Crystal Ice Read online

  Crystal Ice

  By

  Warren Miner-Williams

  First published as Kindle edition in 2021 by Warren Miner-Williams

  Epub 11/2021

  ISBN 978-0-473-58880-9

  Copyright © Warren Miner-Williams 2021

  The right of Warren Miner-Williams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into 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. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, re-sold, hired out, be lent, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent.

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

  If I have seen more clearly than others it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.

  Sir Isaac Newton, English mathematician & physicist, 1642 – 1727, (adapted from a quotation in a letter to Robert Hooke, February 5, 1675)

  To my family: Lynda, Cheryl, Corinne and Ruth

  The science behind this story is real and could happen today. This work is a blend of fact and fiction. Whilst many historical details and backgrounds are based on published historical sources, the principal characters and events in this work are fictitious. Any implication that any real persons mentioned in this work are complicit in illegal activities is completely unintentional.

  Table of Contents

  Part I The Colour of War

  1.Zagreb

  2.Alex MacLean

  3.Tony Graham-Collins

  4.Trieste

  5.‘The Finches’

  6.Ice

  7.Rewa

  8.The Necktie

  9.Sharon

  10.The Weapon

  11.Lavender’s Blue Dilly Dilly

  12.Tangihanga

  13.Ngaire

  14.Dilemma

  15. The Ceremony

  16. The Truth Will Set You Free

  17. More Eggs!

  18. Essential Oil

  19. Turangi

  20. Damage Limitation

  Part II America

  21. Air Fresheners

  22. The Start of Things to Come

  23. An Epidemic

  24. A Pandemic

  25. The Four Horsemen

  26. Point Sources of Contagion

  27. More Deaths

  28. The Breakthrough.

  29. Hope

  30. Biotechnology versus Bioterrorism

  31. The Enquiry Falters

  Part III An Empire Falls

  32. Bitter Celebrations

  33. Questions

  34. Nexus

  35. Just Fishing

  36. Mother Lode

  37. Molotovs

  38. Amongst the Ruins

  39. Searching

  40. Running out of Time

  41. The Bubble Bursts.

  42. The Fish that Get Away

  Epilogue.

  Part I

  The Colour of War

  1.

  Zagreb

  Having placed the open bottle of Kraski Teran at the centre of the table Branko Kovač saw a single drop of the red wine run slowly down the side of the bottle and on to the starched white tablecloth. At the same moment his attention was diverted to a small six tonne fuel tanker passing the restaurant for the third time. The driver was struggling to engage the correct gear, making a real hash of it. Odd Branko thought, he couldn’t remember seeing a fuel tanker like that in this district. There weren’t any gas stations close by. It was a similar vehicle to the one his father had driven. As a boy he had accompanied his father many times around the local farms, refilling their diesel tanks with fuel for the farm vehicles.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me.” persisted the customer he was serving. “Could I have your attention please?”

  “Certainly madam, I’m sorry, I was distracted. What can I get you?”

  The same single drop of red wine that had reached the tablecloth slowly spread through the white fibres of the linen cloth, staining them blood red. Branko was once again distracted from the needs of his customer. The blood red stain reminded him of a photograph he had seen in an exhibition of war photography, of a body wrapped in a snow-white shroud with a single red stain at the centre of the cadaver’s chest.

  “Did you hear what I have just said?

  “Yes Madam, I did, you wish to start with the Krompirjeva Juha, the potato soup. Have you a guest joining you today Madam?”

  “No, I’m on my own today.”

  Branko smiled at the woman he had admired so often. Her daily lunches at the restaurant were something he looked forward to. She was tall, elegant, and blonde with pacific blue eyes that sparkled when she spoke. Juliet Allen was a woman of natural beauty and used very little make-up, he could see the small auburn freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. Her perfectly tailored business suit hugged her slim figure and telegraphed her feminine curves. He had decided long ago that he loved her dearly.

  What about the soup then?”

  “Yes, madam immediately.” And with that he scuttled off to the kitchen to place her order.

  ***

  Casimir Zupančič was shaking almost uncontrollably as he drove the tanker along Velika Gorica. Having fouled up the gear change the high-pitched screeching sound was drawing the attention of bystanders. Eventually he forced it into gear and continued along the highway. After passing under the Lipovac-Varaždin highway overpass he turned left at the fifth set of traffic lights before finally turning right into Thomas Jefferson Street. The very thought of the Americans naming a street in Croatia after one of their own presidents renewed his resolve to finish what he had been assigned to do. As he neared the American embassy, he floored the accelerator to ensure that the truck would smash through the bollards protecting the front of the building. After 9-11 the Americans had strengthened the protection around all of their consular buildings, but Casimir’s leaders had accounted for that. The chassis of the tanker had been strengthened considerably to deal with the obstructions that circled the embassy. In any event the tanker didn’t need to be too close to the front of the building to be effective. The tanker was full of ammonium nitrate dissolved in diesel fuel with just a small detonating charge of a single kilo of Semtex explosive.

