Option on Tomorrow

CHAPTER 1

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Langley Hall, Hampshire, England

Six men sat at a large mahogany table in an elegantly furnished room. Each man wore an identification tag with a digital photo hanging from a ribbon around his neck, and each man represented a specialist faction of the terrorist organisation Al-Qaeda. They had been summoned to attend urgently and were now impatiently waiting for their host to present himself and explain the reason for this extraordinary meeting.

On the dot of 3 p.m., the heavily padded door opened and a tall, dark-complexioned man wearing a navy suit limped briskly into the room. He was in his mid-forties, and his broad shoulders and thick neck gave the impression of great physical strength. He sat down at the head of the table, placed a thick folder in front of him, then studied the faces of each man.

‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please,’ he said in a falsetto voice, and six pairs of eyes riveted on his large face. ‘Firstly, I trust you’ve all enjoyed your lunch. We have an excellent kitchen here as I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m only sorry I couldn’t join you. I should also like to thank you for coming, and I apologise for the short notice. However, after you hear my news, I know you’ll agree that it was worth your while. But before we go into that, let me introduce myself to the two of you who haven’t met me before; I’m Miles Griffin, controller of West European operations. I’m also in charge of the current project that we’re directing from my house here.

‘For the benefit of the new members at our table,’ he continued, ‘I will tell you the following; I joined our organisation two years before the war in Iraq officially ended. My family perished in that war at the hands of our common enemy the Americans. After recovering in hospital, I returned to Baghdad to search for the truth and to avenge my family. My sister-in-law was kidnapped from the war orphans home where she worked as a doctor, and a video was sent to the TV station Al Jazeera with some ridiculous demands. My Iraqi friends recognised it as a fake, identified the place where it was filmed, and with their help we freed her. Her kidnappers confessed to being mercenaries belonging to a clan called Legion of the Just, who were financed privately to masquerade as Al-Qaeda members. After that, I stayed in Baghdad and uncovered more fake operations initiated by the enemy.

‘A while later, I was promoted to the senior directorate and entrusted with my present task.’ He stopped at this point and looked intently at each member of the meeting in turn. Then, ignoring their presence, he opened the folder in front of him, and after placing a pair of gold-framed reading glasses on his large nose, he took out several sheets of paper and studied them briefly.

‘Do we call you Sir Miles?’ interrupted a guttural American voice.

Griffin looked up, and with an expression of distaste, ran his eyes over the well-fed hairless face, noting the sparse blond hair on the narrow, egg-shaped head and the arrogant blue eyes. Griffin passionately hated Americans of all shapes and sizes. But he also knew that this guy was somebody special, mainly because of his extraordinary talent in operational strategy. Also, he was supposed to be a brilliant geologist. Griffin swallowed his dislike and with an effort softened his gaze.

‘Please don’t, Mr Taggart.’ He shook his head, and a heavy lock of black hair fell over his intense dark eyes. ‘They insisted I take a knighthood for dedicated services to the Crown. I accepted because one cannot refuse. They knighted my father after forty-five years of selfless loyalty. I got it after five. That shows how values have changed, and what little meaning this sort of thing nowadays has. It’s a penny a dozen. They give it to anybody including drug addicts and pop singers, and such scum. Soon we’ll be seeing vagrants running around with OBEs pinned to their chests.’ He took a cigar from the humidor on the table and carefully lit it with a match while his eyes surveyed his audience.

‘Smoke if you wish, gentlemen,’ Griffin said, ‘but now let’s get down to important matters. As you know, ever since the Gulf War of 1991 in which forty thousand Iraqi civilians died, our organisation has been working on a plan to hit back at the US for their atrocities against the Arab world. And here I don’t just mean car bombs and a couple of planes crashing into buildings. Since then, the Americans started another war to steal oil, killing hundreds of thousands of innocent people in the process, and locking away thousands more.’ He paused to wipe perspiration from his brow, which appeared despite the air conditioning.

‘Not to mention the fact, gentlemen,’ he continued, the pitch of his voice rising, ‘that they’ve destroyed a large part of the country’s infrastructure, bombed ancient buildings and stolen everything they could lay their hands on. Remember, and this is a historical fact; they started this war with a lie, exactly as they did in Vietnam. The world stands by and nobody dares to stand up to these arrogant bastards. They ignore the UN, they ignore world opinion, and they do as they please. They feel destined to rule the world, as their presidents keep reminding us barefacedly.’

