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  FORECAST

  CHRIS KEITH

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2008 Chris Keith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means; electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Author: Chris Keith

  Title: Forecast

  Edition: 1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-921578-10-6 (pbk.)

  Published by Book Pal

  4/28 Boyland Avenue

  Coopers Plains Q 4108, Australia.

  www.bookpal.com.au

  Acknowledgements

  Novels are not often the work of one, but many. A number of people deserve credit for their input, their insight and their inspiration. My deepest thanks to Maja Draganic, Richard Smith, Blair Puata, Tim Squire, Joe Alizzi, Katie Keith, Hugh Keith, Stephanie Keith and my wife Momoko Keith. An extended thank you goes to Susan Rintoul at Seaview Press. Also thanks to Betty Flowers and Bill Stepp at NASA for their helpful assistance. Finally, all those on the Bookpal team for bringing this novel to publication.

  FACTS

  A new US altitude record was set in 1927 by Hawthorne Gray on his first balloon flight when he reached 29,000 feet. Despite attaining 42,000 feet on his second flight, it did not count as an official record because he had to parachute out of the balloon as it descended in order to save his life. He reached 42,000 feet again on his third flight, but ran out of oxygen on the descent, passed out with hypoxia and was found dead in a tree.

  In 1934, Americans William Kepner, Albert Stevens and Orvil Anderson reached 60,000 feet. They were the first human beings to report seeing the curvature of the Earth with their own eyes. They parachuted home when their hydrogen balloon exploded.

  In 1956, Lieutenant Commanders Malcolm Ross and Lee Lewis of the US Navy flew to 76,000 feet, claiming the new record. In October, 1957, they went even higher to a staggering 85,700 feet.

  1960 was the year Joe Kittinger set a new record for the highest parachute jump ever. At 102,800 feet, this record has never been beaten.

  1961, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Ross was back in a space balloon, this time with Lieutenant Commander Vic Prather, launching from the deck of an American air- craft carrier to achieve a record height of 113,740 feet, another achievement that has never been beaten.

  Prologue

  He worked for the Research Department for External Intelligence, the primary agency responsible for foreign intelligence collection and analysis in North Korea. His agency shared information with government leaders and the Central Committee. The world occurred for him on the cusp of threat and suspicion. But for all that he thought he knew, he did not know that he would soon play a key role in the deaths of millions and millions of people.

  On the night of the 14th June, sleep-deprived insomniac Cho Sop sat at his tracking monitor with a mug of hot water tight in his hands and observed the Missile Early Warning System. The forty-nine- year-old intelligence officer felt a shiver in the room’s cold as he stared at his console inlaid with maps of his country, which made his peripheral vision distort like a piece of watercolour artwork. His warm, kind eyes were punctuated with wrinkles and the inevitable grooves of time, his skin pale and deprived of natural light from all the long shifts inside the bunker. Fourteen hours straight he’d been on duty, reviewing data from the Missile Early Warning System, unable to spare time for supper. He would have done anything for a bowl of Kalbitang or Samgyetang, even just a rice ball, for he was starving.

  Deep underground amongst a riddle of secret tunnels, the elite research department monitored national security and played a lead role in North Korea’s nuclear preparedness. It served as the eyes and ears of North Korea, protecting twenty-two nuclear facilities in eighteen locations, including the Soviet-supplied twenty-five mega-watt reactor at Yongbyon – the centre of their atomic science. The ultra-secret facility accommodated high-tech computer equipment and high-definition projection screens on the concrete walls, sharing space with two large portraits of the Supreme Commander. The reinforced concrete ceiling was veiled by a web of overhead piping that groaned with the pressure put through them.

  North Korea was the most militarised country in the world with a million-man army dedicated to maintaining national security at all costs. But the Korean People’s Army was in short supply of modern military equipment and combat experience. Soldiers were malnourished and short of ammunition. And most soldiers were too occupied defending the Demilitarised Zone and coastal approaches for North Korea to go to war anyway. The only country to withdraw from the nuclear non-proliferation treaty now stood alone in its struggle with the world as China and Russia traded openly with the nicer of the twins, South Korea.