  The name Casimir meant peacemaker, ironic that he should be chosen for this particular demonstration that the Muslim peoples Jihad should not be forgotten.

  ***

  Branko Kovač delivered Juliet Allen’s potato soup just as two other American Embassy officials sat at her table.

  “That looks good Jools, I think we should have the same. You don’t mind us joining you, do you?”

  “No Charles I don’t mind at all,” and looking straight at Branko she winked her left eye that told him that she did mind. “Another two soups please Branko.”

  “Yes, madam certainly.”

  “Fraternising with the enemy again are we Jools?” Branko heard as he turned back towards the kitchen.

  He had taken an instant disliking to the man Juliet Allen had addressed as Charles. He was a massive, powerful man with short ginger hair, who stood over two metres tall with very broad shoulders and narrow hips. His broad chest looked as if it would burst through his shirt at any moment and his hands were enormous. His neck was so thick that he could not button up his collar and his tie looked ridi
culously small as it hung over his barrel chest. Charles was probably a ‘military attaché’ if that is what they call their military personnel. The second man whom Juliet Allen had not identified could have been Charles’ twin. Dark haired and only slightly shorter he too shared the same powerful build that demonstrated he too was military and not to be messed with. Unlike the light-hearted and relaxed demeanour of Charles this man took his work very seriously and remained constantly alert.

  As Branko delivered the other two soups to Ms Allen’s table the three Americans were deep in conspiratorial conversation that stopped immediately as he approached. Just as Branko turned away a Mercedes-Benz 560SEC parked at the curb side. The driver did not get out of the car and seemed to be waiting for someone to leave the restaurant. Most of the patrons had only just started their lunch so he was in for a long wait.

  As Branko Kovač moved behind one of the concrete support pillars at the rear of the restaurant his world disappeared in a blinding, thunderous instant. The blast from the car bomb ripped through the front of the restaurant and shredded both its structure and the feeble flesh of its customers. From outside, blood, bone, and flesh were blasted through the front windows. Car parts, furniture and glass became missiles that tore into the customers sitting inside the restaurant.

  Although the concrete pillar beside Branko buckled and bent like a stem of wheat in a windstorm, most importantly for him, it withstood the initial blast. As the pressure wave passed outwards from the seat of the explosion a vacuum soon developed which sucked debris back in the opposite direction, out of the restaurant. It was this that caused most of Branko’s injuries. He was pelted with articles from the bar, bottles, glasses and chinaware alike. If a colleague of Branko’s had not been in between him and the bar when this assault took place Branko would most surely have died. Torn and battered Branko was lifted bodily and blown back into the very pillar that had previously protected him. In an instant later the lifeless body of his colleague collided with both Branko and the pillar. A visceral, sickening snap telegraphed the breaking of bones in Branko’s left arm and he slumped to the floor. The whole world had turned upside down and inside out as thick choking dust replaced the flying debris.

  ***

  Whilst the attention of the Embassy guards was drawn to the sound of the distant explosion the tanker Casimir Zupančič was driving accelerated up Thomas Jefferson Street towards its target. Casimir had also heard the explosion and this was his signal to start his final ‘bombing run’. As the truck crashed through the traffic bollards the guards turned back towards the embassy in unison. With their weapons drawn they fired at the truck in the forlorn hope that small arms fire alone would halt the progress of the tanker. With pieces of concrete flying in all directions the momentum of the truck finally diminished and the moment Casimir had trained for arrived. With little further progress towards its target the truck finally came to a halt and for a single second Casimir Zupančič hesitated. Bullets whined like angry bees as they ricocheted off the metalwork of the truck. People leaving the main entrance of the embassy foolishly turned back, re-entering the building, little realising that death would soon overtake them all. Holding the detonator firmly in his hand Casimir started to recite verses from the Koran, verses that in the next instant would accompany him to paradise. Guards were already racing towards the stationary truck in a vain attempt to halt the inevitable. As Casimir Zupančič pressed the detonating switch he initiated the irreversible chain reaction that would culminate in an explosion so powerful it would be recorded on seismometers in Italy. In the first milliseconds of the blast the structure of diesel tanker peeled apart and rent Zupančič’s body into pieces. Then the immense pressure wave pushed outwards, accelerating cars, people and masonry towards the embassy at near supersonic speeds. Within milliseconds a firestorm was created and like an avenging angel all before it burst into flames. As the ensuing blast lifted the concrete lintels of the first floor, the supporting columns upon which they rested were flung aside and the front of the embassy collapsed. Death and destruction had been metered out on an unprecedented scale. The blooded broken bodies of more than hundred people lay around the epicentre of the explosion, whilst many hundreds more lay buried beneath the front of the embassy itself. In the seconds that followed the catastrophe an unearthly silence shrouded the entire area. Amid the wailing sirens of police cars rushing to the scene of the first explosion the cries of the maimed and injured around the embassy slowly rose to a ghoulish crescendo.