‘I can see you still feel very passionate about this, my brother,’ said a slim, elegantly dressed Arab, the eldest of the three at the table. ‘Your dear mother would be proud of you.’

Griffin looked at the Arab with deep affection.

‘Thank you, Aziz. I feel the same as you do even though I’m only half-Iraqi. But I don’t think nationalities come into this.’ He turned to the others. ‘We all have our own reasons for revenge. Some of you represent organisations of commercial interests who lost a great deal of money as the result of American interference, and it’s only natural you’d want that back. And you will get it back. I guarantee it!’

‘The plan I referred to earlier is complete, with most of its primary targets achieved on schedule, as you are aware from your periodic briefing.’ Puffing on his cigar, Griffin glanced down at his papers. ‘Some of you may have heard about a satellite named Sky-Eye, which was developed for the Americans, supposedly to watch out for environmental contamination. Bullshit! This satellite is the supreme weapon. It’s armed with Air to Surface Missiles some of which have nuclear warheads. They planned to use it in the Gulf War in the event that they weren’t winning. After the war, NASA parked Sky-Eye in deep-space where it remained, waiting to be called back and do its awesome work at the whim of any deranged US president.’ He paused again and reaching for a bottle of mineral water on the table, poured a glassful and drank in great gulps before resuming.

‘It took us two years of concerted effort as well as large sums of cash to put together a team of scientists and engineers to work for us, who joined either because of their convictions or love for money. Their first task was to bring Sky-Eye back to Earth orbit. That has taken months, but now Sky-Eye is currently being stabilised, after which we can do with it as we please.’

‘Bravo! Excellent! Well done!’ Several of the men burst out grinning widely.

‘Thank you,’ Griffin smiled back at them. ‘We’ve had one unforeseen problem, however. Some of our people at the Pentagon have been exposed, and the others must now tread very carefully. Because of this problem, temporary as it might be, we haven’t yet been able to get hold of the computer program to activate Sky-Eye’s weaponry. But ...’

‘Hell!’ interrupted the American. ‘What do we do now? I thought we were here to listen to a success story, not to hear about goddamned failures! I am to present to this meeting here today the result of months of my work and give you guys a target that would take your collective breath away. Instead, I have to hear of your failures!’

‘If you’d kindly let me finish then you’ll learn exactly what we’re going to do. We’ll come to discussing the target later,’ Griffin stated firmly, controlling his anger with difficulty. He stared at his papers to give himself time to calm down before continuing, but it was obvious to the rest of the attendees that the American riled him.

‘Following an intensive search,’ Griffin went on, ‘I’ve located the only man who could do the job for us without the need for the computer program, and thus, make sure we’ll be on schedule.’

‘Who is this man?’ asked somebody with an East-European accent.

‘A spacecraft engineer named Frank Adams. Here is his biography,’ Griffin replied, and taking several pages from his folder, each with a 6x4 inch photograph attached, he slid them down the table, then waited, letting them absorb the information he was so proud of.

‘Gentlemen,’ Griffin said, seeing heads raised, ‘as you’ve just read, Adams is the designer of Sky-Eye’s weapons system, and as such he’s best qualified to activate it for us.’

‘But is this guy going to play ball?’ drawled the American. ‘And I see he lives in Toronto. How will you get him over here?’

‘I’ll buy him,’ Griffin answered, again irritated, not liking the question.

‘Yeah? Suppose he doesn’t want to be bought, what then?’

‘Everybody has a price; you should know that. Of course, where you come from prices are much lower than here in Old Europe, as you people call it. However, should that not work, there are other ways and means to make him cooperate. Your second question ... I don’t consider relevant enough to answer. Suffice to say, a plan is in place and Adams will be here when we need him.’ He turned to the others. ‘As you see, gentlemen, everything is going according to plan. Very soon you’ll all be financially rewarded, and we’ll hit the Americans where it hurts most.’

‘Money has no meaning to us,’ said the man Griffin called Aziz. ‘We only care about avenging our humiliation and our dead.’