  Having visited the toilet, Cho Sop returned to the Tactical Operations Room. “Heard it’s another cold one out there tonight,” he said. “Uncommon for this time of year.”

  “This drought will be over soon and then it will be flooding season,” commented Personnel Officer Min-Ki, pecking away at his keyboard and barely lifting his eyes away from his preparation of personnel support for contingency operations.

  “Droughts, floods, it is still too cold.”

  From the hot water boiler Cho Sop topped up his mug. A slice of lemon would go nicely with it, he pondered. Cho Sop took a sip of his drink and observed his colleagues. Unlike its usual plethora of noise, the Tactical Operations Room was dead quiet, just the sound of dedicated men concentrating on various aspects of military intelligence, each officer working through tired eyes to serve their country to the best of their ability, as duly expected.

  Cho Sop was returning to his desk when a single alarm from the Missile Early Warning System penetrated the silence. A knot formed in his empty stomach. A single nuclear launch event had occurred. And the alarm signified that North Korea was the target. Cho Sop bolted towards the warning system and stared into the screen, noting the attack was the instigation of the United States.

  “There must be a mistake!” Cho Sop yelled over the deafening alarm.

  Min-Ki joined him, hands pressed against the edge of the desk, his back arched. “Our satellite system is very reliable. It never tells a lie!” he yelled back.

  “No, perhaps not, but it has been known to play tricks!”

  “A dangerous trick! Do we call it in?”

  Cho Sop thought for a moment, every beat of his heart another crucial second ticking by. Hesitant and under immense pressure, he worried that the wrong response might begin a nuclear war. Every officer in the room had stopped working and had formed a circle around the Missile Early Warning System. Some had cupped their hands over their ears to block out the noise of the alarm. Cho Sop considered that if the United States was to fire the first shots of World War III, the attack would undoubtedly comprise a far greater array of weapons and not just a single nuclear warhead. Besides, the Americans knew nothing of the North Korean nuclear strategy. As for the production, deployment and exportation of missiles to Iran and Pakistan, it certainly did not constitute a nuclear response, and current US policy had not effectively addressed the threat posed by North Korean weapons of mass destruction, nor their proliferation. Moreover, a nuclear strike was a breach of the peace, something the Americans so adamantly strived to maintain. So why were they firing a nuclear missile at North Korea? It didn’t make sense.

  “Sir, we must retaliate,” Min-Ki pressed.

  “Say again?”

  “I said we must do something! The Supreme Commander has to know!”

  Without a hint of panic, only a camouflage of nerves, Cho Sop lowered his eyes in thought. Despite invaluable years of training and experience, he remained hesitant, his mind doing somersaul
ts. Early Warning Systems did malfunction. Since the Cuban missile crisis, at least four incidents had put the US and Russian leaders in a predicament when misinterpretations from their nuclear warning systems had occurred. It had happened earlier that year in North Korea. A computer failure had deactivated their brand new spy satellites, leaving the country vulnerable and blind as their entire intelligence system had become hi-tech satellite-dependent. It had taken the Intelligence Bureau several hours to rectify the problem and bring the satellites back online.

  A second alarm went off, followed by a third. Soon, there were multiple alarms going, indicating that a number of intercontinental ballistic missiles had been launched from countries in Europe. The intelligence officers exchanged opinions and speculation, each man agreeing that North Koreans were seen through western eyes as war-hungry and evil, making North Korea a target for combat. For the first time in his long career, Cho Sop was honestly frightened. US artillery far exceeded that of North Korea and ordering a nuclear retaliation was dangerous. But so was inactivity.

  “I will inform the National Defence Commission,” Cho Sop announced, lifting the phone to his ear and charging away from the noise of the alarm.

  Min-Ki nodded agreeably, his superior acting in accord with protocol, as his automated systems were commanding him to do. Aware that disobeying general orders was tantamount to treason, and having assessed all the evidence to conclude the attacks were genuine, Cho Sop went ahead with the call.