  ***

  A deafening high-pitched white noise greeted Branko as his consciousness returned. His head was spinning and pain pounded at his temples. His eyes, thick with dust, refused to open and he felt the rising nausea that accompanied severe shock. Having vomited the obnoxious smelling fluid coursed unobstructed down the front of his shirt. Seemingly paralysed he could hardly breathe and struggled for every life-supporting breath, it was as if a giant hand was pressing on his chest, holding him down. As his senses slowly returned, he turned his head to the side and using his free right hand he wiped the dust from his eyes. It was then that he discovered that the giant hand forcing him down was what remained of his colleague lying on his chest. Summoning up what little strength remained he pushed the body away and tried to rise. Miraculously he felt little pain and found it difficult to identify which part of him was injured. Only when he tried to use his left arm to lift his body off the floor did a sheet of pain overtake him. Close by lay the body of a woman, her near naked body was grotesquely bent and broken. Bile rose into his mouth as he stepped over her lifeless body. Staggering upright using the lifesaving column for support Branko Kovač tried to survey what remained of the restaurant around him. There was little left that he could recognise. Tens of bodies lay all around him. Only a few people were still alive. Slowly as other survivors recovered consciousness did the cries of the maimed pierced the shroud of white noise in Branko’s ears. He ignored them all and staggered out into the light. By some unexplained loyalty or perhaps just shock, he checked for the customers at his allocated tables. They all seemed to be dead or dying. The last table he came to was where Juliet Allen had been sitting. When he stooped over her body, he realised that her eyes were open and she was staring directly at him, attempting to smile. By some miracle she was still alive. When Branko looked for her companions, he saw what remained of Charles. His body was torn apart and crumpled like paper doll. Juliet Allen had probably been shielded from the blast by the upturned table and the bulk of Charles’ body. Her other companion was nowhere to be seen. Branko knelt beside Juliet Allen and cradled her head with his right arm. As she tried to speak Branko bent down to hear what she desperately wanted to say.

  “Any chance of a coffee Branko?”

  Almost speechless he didn’t know what to say. Eventually in a rasping dry voice he replied “Be still Madam you are badly hurt, save your strength.”

  “Juliet. Call me Juliet.” She whispered. “What has happened to Charles and Rudy?”

  “I think they are gone, Madam.”

  A single tear appeared in the corner of her left eye. “Shame. Rudy was a nice guy.” As she coughed blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. “His wife is expecting another baby.” After pausing for breath, she continued. “They were my bodyguards. I escaped from them for time on my own.” Juliet Allen looked at Branko and smiled once more

  “Save your breath madam, help will be here soon.”

  As Branko smiled in return a small bubble of blood emerged from her mouth. He was helpless, he had no idea how to help her. With her voice failing Branko had to stoop even further to hear what she was saying.

  “Have you a wife Branko?”

  “Not yet, I’ve not met the right woman. Are you married?”

  Juliet never answered. Her eyes slowly shut as some pain deep inside her made her whole body stiffen. When her muscles relaxed, she had gone.

  ***

  Matej Korošec had watched the tableau from a high-rise block of flats
at the edge of the Buzina district that overlooked the American Embassy. Everything had gone to plan. He had seen Casimir Zupančič, the peacemaker, hesitate and drive around the block three times. He had witnessed the hesitation after he had smashed through the protective bollards in front of the target. But he had done what was wanted of him, he and Peter Bizjak, the driver of the Mercedes, had succeeded in striking a devastating blow to the heart of the Americans. Tonight, their heroism would be broadcast in news bulletins all across the World. They had struck a blow for the freedom of all the oppressed peoples of the World, oppressed by America, the infidel. No one would take the Jihad lightly anymore. They had proved that they were a force to be reckoned with.

  At just 1.68 metres tall Korošec was not a big man. Dark haired, slim and lightweight he was nothing to look at, but he was an inspiring leader. He had learned from the best of the Bosnian mujahideen, Enver Hadžihasanović, Rasim Delić and Amir Kubura. As he put his binoculars away, he turned to his loyal lieutenant Tomaž Rozman and smiling to him said,