Ground Zero Part 1

Ground Zero.

by F. Paul Wilson.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

You hold the pen-penultimate Repairman Jack novel.

That's right: I've decided to end the series with number fifteen (though Jack will make his final appearance in Nightworld Nightworld).

I've always said this would be a closed-end series, that I would not run Jack into the ground, that I had a big story to tell and would lower the curtain after telling it.

The end of that story draws nigh. (There's a highfalutin phrase.) And if you've been following along, you've noticed that the recent novels do not tie up as neatly as the earlier ones. I've always kept longer story arcs running from book to book, but I used to be able to bring each installment to a distinct conclusion. That, I'm afraid, is no longer the case.

As I move people and objects into place and set the stage for the events that will tip all of humanity into Nightworld Nightworld, the final chapter, this sort of incremental closure has become impossible.

So I ask you to bear with me. You may have noticed that By the Sword By the Sword began shortly after began shortly after Bloodline Bloodline, and Ground Zero Ground Zero picks up a couple of months after that. picks up a couple of months after that.

Two more Repairman Jack novels remain, the last ending just before Nightworld Nightworld begins. Along the way we'll be reprinting the remainder of the Adversary Cycle, synching the releases of begins. Along the way we'll be reprinting the remainder of the Adversary Cycle, synching the releases of The Touch, Reborn The Touch, Reborn, and Reprisal Reprisal with Jack's timeline. (See "The Secret History of the World" at the end of this book for the sequence.) with Jack's timeline. (See "The Secret History of the World" at the end of this book for the sequence.) The post-Harbingers installments of Jack's tale have become what the French call a installments of Jack's tale have become what the French call a roman fleuve roman fleuve-literally, a "river novel," with one story flowing from volume to volume. As a result, each new installment is going to feel richer, deeper, and make more sense if you've read the ones before.

Hang in there, folks. It's been a long ride, and we've still got a lot of wonder, terror, and tragedy ahead. I promise you'll be glad you made the trip.

-F. Paul Wilson the Jersey sh.o.r.e

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; Steven Spruill; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman. Special thanks to David J. Schow for the guided hajj to hallowed Bronson Canyon and its infamous "caves."

GROUND ZERO.

Surreal, he thought as he watched the twin towers burn.

His rented boat rocked gently on the waters of New York harbor, a thousand feet off the Battery. The morning sun blazed in a flawless cerulean sky. But for the susurrus of the light breeze and the soft lapping of the waves against the hull, the world lay silent about him.

A beautiful, beautiful day ... ...

... unless you were anywhere near those towers unless you were anywhere near those towers.

He tried to imagine the pandemonium in the streets around them-the Klaxons, the sirens, the shouts, the confusion, the terror. Not a hint of that here. The towers belched black smoke like a couple of chimneys, but all in silence.

He checked his watch: nearly ten o'clock. The plan was to allow an hour or so of chaos after the Arabs completed their mission. By then, though fear and terror would still be running high, the initial panic would have subsided. The situation would be considered horrific and tragic, but manageable. The second jet had hit at 9:03, so the hour mark was almost upon him. Time to initiate the second phase-the real reason for all this.

From a pocket of his Windbreaker he pulled a pair of gray plastic boxes, each the size of a cigarette pack-one marked with an S for the south tower, the other with an N N for the north. He put the for the north. He put the N N away for later. After all, the south tower was the important one, the reason for this enormous undertaking away for later. After all, the south tower was the important one, the reason for this enormous undertaking.

He extended an aerial from the S S box, then slid up a little safety cover on its front panel, revealing a black b.u.t.ton. He took a breath and pressed the b.u.t.ton, then watched and waited box, then slid up a little safety cover on its front panel, revealing a black b.u.t.ton. He took a breath and pressed the b.u.t.ton, then watched and waited.

The vast majority would blame the collapse on the crazy Arabs who hijacked the planes and the Islamic extremists who funded them-the obvious choice. A few would notice inconsistencies and point fingers elsewhere, blaming the government or Big Oil or some other powerful but faceless ent.i.ty.