‘Yes, I know, my brother,’ Griffin replied quietly and looked at the Arab with genuine emotion in his dark eyes. ‘We’ll both have our revenge, I promise you.’

‘Excuse me,’ said the American loudly. ‘But coming back to this guy, your Frank Adams? I see he has a colourful past, and from what you’ve written here, he’s a real tough cookie. He was in the SAS during the Iraqi war, captured and held an enemy outpost despite having been severely wounded in the head. And you insist you can get him to do as you want?’

‘I have already explained how I’m going to proceed,’ Griffin said, his voice rising in irritation. ‘But, don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with him. I shall do that personally. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Not quite,’ drawled the American. ‘I’d still like to know a little more about this guy before you go ahead buying him, as you put it. For instance, what’s a spacecraft engineer doing in the SAS? And how can you be sure that an alcoholic is able to do the job?’

‘I don’t know where you’ve learned to read, friend,’ Griffin said sarcastically. ‘I’ve not written that Adams is an alcoholic. What, in fact, is on the information sheet in front of you is that he used to have a problem with alcohol, which means this problem does not exist any more. I didn’t think it relevant to further expand on his army service. But, to satisfy your curiosity, Colonel Adams was already a captain in the Territorial Army’s Paratrooper Regiment when the war in Iraq started and being a patriot he volunteered. Because of his exceptional military acumen, he was accepted into the SAS’ selection training programme, at the end of which, he was awarded the winged dagger badge. He was promoted in the field, and highly decorated. But now there is no more to be discussed on the subject,’ Griffin said, his eyes boring into the American. ‘I’d now like to continue.’

He dug into the folder, extracted a sheet of paper and after glancing at it, he addressed his companions once again. ‘Gentlemen, we now come to selecting the target. You will recall that during our last meeting we discussed three possible objectives: Fort Worth, Kennedy Space Center and Los Alamos, where they keep their nuclear weapons. Another target might be the US Army’s primary bomb manufacturing plant in McAlester, Oklahoma. We must decide on one of these now.’

‘Why not all four?’ asked a slightly built man quietly, a German from Hamburg who, Griffin knew, was one of the organisers of the attack on the World Trade Center in 2001. He was sitting furthest away from Griffin on the left, and as he leant on the table peering over his glasses past his neighbour, there was nothing in his bearing to suggest he was anything other than a primary schoolteacher; which, in fact, he was.

‘That’s not a bad idea, Herr Kohler, but our experts told me that won’t work,’ Griffin replied. ‘We could only have one pass and, therefore, one firing chance with Sky-Eye before they’d retaliate. Unfortunately, these targets are too wide apart to hit simultaneously.’

‘These are Micky Mouse targets, you guys. Take it from me,’ said the American with a derisive grin. ‘You’ve got to hit them somewhere where they know themselves what the consequences will be, which must be much more devastating than what you guys here have been breaking your heads over. And of course, it must be something that will make them pay up pronto, and whatever sum we demand.’

‘And you’ve got exactly the right target, I take it?’ asked the East-European with sarcasm.

‘I sure do, buddy boy. I’ve got it all worked out. Now listen to this,’ he said and took some papers out of a slim document case and spread them on the table. ‘As I said earlier I’ve got a target that will make you forget everything you’ve ever thought of before. This is the target of all targets,’ he drawled.

‘You know, before meeting you I used to think English was a civilised language, but you Americans fixed that too,’ Griffin said testily. ‘Elaborate, but concisely please,’ he added.

‘Okay, here goes,’ Taggart went on, the sarcasm not registering on him. ‘I guess most people heard of the Yellowstone National Park in the heart of the good old US of A. It’s in the Rocky Mountains in my home state of Wyoming, and it’s spread over several million acres. However, what most people don’t know is that not far under the surface boils the world’s biggest and most dangerous volcano. It’s over fifty miles across and, thus, bigger than all the volcanoes on Earth put together. It erupts every six-hundred thousand years or so, and, what’s more, it’s now overdue by about forty thousand. Why that’s so, we don’t know. But what we do know – and I speak from personal experience – is that a magma blister with an area of over a thousand square miles and ten miles deep is growing not far below the surface there. Now, what do you think of that then?’ He looked around smiling triumphantly.