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Geostationary satellites positioned high above Great Britain had detected a large band of dark fuzz over England and Wales. News radio told of how the tempestuous weather was affecting traffic up and down the country.

  Brad Sutcliffe lowered the volume on his car stereo as he sat in slow-moving traffic mounting with agitation, the car wipers wailing with exertion to clear away the thrashing rain. In front, the hazy outline of a Transit van stopped, bringing the traffic boot to bonnet for the best part of a mile. He’d left the house early to compensate for traffic jams. Still, he didn’t want to waste any time in one as he had to be at the Moorland Links Hotel in Plymouth by three. That was in four hours and he wanted to be early.

  “Now, are you sure you want to come?” Sutcliffe said to the fourteen-year-old sitting beside him in the passenger seat. “There’ll be a lot of waiting around you know.”

  Martin barely lifted his head from his portable computer game. “Will other boys be there?”

  “I doubt it, but there might be.”

  “I don’t want to play with them.”

  “Well, like I said, I doubt there’ll be any boys there.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not a place for children, it’s an important conference.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “But I wanna play computer.”

  Sutcliffe rolled his eyes. “You can if you want.”

  Sutcliffe glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard and then punched in an alternative route on the GPS Navigation Path Finder. The system consulted its database before instructing him to take a left at the next set of traffic lights. He continued straight for a few miles, crossing an old bridge, and like the good citizen he obeyed the speed limit. He leaned forward on the steering wheel, hitting his head on the rear-view mirror as he pulled to a stop at a busy inter-section. As he readjusted the mirror, he saw in its reflection the left pocket of his son’s jacket. The innocuous eye of a small JVC video camera was staring back at him. He straightened the mirror and massaged his head. “Where did you get that camera?”

  “What camera?”

  “The one in your pocket.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s mine.”

  Sutcliffe fell quiet as a thought churned through his mind. “Did you take it from a shop without paying again?”

  “Did I do a bad thing?”

  “You can’t go helping yourself to things in shops without paying, Martin. It’s illegal.”

  The rain intensified the further west they tracked and the whole time Sutcliffe laid into his son about his criminal behaviour. Coming off the motorway, they sailed down country roads passing through remote villages with hardly another car in sight in the downpour. Surrounding fields and meadows were empty, apart from a single farmer braving the rain in his tractor, ploughing up a segment of his land.

  Sutcliffe’s stomach felt hideously alive with nerves as he drew into the Moorland Links Hotel car park. He located a parking space close to the entrance, disengaged the engine and turned to his son. “Wait here, don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything, don’t touch any-thing, just sit and wait.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “An hour, two at the most.”

  He climbed out of his car and popped open his umbrella. His left leg was stiff and always was after a long drive, but he had other things on his mind as he limped towards the hotel, glancing briefly at the spectacular view of Tamar Valley as the rain spattered on his umbrella.

  Inside the hotel, he headed off to the bathroom to freshen up. He rinsed out his mouth, washed his hands and smoothed his short hair. He straightened his necktie and perfected his professional smile. In forty minutes, he would be addressing the world. He told himself he was a professional and that feeling sick with nerves was all part of being human. Then he marched towards the conference room and stopped when he reached the door, his eyes transfixed on the gold placard – Chandelier Ballroom.

  It was at a ballroom dancing class at the Islington Arts Factory in London where Sutcliffe had met Jacqueline Green. The first time he set eyes on her she was wearing a tight, black leotard and a mini-skirt that stopped at her crotch. Her hair then was short and curled at her shoulders. She sensed Sutcliffe was having difficulty, so she assisted him through the subtle fall and rise motions of foxtrot. Sutcliffe struggled to master the twinkles and chasses, whereas Jacqueline made it look easy, demonstrating sophistication and elegance through her movements.

