Mattias Berg - The Carrier

“No—and yes. Never before have the connections been put together in this way: fully mobile-driven. Beyond their control, without any of the networks passing through Centcom.”

“And the other briefcases? The Vice President’s, the Secretary of Defense’s?”

“Already disconnected, Sixten. The moment Air Force One became airborne on the way here, to your and my little promised land. Only the angels on high were watching it happening.”

Ingrid turned from the screen and gave each of us a triumphant look, as if expecting applause.

“That will bring to an end the era of nuclear weapons. The first epoch in mankind’s cultural history in which it could have destroyed its own species unopposed.”

Sixten seemed as dumbfounded as I was. He emptied his brandy glass before asking the obvious question.

“But what did you have in mind for the rest of the world, Ingrid? Russia? North Korea? Iran? It seems to me that America would be a lame duck if your plan really were carried through. Open goal for the first long-range ballistic missile that comes along, if I understand you.”

“We’ll deal with that as soon as we’re done with the U.S. and its European allies: the rest of the global contact net has already been rigged. The future has to begin somewhere, after all. In any case, everything’s going to look perfectly normal on the screens, like a magic mirror—we’ve spent decades building up a parallel fictitious system. Not even the most realistic training exercises will reveal anything out of the ordinary. Not until we’re about to fire off nuclear weapons for real, in a crisis, for the first time since Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And at that point it won’t be possible.”

I swallowed, with some difficulty. Ingrid’s plan was insane, of course. Grandiose, deadly dangerous for us all, for the whole of mankind. I had known nothing about what lay ahead, what sort of plan Alpha had made for us following the escape. Yet I did not believe even her about all this. I could feel how she was looking at me from the side, scrutinizing me, trying to read me.

“And then we’ll all have to say our very best prayers that no-one manages to capture our souls. To make us do the exact opposite in that lonely little moment when everything is to be unplugged—and fire off the whole system instead. Because all of the weapons have to be put online for them to be short-circuited, all of our thousands of warheads across Europe and the U.S. The weight of all creation will be on our shoulders alone. Do you think you can cope with that, Erasmus?”

She could sense my doubt even though I said nothing. The smell of adrenaline, fear, which people say dogs can sniff through thick walls.

“I know, my treasure. It’s a high-risk plan. The most dangerous since the dawn of time. But to get rid of the nuclear weapons system you unfortunately need the same conceptual madness as for its introduction. Banish pain with pain.”

Again silence, thick as the velvet in the blackout curtains, these reinforced doors. I looked furtively at my watch: the time was close to zero four hundred. It had taken so long, or so little time, to understand who was leading this operation. The wide reach of just one person. Ingrid’s unimaginable impact.

Sixten cleared his throat, seemed to be having trouble keeping his voice steady.

“And what role had you envisaged for me, Ingrid? Beyond being your safe haven, as you described it?”

“That’s more than enough, Sixten. The gods are already singing your praises. There’s nowhere else in the world where we can vanish like this, as if swallowed up by the bed-rock.”

“And you know that I don’t want to become any more involved than that, Ingrid: I’ve done my bit. This is critical for me. And it’s even more important for my wife.”

“You don’t need to say that, dear friend.”

The silence which followed was even denser, if that was possible. The noise coming from Aina out in the kitchen had stopped as well. I tried to say something, if only to break the mood—but could not find any words. In the end, Sixten continued with his questions.

“But you had somebody else with you, didn’t you? A nurse, who you nevertheless chose not to bring with you here tonight?”

“Correct. She’s very good to have along, gets things done in her own unique way. But not everybody has to know everything.”

“You’ve referred to her as just ‘J.M.’ in our contacts, Ingrid. Is there anything in the way of a real name?”

“Possibly. They say she was originally called Jesús María, a promising textile artist from some nowhere town in Mexico. But she’s been with us for ever, behind the scenes. Can transform whomever into whatever, heal and cut, likes working with human skin, but she also produces miracles out of other materials. I tend to think that textile warfare is her specialty. Mostly she tries things out on herself, is the undeclared U.S. champion of body modification. I managed to get her to come along. It wasn’t easy: Erasmus had to put on a bit of amateur theatricals on departure, simulate a sudden, momentary collapse—and you’re not exactly the most talented actor, my treasure, if you don’t mind me saying so. But in the heat of the moment, just on the way out to the helicopters, the security people did after all follow my orders that Jesús María needed to come along too, to keep Erasmus under close observation. So she got foreign travel permission. For the first time ever.”

“So she doesn’t have clearance, you mean?”

“Are you kidding me? Jesús María is like a wounded animal, lives on old injustices, which is the only reason I managed to get her along here. But she’s never let us down in action. And if it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t be sitting here today. She and I are blood sisters. Literally so.”

I turned to face Sixten, since I could not bear to keep looking at the world map, all the lines, triangles and crosses: Ingrid’s whole crazy plan. He was practically upright now. Seemed to be taking on more and more of his old military persona, I thought, despite the alcohol. He had to be a seasoned drinker, may have spent decades as a fringe alcoholic.

“And do you know the current locations of the others? Have you got any co-ordinates for them?”

Ingrid tapped away at the keyboard. A blue ring appeared on the Eastern Seaboard, level with D.C., the White House, our own headquarters. Remained there motionless.

“That is?”

“Kurt, no less. One of the Team’s two, nowadays totally identical, bodyguards. Jesús María put a chip in his neck during surgery—as you do to a cat—many years ago, when the technique was brand new. So she would always know where he was. Only Jesús María and I knew about it. Now it’s very useful, pure gold.”

“Looks like he’s back at the starting point.”

Sixten knew more than he had let on. Ingrid must have given sufficient information for him to accept his role in what was going on, be willing to take the risk of hiding us away from the world’s most advanced surveillance apparatus.

“Is your thinking that the rest of the Team must be close to… Kurt? That they’re working in that kind of tight formation?” he asked.

“Edelweiss gives the impression of being predictable: he’s usually parked at the other of our two portable command terminals, except when we’re on official duty. He prefers not to move more than a few feet from headquarters. Rarely does. But it’s impossible to foresee where the power of his imagination will take him, even for me. Zafirah’s probably at the sharp end of things now, she’s always the one to throw herself into the thick of things, together with Kurt or John. But right now they won’t have the least idea where we’ve got to.”