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  The Flood had been a deliberate act. A terrifying act of terrorism, or a state-sanctioned act of global genocide for which China and America were blaming each other. In a world crippled by the sudden five-metre rise in sea levels, in which human beings were suddenly an endangered species, there was actually talk of war. As if a million cubic kilometres of ice plunging into the Southern Ocean with the force of 100 atomic bombs wasn’t destruction enough.

  Below the chopper, the pulse of the ocean was steady. It was low tide, which revealed more of the carnage. Waves gently broke against the shells of structures that lined what had once been the beachfront. The old roads and footpaths were already buried in sand as if the ocean was trying to wipe away the mess.

  After the tsunami, the twisted detritus of civilisation left swirling in the surging tide had taken a week to come to rest. It had killed anything in its path still clinging to life. Most of the Gold Coast’s beachfront flora and fauna was torn up, washed away, or ripped to shreds. All that was left were patches of deadened pine trees still doggedly rooted to ground the ocean had claimed and were still visible above the waterline. From Main Beach to Coolangatta, hundreds of tree stumps pointed bleakly skyward like monuments to what had forever been taken away.

  The salt water had already killed most of them. But their branches had become a haven for bewildered sea birds, spiders, snakes and countless other creatures.

  As if in homage to the pines, great islands of torn concrete and twisted metal likewise reached out for the heavens. The city had become one huge demolition site, a playground for the rich and famous with its guts ripped open, glamourous facades washed away like last night’s cheap make-up. Many of the towers had collapsed with the impact of the first wave. However, dotted among their shattered skeletons, some had remained intact. It was inside these that Luckman and Bell had discovered scores of survivors – with their memories intact.

  After the Flood, most countries across the world imposed martial law. It was quickly deemed essential when the awful truth about so many of the survivors became apparent.

  Luckman knew their work here was near its end. Their two most recent rescues had been people who had slipped into madness. They weren’t Blanks – they had simply become consumed by the horror, slipping into delusion in a desperate bid to cling to a past that no longer existed. In a town where image was once everything, the sudden submersion of their world simply left them cut adrift from sanity’s safe mooring.

  The chopper banked over Broadbeach to retrace its path. Once more he scanned the deserted ruins for signs of life. Bell threaded the chopper slowly along the line of buildings. From Broadbeach to Surfers Paradise, the towers were packed together like Ionic columns. With so many now toppled over, Luckman found himself likening what remained to the ruins of ancient Greece. He examined balconies, windows, probed the shadows for anything alive.

  There. Eight floors down from the roof. A face.

  “Focal.”

  Bell turned to him and nodded. “Fuck all is about right.”

  Luckman grinned. “No, I said ‘focal’. The Focal building.”

  “Nasty storm coming our way, Captain.”

  Luckman smiled apologetically. “I saw him again.”

  Bell sighed but said nothing. Luckman didn't blame him. Whatever this was – spirit man, vision, hallucination – had led Luckman to almost 30 survivors in the past two weeks. But the supernatural was simply not on Eddie Bell’s radar.

  “That building’s red listed,” Bell pointed out.

  “Ahh, man up will you?” Luckman chided.

  “You’ve been lucky so far,” the pilot warned. “Your luck’s gonna start running out soon. And I’m not waiting around ’til that storm hits. I’m almost out of fuel.”

  Luckman shrugged. He scanned their status list for notes on the Focal building. It was condemned. The engineers expected it to topple any day.

  “Just get me on the roof and I’ll see what I can see.”

  The chopper closed to within a metre of the rooftop.

  “Billy, don’t be a hero,” said Bell. “Come back to me.”

  It was their ritual. Quoting maudlin pop lyrics somehow helped to keep grim reality at arm’s length.

  “The road is long, with many a winding turn,” Luckman replied.

  “Yeah, well, keep your pretty head low,” Bell muttered.

  Luckman gave his pilot a sage nod and removed his headphones. He opened the cockpit door, threw out his ropes and leapt onto the roof. The chopper rose and circled for a moment before heading north-west towards Amberley Air Base.

  As the sound of the Black Hawk’s twin engines faded, Luckman was left in a silence punctuated only by the wind. It blew hard at this altitude, all but obliterating the gentle thrum of the ocean far below. To the south-west, storm clouds were rolling in quickly. Gazing out to sea, he could almost imagine the world was as it used to be.

  Billy, don’t be a hero...

  He was going to have that lousy song in his head all night.

  Three

  At precisely 5.10am, two black Great Wall SUVs departed the confines of the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China and began heading north toward Commonwealth Avenue.

  The roads were devoid of traffic, making any covert attempt at tailing the vehicles a waste of time. Both cars crossed Lake Burley Griffin, seemingly en route to Parliament House, but then parted company, one veering east the other west along Parkes Way.

  Tracking them both via satellite simultaneously would prove challenging, although it must be assumed such a task remained within America’s operational capacity given that movement of any nature by Chinese officials was unusual and therefore immediately suspicious.