No one, absolutely no one, would guess-or be allowed to guess-the truth behind the who and the why of this day.

MONDAY.

1.

Diana stared at herself in the mirror. She did that a lot. Maybe too much. No, definitely too much. But she didn't have much else to do.

She hated her life. So boring boring.

Mainly because she was so lonely. Not that she was alone. She shared this big house with three men-grown men, sworn to protect her with their lives-but they weren't friends. She could talk to them, as in have conversations, but couldn't really talk talk to them about things that mattered. She chatted online all the time, but that wasn't the same as having another flesh-and-blood fourteen-year-old girl in the same room. to them about things that mattered. She chatted online all the time, but that wasn't the same as having another flesh-and-blood fourteen-year-old girl in the same room.

But that flesh-and-blood girl wouldn't stay long once she got a look at Diana's eyes.

She stared at the reflection of those eyes now. With their black pupils, black irises, and black everything else, they looked like ebony marbles stuck in her sockets. Sometimes she wanted to rip them out. Yeah, she'd be blind, but at least then she could go to school instead of having tutors. And she'd have a true excuse for wearing wraparound sungla.s.ses all the time instead of lying about a rare eye condition.

She guessed it wasn't a lie. It was rare-only a few Oculi left around the globe-and it was definitely a condition.

So she was an Oculus. Big deal. These black eyes were supposed to allow her to see things regular eyes were blind to, warnings from Outside.

Alarms.

She'd yet to experience one.

Not that she was complaining. She'd seen her father when he'd received Alarms and it didn't look pleasant. In fact, it looked awful.

Why was she thinking of Alarms tonight? She hadn't- Something flashed to her right. She turned to look but it flashed again, still to her right. She realized it wasn't in the room, but in her eye. A scintillating scotoma. She'd looked it up. The flas.h.i.+ng lights always preceded her migraines. This wasn't the sparkle she usually saw, more like wavy lines, but she knew the sooner she dug out her bottle of Imitrex and took one, the better.

And then the room tilted. For an instant she thought earthquake or tsunami, but then the pain stabbed through her head-much, much worse than a migraine-and the lights flashed brighter and longer and fused to blot out her room as her knees gave way and she dropped to the floor.

As she lay there shaking, shuddering, writhing with the pain that suffused her, a tunnel opened through the light, revealing ...

... a man in a loincloth, standing on an old-fas.h.i.+oned scaffold and carving a huge block of stone more than twice his height into some sort of thick pillar or column ... his hammer striking the chisel again and again but making no sound ... all eerily silent a man in a loincloth, standing on an old-fas.h.i.+oned scaffold and carving a huge block of stone more than twice his height into some sort of thick pillar or column ... his hammer striking the chisel again and again but making no sound ... all eerily silent ... ...

... the same man carving strange symbols into the side of the pillar the same man carving strange symbols into the side of the pillar ... ...

... and others and others ... ...

... and carving a cavity, perhaps three feet across and five feet deep, into one end of the pillar and carving a cavity, perhaps three feet across and five feet deep, into one end of the pillar ... ...

... and suddenly she is grabbed from behind and bound hand and foot and suddenly she is grabbed from behind and bound hand and foot ... ...

... forced into the cavity forced into the cavity ... ...

... sealed over with a stone plug, plunging her into darkness sealed over with a stone plug, plunging her into darkness ... ...

... as she struggles for air she feels the pillar tilt as it slides into a deep hole in the earth and is covered over as she struggles for air she feels the pillar tilt as it slides into a deep hole in the earth and is covered over ... ...

... she thrashes in the small s.p.a.ce until her air runs out and darkness claims her she thrashes in the small s.p.a.ce until her air runs out and darkness claims her ... ...

... and then ... a spark in the distance ... growing ... swelling ... to become a glowing egg and then ... a spark in the distance ... growing ... swelling ... to become a glowing egg ... ...

... the egg fades and darkness regains control until a booming voice splits the silence the egg fades and darkness regains control until a booming voice splits the silence ... ...

IT HAS AWAKENED!.

