fussing with his holster and utility belt and trying to control his breathing. He found his calm by picturing himself in a more familiar situation equally fraught with imminent peril, swooping down in a helicopter onto a landing zone in enemy-controlled territory. Death was the worst-case scenario then and now. He could deal with that.
He heard the count arrive at T-minus-one minute and Matthew ordering the injection of the particle guns. He heard Quint give final authorization to proceed and Matthew following through with firing initiation.
Behind him the elliptical map of MAAC showed the proton beams looping around London.
Matthew called out the rising collision energies, his voice rising.
“Twenty-five TeV,” he shouted. “We’re approaching the critical point.”
Suddenly Trevor said from the wings, “John, it’s not too late to abort.”
“No way. Keep going.”
He closed his eyes as the count ran up, Emily’s face planted in his mind.
He heard Matthew shouting “Thirty TeV!” and then in an instant, everything went completely quiet, as if he were suddenly underwater.
Trevor was the first one to say something and it was a loud string of curses.
He reached for his pistol and closed in on the theater well with the advancing MI5 agents.
John was gone.
A dirty young man, shabbily dressed, was standing on the tape mark blinking at them in terror.
“Who are you?” Trevor shouted.
The young man replied truculently, “Who am I? Who the ’ell are you?”
5
The smell hit John even before the sight of the place registered, like a bad latrine in an outpost in Afghanistan but worse. The sweet, sickly aroma of decay wrinkled his nose and soured his stomach.
Disoriented, he looked from side to side. Through a cold, gray drizzle he saw he was alone on a rutted, muddy road. To his right and left, hugging the road, were small, shoddy wooden houses with thatched roofs, their shutters tightly closed. A pair of large black crows took to the air from one of the roofs and disappeared into a nearby stand of trees. Wood smoke drifted from chimneys, providing the only pleasant whiffs. He heard the whinny of an unseen horse.
His khaki trousers were loose. The ends of his belt hung free, the buckle gone. All the gear on the belt was missing, the plastic holster, the pistol, the mags and nylon mag holders, the knife and its sheath, the utility tool. He felt exposed, out in the open, as he did a frantic inventory. His watch was gone. He thrust his hands in his pockets. The compass and lighter weren’t there. Then he realized that all the zippers on his leather jacket were missing. He was also missing his zipper and the plastic buttons on his trousers and shirt were gone too. His boots felt a little loose and a quick glance downwards revealed that the metal eyelets for the rawhide laces weren’t there. The canvas backpack bag was lying in the mud behind him, without the metal buckles that had held the straps together. The bag looked deflated and when he stooped to retrieve it, the only thing left inside was the spool of rope. He quickly ran a length through his belt loops, tied it off and stuffed the spool in his pocket.
He felt certain that no more than a few seconds had elapsed since he heard Matthew calling out, “Thirty TeV.”
Where was the lab?
What was this place?
He had an urge to call out for Emily but he checked himself and took a tentative few steps forward, the mud sucking at his boots.
A muffled voice came from one of the houses, “Come on, Duck, you bird-witted fat’ead. Where are you then?”
John froze.
“Don’t be ‘angin’ about. You know it an’t safe.”
The shutters opened and a young man stuck his head out. His jaw went slack at the sight of John.
John started to run. He heard a door opening, slapping against the side of the house, and the squishy sound of footsteps behind him.
“’Ere! Stop! I an’t gonna do nuthin’ to you.”
John looked over his shoulder. The fellow
He heard the count arrive at T-minus-one minute and Matthew ordering the injection of the particle guns. He heard Quint give final authorization to proceed and Matthew following through with firing initiation.
Behind him the elliptical map of MAAC showed the proton beams looping around London.
Matthew called out the rising collision energies, his voice rising.
“Twenty-five TeV,” he shouted. “We’re approaching the critical point.”
Suddenly Trevor said from the wings, “John, it’s not too late to abort.”
“No way. Keep going.”
He closed his eyes as the count ran up, Emily’s face planted in his mind.
He heard Matthew shouting “Thirty TeV!” and then in an instant, everything went completely quiet, as if he were suddenly underwater.
Trevor was the first one to say something and it was a loud string of curses.
He reached for his pistol and closed in on the theater well with the advancing MI5 agents.
John was gone.
A dirty young man, shabbily dressed, was standing on the tape mark blinking at them in terror.
“Who are you?” Trevor shouted.
The young man replied truculently, “Who am I? Who the ’ell are you?”
5
The smell hit John even before the sight of the place registered, like a bad latrine in an outpost in Afghanistan but worse. The sweet, sickly aroma of decay wrinkled his nose and soured his stomach.
Disoriented, he looked from side to side. Through a cold, gray drizzle he saw he was alone on a rutted, muddy road. To his right and left, hugging the road, were small, shoddy wooden houses with thatched roofs, their shutters tightly closed. A pair of large black crows took to the air from one of the roofs and disappeared into a nearby stand of trees. Wood smoke drifted from chimneys, providing the only pleasant whiffs. He heard the whinny of an unseen horse.
His khaki trousers were loose. The ends of his belt hung free, the buckle gone. All the gear on the belt was missing, the plastic holster, the pistol, the mags and nylon mag holders, the knife and its sheath, the utility tool. He felt exposed, out in the open, as he did a frantic inventory. His watch was gone. He thrust his hands in his pockets. The compass and lighter weren’t there. Then he realized that all the zippers on his leather jacket were missing. He was also missing his zipper and the plastic buttons on his trousers and shirt were gone too. His boots felt a little loose and a quick glance downwards revealed that the metal eyelets for the rawhide laces weren’t there. The canvas backpack bag was lying in the mud behind him, without the metal buckles that had held the straps together. The bag looked deflated and when he stooped to retrieve it, the only thing left inside was the spool of rope. He quickly ran a length through his belt loops, tied it off and stuffed the spool in his pocket.
He felt certain that no more than a few seconds had elapsed since he heard Matthew calling out, “Thirty TeV.”
Where was the lab?
What was this place?
He had an urge to call out for Emily but he checked himself and took a tentative few steps forward, the mud sucking at his boots.
A muffled voice came from one of the houses, “Come on, Duck, you bird-witted fat’ead. Where are you then?”
John froze.
“Don’t be ‘angin’ about. You know it an’t safe.”
The shutters opened and a young man stuck his head out. His jaw went slack at the sight of John.
John started to run. He heard a door opening, slapping against the side of the house, and the squishy sound of footsteps behind him.
“’Ere! Stop! I an’t gonna do nuthin’ to you.”
John looked over his shoulder. The fellow
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