiatrist — you must've known that I'd ask. Surely Malcolm knew."

Larissa just kept smiling. "Yes. We both did. Well…" She lifted the comforter that covered her. "You'd better come to bed, Doctor, and let me explain."

I stepped fully inside and closed the door to my quarters just as, in the distance behind us, the first of the pilotless American fighter-bombers began to release their payloads, raining cataclysmic destruction down on the now-burning Afghan plain.