‘You mean you want to launch into this volcano?’ Griffin said incredulously.

‘I can see you don’t understand,’ replied the American condescendingly. ‘Okay. I’ll explain it to you. This magma blister is expanding year by year upwards, pushing the Earth’s crust above it higher and higher. In doing so, it creeps nearer and nearer to millions of cubic metres of groundwater. When the two meet, there will be an explosion like the world has never seen before and a large part of America would cease to exist. After that, there’d be so much volcanic ash in the atmosphere that they’d not see the sun for scores of years. What I’m saying is; with a couple of well-aimed missiles from Sky-Eye we could blow away the soil between the magma and the ground water, and that will be that.’ He leant back in his chair and looked around grinning smugly.

There was stunned silence that nobody was willing to break. The smokers lit up, others reached for refreshments on the table, all avoiding even a glance at one another. They wanted no part of this. Threatening, or even killing a few Americans they could live with. But, doing what Taggart said would be more than that. A great deal more.

Griffin was the first to find his voice. ‘Do you actually mean,’ he demanded, his falsetto trembling, ‘that you want to kill, millions of people?’

‘What the chicken shit do you care? Haven’t they wiped out your folks and made you a cripple? Anyway, the ants would probably survive,’ he snickered and peered around at the others to see who shared his joke. His eyes met with blank stares. He shrugged and taking chewing gum out of his top pocket, he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth.

‘You’re mad, Taggart,’ Griffin said coldly. ‘You want to commit mass murder, a holocaust? I’m in charge here, and we’re not going to do it. And that’s final!’

‘Well, that might just change sooner than you think, buddy,’ Taggart drawled sarcastically.

CHAPTER 2

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Frank Adams was halfway out the door about to go on a hiking and canoeing holiday when the telephone rang. Thinking it might be the airline he was flying with, he turned, dropped his bags and picked up the receiver. ‘Adams,’ he said, already half resigned to a delay in take-off.

‘Hello, Frank. It’s me. Thank God you’re still there,’ sighed Annie Hutton, his motherly secretary.

‘What’s up, dear?’ he asked, suppressing his impatience.

‘Sorry about this, Frank. I know you’re in a hurry, so I’ll be brief. Bob Hardy of Sat-Tech in England called. He said they’ve had some serious problems during testing of our unit, but as they can’t find the fault, they want you to phone back right away. I explained that you were on vacation, but he insisted that I find you wherever you are. If you want me to, I’ll call him and say your plane had already gone.’

‘No, no. That’s okay, Annie. ‘Bob wouldn’t have called about something trivial. I’ll phone him right away. Meanwhile, please call the airfield and re-book for tomorrow. I’ll probably not make it today.’

Finishing the call, he took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, picked up the telephone and sat down in the nearest armchair. Stretching out his long legs and ignoring the impatient hooting of the waiting taxi, he punched in Sat-Tech’s number.

That’s how the nightmare had begun.

It turned out that due to a failure during satellite testing, a unit his firm had designed and whose manufacture in Canada they’d supervised had shut down. Adams knew this was a built-in safety measure to avoid damage caused by defects spreading across from other units if any occurred. But it also meant the satellite itself was non-functional, and tests could not be continued. The British company needed his intimate knowledge of the unit to get it restarted. Hardy told him that in addition they also wanted him to take part in a failure investigation to find and eliminate the cause.

Being fully aware of the financial loss that a lengthy stoppage at this stage of the satellite’s payload development meant and, indeed, endangering future contracts for his firm if he refused, Adams reluctantly agreed to postpone his holidays and take the first flight to London.

He phoned his secretary to make the necessary arrangements and to tell her to inform Roger Hunt, his junior partner who was attending a convention in Montreal. Then, after dismissing the grumbling taxi driver with a $20 note, he took off his denim jacket and, with another bottle of mineral water in hand, sat down at his computer and logged into his office network.

Twenty minutes later, having copied technical data onto a USB stick, Adams stood up, stretched his six-foot-three frame, then packed his suitcases with items more suitable for his new destination. He dressed in a lightweight grey suit and blue shirt and picking up his cases, he left for the airport.