  This was precisely what the Defence Attaché was relying upon as his battered white Toyota Corolla left the embassy gates five minutes later. Yang Hongbo was not behind the wheel. He was instead huddled in the backseat under a blanket, admittedly feeling somewhat foolish, though happy to accept the humiliation if it meant beating the Americans at their own game.

  The Corolla likewise headed north over the bridge and turned west along Parkes Way, but slowed down once safely inside the traffic tunnel. Yang leapt out from under the blanket and opened the rear door of the car before his startled driver (a female staffer whose name escaped him) had time to stop.

  “Keep moving,” he hissed at her. “Return to me in 10 minutes.”

  She looked at him in confusion.

  “On the other side,” he snapped.

  She nodded and nervously hit the accelerator. Yang barely had a chance to shut the car door. She was out of her competence zone, but would reveal nothing if questioned for the simple reason that she didn’t know anything and had no direct connection with his office.

  Yang watched the car emerge into the light at the other end of the tunnel then began to search for signs of the man he had come to meet. He could see nobody; and there was nowhere to hide. The walls of the tunnel were tall and straight. He had been driven through here many times. The tunnel’s walls were normally well lit, however electricity was now too valuable to waste on such things. He would have to find his way in the dark.

  He heard the sound of metal hinges somewhere ahead. A man’s figure came into view about 10 metres away, silhouetted against the rising curtain of daylight at the tunnel’s far end. The figure waved at him then disappeared back into the tunnel wall – a maintenance compartment separating the westbound and eastbound lanes.

  Yang paused for a moment. If one wanted to plan an assassination there would be few places better than this in which to carry it out. But he had already decided neither Australia nor the US had anything to gain from his death. If he was murdered today, it could only be because many more people were marked for death tomorrow. In that case, all hope was lost.

  But Yang had not yet lost hope. He stepped into the service bay and pulled the door shut behind him. It was so dark he could not see his hand in front of his face.

  A fluorescent light flickered to life above his head. General Neil Shearer stepped forward and held out his hand. He was dressed like an old man out for a Sunday stroll.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  Yang shook the General’s hand and stared deep into the man’s eyes. Each held the other’s gaze warily.

  “I apologise for the meeting place,” said Shearer. “But needs must.”

  Yang smiled, his suspicions far from allayed. He was aware the General was obliquely referring to China’s infiltration of ASIO headquarters. Plans of the building were obtained from its construction company, forcing a total refit of the building at a cost of many millions of dollars.

  “I know why I value such secrecy, General,” Yang told him. “But I wonder why you feel it necessary.”

  “What I have to say is not for American ears.”

  Nor, perhaps, for other Australian ears?

  Yang checked his watch. “You have precisely seven minutes to state your case before I depart, General. Until then you have, as they say, my undivided attention.”

  “I am here,” Shearer began, “because I hope war can be prevented. But in the event war becomes inevitable, it is necessary to choose sides.”

  “Has Australia not already done so?”

  Shearer paused, then changed tack. “Tell me all you know about what occurred in the Antarctic.”

  “It was a volcanic eruption. A natural cataclysm.”

  Shearer shook his head. “Don’t just give me the party line – tell me how China made it happen.”

  Yang grew angry. “You assume too much – and have no right to do so.”

  “Something happened down there the US can’t explain.”

  “They detected an event with seismic instruments set up by their own scientists,” said Yang. “It is a region busy with research and quasi-scientific American activity. How could China hope to do what you suggest without being discovered?”

  Shearer smiled. “That’s a very good question.”

  “Whatever happened to trigger the volcanic eruption occurred more than a kilometre under the ice. Surely that means it was a natural occurrence,” said Yang.

  “The signals I’m talking about were not seismic waves – they were radio waves. They were man-made.”

  The statement caught Yang off-guard. “China has no capacity to explode weapons of any sort deep underground. We cannot conceive of why America or any nation would carry out such an act of self-destruction. Yet this is the terrible thing of which you accuse my people.”

  “Do you deny trying to shoot down an American spy satellite?”

  “We lost many of our satellites in the solar storm,” said Yang. “We were merely trying to launch another.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret,” said Shearer. “America was blind for two days after the Sunburst. Their military sats were built to withstand the most intense solar radiation storms, but US Space Command shut them down as a precaution. Trouble was, it took two days to get them back online. The Americans were sitting ducks for all that time.”

  Yang’s expression gave nothing away.

  “Isn’t it possible the People’s Liberation Army learned of this vulnerability and your generals decided to press their advantage?” Shearer asked him.

  “It is possible,” Yang admitted. “But I have been assured this did not happen.”

  General Shearer stared hard into the man’s eyes and saw he was telling the truth. “Then I’m sorry, but your superiors are lying to you. Space Command didn’t detect the launch until your bird was in the air. However, they know the difference between a rocket and a missile.”

  Yang sighed. “Let us presume that what you say is true. From this act alone China is being held responsible for the Flood. But one and one do not make three.”

