Joe Craig - Jimmy Coates - Blackout

For Mary-Ann

Contents

Title Page

Dedication For Mary-Ann

The Bodies

01 - Nothing Applies

02 - The Living Boy

03 - The Class of Scientists

04 - French Champagne

05 - Operation Blackout

06 - You’re Never Alone

07 - Do You Have It?

08 - They Know, They Don’t Know

09 - Maltese Illusion

10 - Find Some Shadows

11 - Chisley Hall

12 - Decommissioned

13 - Checking Out

14 - You’re Right, But You’re Wrong

15 - Alphabetical Advantage

16 - Catching a Plane

17 - A Leash Loosened

18 - LOCO

19 - Extraction

20 - This isn’t Genetics

21 - Blackout, Whiteout

22 - He Didn’t Stand a Chance

23 - Lee Makes Sparks Fly

24 - Shadows and Echoes

25 - Fallen Idol

26 - Half a Reunion

27 - Everybody’s Listening

About the Author

Also by Joe Craig

Copyright

About the Publisher

Jimmy Coates can only trust one man to keep the country from falling into chaos. But that man has disappeared and everything and everyone is at stake…

Buried four kilometres below ground and embedded in a concrete crust fifty metres thick, one of the British Government’s seven supercomputers was about to be breached. It was housed beneath Menwith Hill Royal Air Force Station in North Yorkshire, but nobody on the base could have any idea the attack was underway. The battle was lost as soon as it began, when a new string of computer code flickered into life.

Instantly, it began worming through the system, a mere twinkle in a constellation of electrical impulses. Imperceptible. Insignificant too, if it hadn’t been for the fact that at the exact same moment, hundreds of kilometres to the north and eleven kilometres above the earth, an Aurora Blackbird SR-91 plane pierced British airspace.

The two events were timed to perfection. The worm wriggled through the computer network exactly as it had been designed to do, creating a tiny corridor in the British satellite surveillance system – a sliver of shadow, which the Aurora Blackbird ran through like a fencer’s blade. The precisely pinpointed surveillance blackout rendered the plane effectively invisible. It was high enough and fast enough to be missed by conventional, ground-based radar defence systems; its black neoprene-titanium panels didn’t glint in the night, and even the fuel was caesium-based so that the exhaust fumes would be transparent.

In no time, the plane passed over the islands to the north of Scotland and reached the mainland. It was still travelling at 1,900 kilometres an hour when the doors in its undercarriage slid open. Two black body bags dropped from the plane’s belly. Then it immediately wheeled away to leave British airspace as discreetly as it had entered.

The packages hurtled down through the atmosphere. They had reached terminal velocity even before they plunged through the clouds. They twisted as they fell, the wind pummelling the linoleum-coated material to reveal the contours of the bodies inside.

After a few seconds, two black parachutes unfurled automatically and the descent slowed. The body bags drifted and eventually bumped on to the heather, sixteen kilometres from the nearest road. That’s where they lay for almost two hours, ten metres apart, motionless but for the buffeting of the wind.

Then, at the same moment, both bags twitched. They rolled over until their zips faced upwards. On any normal body bag the zips would have been accessible only from the outside. But these were different.

Simultaneously, the two bags peeled open and out climbed two people. They staggered to their feet – a man and a woman, both tall and dressed in black jumpsuits. They peered through the darkness to each other, not making a sound. They stretched and rubbed their heads, but both moved freely enough. The man blinked rapidly and shook his brain back to full consciousness, tangles of straggly black hair blustering around his head. The woman did the same a moment later, then they both gathered in the parachutes, piling up the black silk on top of the protective body bags.

The man produced a matchbox and two boiled eggs from his pocket. In seconds the parachutes and body bags were lighting up the hillside. They waited together in silence, controlling the fire with a ring of damp heather while they carefully shelled and consumed the eggs. Soon they were able to stamp out the embers, leaving no trace of the equipment that had enabled them to survive their epic fall unharmed.

Still without a word, the woman pulled out a compass and they marched south.

Two security guards strolled back to their booth, sharing a joke.

“All clear,” said one into his walkie-talkie, still chuckling.

“Thanks, beta station,” came crackling back. “Next patrol at 0400.”

“Just enough time for a brew,” muttered the other guard in a soft Irish accent.

They clicked off their torches and hurried into the booth, eager to get out of the wind. The two men could have been built from the same Lego set: a square block from the shoulders all the way down to the ground. They wore blue uniforms with peaked caps, which revealed only the greying edges of their hair.

The booth was only just big enough for them to sit side by side, but they settled in and inspected the line of CCTV screens in front of them. From here they could watch the whole perimeter of the building they’d just been patrolling: a small glass office block set within its own walls on London’s South Bank. From here a man called Christopher Viggo had been running his election campaign – the only legitimate opposition to the British Government – and it would have been impossible for anybody to approach the main gate from the street without being in clear view of the booth window.

“What’s that?” muttered the Irish guard. He reached forward and tapped his finger on one of the screens. “Which camera is that?” The image was grainy, enhanced by the camera’s infrared night mode, but there was one spot of brightness showing two broad silhouettes in a hut.

“That’s us,” replied the other guard.

“I know that, you idiot, but what’s that?” He jabbed his finger on the screen again. “This booth doesn’t have a dome on the roof.” They both leaned forward to examine the screen more closely.

“Is someone crouching up there?”

The end of his question was cut off by an ear-splitting crack. Suddenly they were showered in splinters and a black figure crashed through the roof. It landed on top of the older guard, instantly twisting to send the man’s cap spinning across the booth. The peak of it struck the other guard precisely between the eyes. His whole body went limp and he slumped in his chair.

The first guard was pulled to the floor and rolled over until he was underneath his assailant, the centre of his chest pinned to the ground by the attacker’s knee. Only now did the guard see a face.

“Jimmy!” he gasped. “You’re—”

“I’m not here,” Jimmy cut in with a whisper. He forced his hand over the guard’s mouth and fixed him with a calm stare. The green in his eyes glinted like alligators in a swamp. “I’m inside, asleep.” He jerked his head back towards the building. The top floor had been converted into basic living quarters where he’d been staying, with his mum, his sister Georgie, and his best friend, Felix. Viggo himself lived there too, but the lights in the offices below indicated he and some of his staff were still working.