  After a week of tutoring, Sutcliffe invited her out to a movie. Afterwards he impressed her with an expensive meal at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. They drank wine, they talked, they laughed and the night ended in a doorstep kiss, very clichéd. That night, he found out that Jacqueline remained untouched by the feral world of men and relationships and had only been with one man before she met Sutcliffe.

  “Well, how did it go?” his mother asked the next morning over breakfast. She’d heard him arrive home late.

  “Great, really great.” He reached for a box of cornflakes from the shelf. “I think she might be the one.”

  “Well, don’t rush into anything,” she said, her eyes on the newspaper she was reading. “People have many colours to their personalities and so far you’ve only seen the nice ones.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, and they were like a rainbow.”

  Now she was looking at him. “Rainbows fade, don’t you forget that.”

  Six months later, Sutcliffe moved into a tidy studio apartment in Surrey with Jacqueline. It wasn’t until four years later that she fell pregnant. It was a complicated birth. Jacqueline was dangerously overdue, but eventually gave birth to a healthy boy. Sutcliffe fell immediately in love. They named him Martin after Jacqueline’s late brother, who’d died four years earlier of mysterious heart failure. Not long after the birth, the mystifying combination of genes, environment and explosive brain growth went to work and Martin developed autism. It began with a lack of interest in toys and games and progressed to unprovoked outbursts and tantrums. It became even more serious when he started crying inconsolably if his bed-room light was switched on at night or at the flash of a camera, or brightness from a television set.

  By the time Martin was six, Jacqueline had left Sutcliffe and only ever saw him during the courtroom showdowns over custody, though Sutcliffe believed Jacqueline only wanted sole guardianship of Martin to spite him; he wasn’t even sure
she loved their son. It left him bitterly angry with her. Anger didn’t suit Sutcliffe one bit and he always felt uncomfortable when he did lose his temper. Sutcliffe wanted nothing more than to keep his son and with the help of very unaffordable and articulate lawyers, he claimed victory.

  At Headcorn Airfield in Faversham, Sutcliffe and his best friend Mike Townsend were preparing their hot-air balloon for a routine flight when they realised something wasn’t right.

  “What the hell is that noise?” Townsend had heard a strange popping sound coming from the balloon. The crew were stationed inside the wicker-woven gondola when they all heard the noise.

  “Sounds like the wicker is cracking,” said Camilla, Mike’s girl-friend.

  “Wicker doesn’t crack that easily. I think…I think it’s coming from the propane tanks.”

  All of a sudden, a large flash of fire appeared above their heads causing the tethers to snap and the balloon began to shift. Everyone managed to abandon the balloon, all except Sutcliffe. His foot had become entangled in one of the ropes as he dived out and as the balloon skipped away it dragged him on his back across the field. The crew chased after Sutcliffe and the runaway balloon in the hope of freeing him before it gained altitude, but they couldn’t keep up.

  Sutcliffe stared up at the massive bulk of trapped air as it played with his life. Fear gripped him, but the thoughts he had at that point were anything but fear-induced. He wondered how high up the balloon would take him and what the view would be like. He imagined the balloon whisking him off into space – the tranquillity and the simplicity of such a place. His strange, morbid thoughts fascinated him. What if the balloon took him far away from the world? The voice in his head was calm and he had made peace with the world. But then, with a swift change of heart, he could feel a pressure mounting around his ears and reality struck him. The gondola was on fire and the balloon was rising towards the trees. Suspended upside down in midair, he reached up for the rope strangling his foot. He inched his way up the rope until he reached the gondola and managed to hook his fingers over the rim. Freeing up one hand, he tried to untie his foot, hoping to fall into the approaching tree-tops. Within minutes, though, the gondola was a ball of fire and heat began to nibble at his fingertips. He yelled in agony, struggling to keep hold as he battled to free his foot. Then the balloon changed direction in a surge of wind and drifted towards a meadow. It struck a live power line and severed the gondola, which plummeted from the sky and crashed into the meadow below. Sutcliffe dragged himself away from the smouldering gondola, his whole frame numb, painfully aware that if both legs weren’t broken, one definitely was.