  “Forgive me,” Shearer countered, “but the People’s Republic seems to place little value on the lives of individuals. Someone in your leadership perhaps saw the Flood as a way to lift China’s standing in the world.”

  “Do I need to remind you the US has a long history of aggression in virtually every corner of the globe? China is on its knees, General. Yet instead of using our armed forces to help the people recover from the catastrophe, we are forced to prepare for possible invasion.”

  Shearer nodded. He appeared to have made up his mind about something.

  “Tell me why I am here, General.”

  “I’ve been instructed to inform you that Australia does not wish to become collateral damage in a war between two superpowers.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we are willing to walk away from our strategic alliance with the United States.”

  Yang Hongbo’s expression narrowed. “Such words are easy. They are much harder to demonstrate. Defence treaties require more than a handshake on the side of the road.”

  “Surely I don’t need to explain the sensitivity of this matter. The Prime Minister is terrified this will backfire. We can’t risk going public before we know your response.”

  “You may need to offer something more concrete to convince my Government your words are not merely a calculated distraction.”

  “Which is why I am informing you my operatives will soon commence an operation that will demonstrate the seriousness of Australia’s intent in this regard.”

  Four

  A magpie's storm call echoed through the air below. It snapped Luckman out of his reverie and he turned to the job at hand. Eight floors ... about 24 metres. One rope would be enough, which would save some time.

  He double checked he was facing the right way. One balcony looked much like another on a circular building and he didn’t want to miss his target. Near the edge he yanked on a metal railing and decided it would hold his weight. He fed out the rope, securing it to allow for its retrieval from below, then slung the rest of his gear on his back. Within two minutes he was moon-walking down the vertical face of the building exterior.

  Bell was the only person in the Army who knew about his visions. Luckman had had nightmares for years, on and off... about the men he’d killed or the faces of soldiers he’d seen shot to pieces. The smell and the pain had been seared into his brain. They were all part of him, each phantom instantly recognisable. But the faces coming to him lately were unfamiliar. There had only been one or two at first, but they quickly formed a mob that pursued him through a dreamscape of desolation, pleading for safety and relief. Their ardent appeals were alarming enough, but the dark force from which they fled evoked a fear so intense it was nothing short of blind panic. At the heart of it lay something he would do anything to avoid. The desperate faces in flight were likewise terrified, but he had not the vaguest inkling of why they thought he could help them.

  It may simply be a recurring nightmare, a product of his brain’s attempt to process the horror of his waking existence. But he had begun to wonder whether there might be more to it than that, whether there were more people out there in desperate need of help. Luckman had awoken in fright so many times he’d taken to leaving a light on.

  He leapt over the large cavity of the penthouse balcony, noting the growing swell below him as he watched waves crash around the base of the building. As he touched down again he remained on the move, jumping once more into space as another balcony loomed. It was almost like flying. He repeated the process six more times and was almost disappointed to arrive at his destination. The fun part was always over too soon. He swung in and landed on his feet, narrowly missing a gas barbecue and a banana lounge.

  As he stood up he heard a woman’s scream from somewhere inside the apartment. He unclipped himself from the rope, throwing his other equipment down on the balcony. She kept on screaming. He still couldn’t see her, but held up his hands in an effort to calm her down.

  “It’s OK. I’m with the Army, I’m here to help.”

  The woman showed herself – pale, bedraggled and clearly scared out of her wits. Her shorts and T-shirt were crumpled and filthy. She had a cricket bat and looked ready to knock his block off, but as she caught sight of him she relaxed.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Hello.”

  “You took your time ­– if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “We were told there was no-one alive in this building.”

  “Yeah? Well guess what?” she said, hands raised like the minstrel of sarcasm.

  Luckman pointed to his left shoulder, to indicate he was unclipping his walkie talkie.

  “No thanks, I don’t smoke,” she said.

  He gazed at the device. Sheathed in its waterproof plastic film it looked just like a packet of cigarettes.

  “Searcher 210. Do you copy, Ed?”

  “Copy Stone, over.”

  “I’m secure. Contact established. Any chance of a lift, over?”

  “I need to refuel, over.”

  “Can you give me an ETA, over?”

  “About an hour, over.”

  “Roger.”

  OK, so far so good. Stage one, meet and greet. Now came the hard bit.

  “I'm here to help,” he repeated, trying to sound calm – maybe even soothing.

  “So you said,” she returned, laughing humourlessly. She took a step toward him and then stopped herself.

  Humour, anger, awkward social interaction – all the classic hallmarks of trauma. But she had accepted his explanation. Maybe she wasn't insane.

  He heard a knock on the apartment's front door, which was barricaded from the inside.

  “Mel?” a voice inquired from outside the apartment. “You OK? What’s going on in there?”

  She wheeled round in fright at the sound of the man’s voice then turned back to Luckman with a look hovering somewhere between fear, embarrassment and guilt. There was something weird going on here.

  “How many of you are left in the building?” he asked her.