... and then the egg reappears and a spot of darkness materializes within it ... growing ... growing until ... and then the egg reappears and a spot of darkness materializes within it ... growing ... growing until ...

... it bursts free it bursts free ... ...

... a strange, formless, flickering, alien being a strange, formless, flickering, alien being ... ...

... and as it emerges, an odd word forms in her mind and as it emerges, an odd word forms in her mind ... ...

Fhinntmanchca ... ... Fhinntmanchca Fhinntmanchca ... ... Fhinntmanchca Fhinntmanchca ... ...

The vision faded, and with it the pain, replaced by beckoning oblivion. Diana fought the draw of the temporary reprieve it promised and forced her eyes open. She pushed herself off the floor and staggered to her bedroom door. She had to tell them ... she had to go to New York.

She had to tell the Heir. She had to find Jack. But where was he?

2.

For an instant her fingers froze over the keyboard-surely no more than a heartbeat-before she forced them to keep typing. But they were typing gibberish now.

The man seated by the door was watching her, she was sure of it.

The cybercafe was small but tended to be only half full at this hour-the reason she timed her visits for this time of day. She didn't want anyone too close while she typed.

She made a practice of rotating among a long list of cafes, coffee shops, and libraries that offered laptops and computers for public use. The list was numbered and she used a random integer generator to choose which one she would visit on any given day. The only time she did not follow the generator's choice was if it happened to produce the same number twice in a row.

On some visits she would simply surf through her list of blogs and Web sites, blocking and copying pertinent pa.s.sages and storing them on her flash drive. She never posted on surfing visits. And she never surfed on posting visits.

Today was a posting visit. She'd typed out her posts last night and this morning, then stored them on her flash drive. That way, when she reached a computer, all she had to do was plug in her drive, block and copy the posts onto the various forums or into the appropriate blog comments sections, then be on her way.

She was just finis.h.i.+ng up-no more than ten minutes at the keyboard so far and maybe two to go-when she noticed the man get a call. He spoke briefly on his cell, then began scanning the room. After studying everyone, his scrutiny settled on her.

She kept her face toward her screen but watched out of the corner of her eye. He had a bit of a Eurotrash air about him. Maybe it was the hair-bleached blond and short, combed forward for a Caesar look. A well-preserved fifty, tanned, muscular, with strong cheekbones. She didn't know the country of origin of his clothing, but it was not the U.S. All in all he seemed just a little too well put together to need to rent a laptop in a cybercafe. He looked more like a BlackBerry type.

He was discreet, pretending every so often to stare off into s.p.a.ce as if composing his thoughts, but she'd caught him eyeing her. Certainly not because she was attractive. She had no illusions about her appearance. After Steve's death, it had ceased to matter much. She'd let herself go somewhat-gaining weight, dressing in baggy warm-ups designed for comfort and little else, letting her hair grow out and wearing it in a styleless ponytail. In fact, if her frumpy looks deflected attention, so much the better.

No illusions about her mental state either. Maybe a bit paranoid. She might have been pus.h.i.+ng evasive measures to the extreme.

Or not.

You weren't paranoid if people were really out to get you, but she couldn't be sure. If the wrong people were reading her posts, they might-might-care. And if they did care, they might-might-want to stop her.

If they thought she was a threat. they thought she was a threat.

A big if. Who frequented these Web sites besides weirdos and nutcases? But the weirdos and nutcases were on to something. They were ninety percent right about everything except who and why. They were pointing fingers in the wrong directions.

Everything was either political or religious or cultural to them. They couldn't see that the real reasons were much darker, more sinister, and more dangerous and threatening than their wildest nightmare scenarios.

Only one man was listening-or at least not dismissing her as a kook as were most of the others.

When the kooks think you're a kook, maybe it's time to rea.s.sess your position.

No. Not when you're sure you're right.

And she was sure. Well, pretty sure. As sure as you could be about these things when- There. He'd looked at her again. Her gut tingled with alarm. No question: He was watching her.

How could they have found her? Her practice of switching log-in locations guaranteed a different IP address every time, and her random choice of location made it impossible to predict where she'd be.

Well, not literally impossible, but virtually impossible.