CHAPTER 3

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Setting foot on British soil after so many years of absence made Adams feel sentimental, and that surprised him. He thought that his love for this country was long dead and buried. He was also apprehensive. Too much had happened in the past that still bothered him.

An email from Annie confirming his hotel booking was waiting for him at the Air Canada desk when he landed at Heathrow shortly before noon the following day. She had booked him into a small hotel near Sat-Tech in Croydon, Surrey, not knowing the hotel was located in the centre of the area where Adams used to live. Neither could she have known that in her motherly care for his well-being, she’d triggered off a string of sinister events.

While Adams waited at Heathrow for his luggage to be loaded onto Sat-Tech’s helicopter, he tried to analyse his feelings. More than ten years had passed since he was in Croydon, the town where he was born and bred and had spent most of his forty-five years. He was not afraid of being recognised. He knew that his ex-wife had moved away, as had probably many of his old mates, the ones booze had not yet killed off.

He was not a drinker any more and knew he would not be visiting pubs and bars where he used to be one of the most loyal regulars. Apart from that, he was now several years older, forty pounds lighter and as fit as when he was in the army. His face was now lean and well proportioned. His deep-set grey eyes were as crystal clear as the waters of the springs he drank from when out in the country. And since the accident in the Rockies, his hair was white. So, he thought, he shouldn’t worry about anybody bothering him. Either friend or foe.

***

Having finished a meeting with Sat-Tech engineers some five hours later, Adams stuffed his briefcase full of test data and excused himself from the customary welcome dinner and booze-up. Alcoholics, reformed or not, are only ever just one drink away from relapsing into old habits. Acutely aware of that, Frank Adams avoided situations where he might be tempted. He had promised himself a long time ago that he would never be a two-time loser. The price he had paid once was a price he’d never want to pay again.

He was driven to his hotel in a company Mercedes. Settling back against the soft leather upholstery, he lowered the side window to see better, to feel the breeze on his face and to breathe in the warm evening air.

The sun was low on the horizon; its red rays shimmered in the tinted windows of high-rise office buildings giving the impression of raging fire on the upper floors. As they drove down Purley Way, he glanced around curiously, but hardly saw anything familiar. The traffic was much heavier than in the old days, and he didn’t envy those who had to drive through it day after day. It was different where he lived in Toronto. He could walk to his office in ten minutes, winter or summer.

The Mercedes glided into the residential area, and Adams, craning his neck, turned his head in all directions, welcoming the sight of familiar street names. When the car stopped at a crossing, cooking smells wafted towards him. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. For a few moments he was back in the past, standing in a queue outside the local chippie, his stomach rumbling. This brought back more memories, but he experienced no nostalgia. Instead, suddenly, there was a feeling of foreboding. He tried to analyse it but gave up after a while and put it down to jet lag. In the back of his mind, he knew he was fooling himself.

CHAPTER 4

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Adams checked in at the hotel, quickly unpacked, shaved and showered. Dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, beige slacks, and brown soft leather sandals, he left the hotel, impatient to look at the place he used to call home. He was not hungry for food. He was suddenly hungry for the past.

He had no blood relatives left alive to visit. His paternal grandfather brought him up from the age of ten, after his parents, his sisters and his grandmother died in a collision with a lorry on their way home from Christmas shopping. His mother and father on the front seats were killed immediately, the others died in the fire when the fuel tank exploded. The police told his grandfather afterwards that his father tried to overtake a slow moving van on a curve, lost control on black ice, and crashed head-on into an oncoming lorry. His grandfather was also dead now. He died of loneliness and grief. He could not accept the loss of his family, and he slowly tormented himself into the grave.

The hotel was near a crest of a hill not far from a small park and playground where Adams spent many exciting hours playing as a child. Later, he took his own sons there, whenever he could. Now the gate was chained. He peered through the rust-spotted bars, and in the dwindling light made out the outlines of swings, a slide and the merry-go-round he was catapulted from as an eight-year-old, smashing his nose on a nearby bench, giving him the appearance of a boxer for the rest of his life. Now it all seemed unused and neglected.

He turned away and strolled down the hill towards the busy Brighton Road, noticing how the traffic noise increased as he got nearer. Passing the Parish