Through the reinforced concrete and steel walls, Tom could hear the beams circulating at almost the speed of light, completing over twelve thousand laps every second. It sounded like a cross between an angry nest of hornets and a light aircraft taking off.
He parked up at the spur that doglegged out of the main structure. The proliferation of warning signs confirmed that he was in the right place: Danger, Radiation Risk, High Temperature, Electromagnetic Radiation, Wear Protective Clothing. The last one made him smile: Mind your head.
His hearing was tuned in to detect any sound that would indicate he wasn’t alone; but, apart from the drone of the beams, his sensors didn’t pick anything else up. Perhaps he had misjudged Deiter? Perhaps he had valued his own life above the satisfaction of personally overseeing his plans come to fruition, after all?
Tom retrieved the pass key from his pocket and swiped it in the electronic lock; it was similar to the ones used by most hotels to allow guests access to their rooms. The red light remained on, unblinking. He tried again. Nothing. He was about to try a third time when he noticed the panel on the front of the lock was cracked. He pulled at it and it came off in his hand, revealing a circuit board underneath. A wire had been hastily attached from one part of it to another with chewing gum. He removed the makeshift modification, replaced the cover and tried again. The light flicked from red to green, followed by a resounding clunk as the door unlocked.
He stepped over the threshold and found himself in a small, brightly-lit chamber. The fast kicker magnets that diverted the beam were located in the collider ring itself, which was separated from the ante-room, in which Tom stood, by a set of steel doors two feet thick. A similar pair of doors was located to his right, which would simultaneously open to allow the passage of the beam into the dump tunnel.
In the centre of the room was a metallic silver podium, similar to the lecterns Tom had used onstage when addressing a large group of students or visiting dignitaries in one of the auditoriums back at MIT. On top of it sat a control panel and screen.
He made his way over to it. Initially, his heart sank when he noticed the bullet holes that peppered the screen; but, as he got closer, his despondency faded. Behind the spider-web of cracks emanating from the holes he could see a faint image, disjointed as it was, where the schematics of the collider ring and dump tunnel could still be made out.
Sweat peppering his top lip, he keyed in the word ‘elevation’ as an instruction and the screen changed to display a set of figures; the elevation of the fast kicker magnets was set to zero degrees. He let out a sigh of relief; everything seemed to be functioning properly. A few more keystrokes and he had changed the angle to thirty degrees as instructed by Jed.
Pressing the ‘enter’ key took him to another set of instructions: ‘operate, Y or N’. His finger trembled as he pressed the affirmative key. Immediately, he heard the distinct hum of an electric motor starting up, above the sound of the beams. The screen changed yet again to a diagram depicting the magnets being tilted to the programmed angle. It took several seconds to complete the procedure, after which the screen changed a final time to show a digital clock, its luminous green digits counting down from one hundred and eighty in second intervals: his three-minute warning to evacuate the chamber.
He hastily turned to leave, but his passage out of the room was blocked by a figure standing in the doorway — Deiter. The gun he’d taken from the deputy at the hospital was pointed directly at Tom’s chest. He had been so engrossed in trying to get the magnets to operate that he hadn’t heard him sneak up. Tom wondered how long he’d been standing there. His intuition had been right the first time; Deiter was going to see this through to the bitter end, even if it meant he would lose his own life in the process.
‘I have to admire your tenacity, Professor Halligan,’ he said. ‘But it takes a better man to realise when his actions are futile.’
It was obvious to Tom that Deiter believed he’d disabled the control panel permanently.
‘I’ve finally reached that conclusion,’ replied Tom. ‘Looks like you’ve won.’
The gloating expression on Deiter’s face said it all. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
Tom looked at the gun in Deiter’s grip, trying to judge whether he could surmount the three-foot gap between them and disarm him before he had a chance to discharge the weapon. It was possibly suicidal; but then again, what option did he have left? He glanced back at the display; its numbers indicated that a third of the time had already been used up.
Deiter noticed the gesture and looked past Tom’s shoulder. ‘What have you done?’ he bellowed. ‘Move away from the controls.’ Deiter waved the gun in the direction he wanted Tom to go.
That was all the distraction Tom needed. He closed the distance between them in a single stride and lunged for the gun. Gripping Deiter’s wrist, he pushed his arm upwards so the muzzle pointed innocuously at the ceiling and held on. Deiter reacted by trying to bring it down so he could get a clear shot at Tom. The two men’s strengths were equally matched as they strained, while the gun’s aim was balanced somewhere between each of their objectives, just above Tom’s head.
As Deiter reached up with his other hand to reinforce his grip, he exposed his flank. Tom wasted no time in delivering a well-trained body blow to Deiter’s ribs. The air was forced out of Deiter’s lungs and he slackened his hold on the gun, giving the advantage to Tom.
But Deiter wasn’t playing by the Queensbury Rules; he took a step back and launched a kick in the direction of Tom’s groin. The foot landed at the top of Tom’s thigh, missing his vital parts by inches. However, the force of the blow knocked him off-balance and he went careering into the podium in the centre of the room, dropping the gun in the process.
Deiter made a move for it, but Tom quickly regained his composure and landed an uppercut on his opponent’s jaw as he bent down to pick up the gun. Deiter reeled backwards. However, as Tom made for the gun, Deiter kicked out, his foot failing to make contact but forcing Tom to take a step back, empty-handed.
They circled the weapon, their eyes locked, never wavering, like two male lions fighting over a kill. Deiter broke rank and darted for the gun, but Tom sprang forward and hit him on the shoulder before he had a chance to grab it. Closer now, they traded blows, each giving as good as he got. Deiter’s nose was bloodied and the stitched cut above Tom’s eye had opened up.
Exhausted, their punches were becoming less effective. Tom threw a right cross at Deiter, who blocked it easily and parried it with a jab to Tom’s stomach. Winded, Tom let down his guard. Deiter seized the opportunity and went for Tom’s throat, clasping both hands around his neck. He tried to squeeze the life out of him, but Tom still had some reserves left.
Reaching up, he clawed at Deiter’s face, managing to hook his fingers in the fleshy part at the corner of his mouth. He pulled down with as much strength as he had left, ripping a tear an inch long in the other man’s cheek. Crying out in agony, Deiter released his strangle-hold and took a step back, blood gushing freely from his extended smile. Tom took a second to catch his breath as Deiter tried to stem the flow.
They were about to go for round two when the siren went, distracting them both. The huge, stainless steel doors behind and to the left of Deiter started to open. Tom, being the closest to the exit, made a run for it, while Deiter went for the weapon. He picked up the gun and aimed it at the centre of Tom’s back. His fingers tightened around the trigger, but he was unable to drop the hammer as a beam of super-charged energy bore through his torso, cauterising the blood vessels instantaneously and leaving a perfectly formed hole the size of a grapefruit.