7

Firestorm

Dawn was an hour away yet. It was very early in the morning, but Cletus Howe was already up and ready to face another day's hard work on his farm. He finished getting dressed, and looked back at his wife, asleep in the bed. He decided to make her breakfast in bed – after all, it was her birthday. Humming to himself, he made his way down to the kitchen.

Some distance away, a group of men were standing on a hillside overlooking the farm.

These men were a diverse lot; there was an Oriental man, a black man, an American, an Australian, an Egyptian, and an Italian.

Standing apart from them were two others, deep in discussion. You should be familiar with them by now. One was Maxwell Vane. The other was Seymour Wray.

Vane was insisting that Wray seek medical help. Wray was refusing, on the grounds that they were only second degree burns. Vane wished he could agree. But the thing was, Wray hadn't been fast enough to leave the rink the previous night. He now had a horrific scar on his face where the flames had hit him. One whole cheek was an angry red, and it was bubbled and had split in places. It had also affected his left eye, so now it was locked in a permanent squint.

All in all, Salamander had looked better in his disguise.

With a final shake of the head, Wray turned from Vane and addressed the others. "Gentlemen!" he beamed. "It is a great honour to have so many criminals gathered in one place!"

A few of them managed a smile, but most were far too tired to bother. It was far too early in the morning for some of them, and for others (like the Australian, for example) it was the equivalent of late at night.

Even Salamander was weary, but he disguised it. "Anyway," he continued, "you are all here for a purpose. That purpose is this."

He gestured to Vane, who was standing beside a strange object that was about half his height. It had a silk sheet draped over it, covering it. With a flourish, Vane whipped the sheet off, to reveal…

"Oh wow, a missile launcher," the Italian commented. "Never seen one of those before."

"Correct," smiled Wray. "Not like this, you haven't."

Vane handed him a device that looked for all the world like a TV remote. Wray pressed a button. Immediately, the missile twisted round and elevated itself until it was pointing up at an angle. It was poised to launch directly over the farm.

"You requested a demonstration of my new weapon," Wray continued, "and now you will have it. Watch this."

He pressed another button. The rocket suddenly took off, soaring up into the night. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," Wray sang quietly, "how I wonder what you are. But I know what you are now. You are the most devastating force on the planet. You are unstoppable. You are the way to the future. My future."

The rocket was rising over the corn fields now. It was only a small dot of light in the sky to them.

"Gentlemen," said Wray. "I give you… Firestorm."

He pressed the button.

For a split second, nothing happened. Then, the missile suddenly dissolved. It didn't explode. It just was suddenly not a solid object, but a fireball moving through the night sky. And then it detonated.

Huge jets of flame shot down to the ground in all directions. Where they hit the corn, it became ablaze. Where they hit tarmac, the surface bubbled and boiled and became liquid. And a single tongue of fire struck the farmhouse. It caused the building to immediately become alight.

Jet after jet of fire streamed down, setting fire to everything they came into contact with. There seemed to be no end to it. It was like a never-ending, deadly firework.

And then, quite suddenly, it was over. There was no grand finale, no final bang. The flames simply stopped, and it looked as though there had never been a rocket in the first place.

But on the ground it was a different story. The cornfields were now all alight, and the fire was quickly spreading. There was a tractor parked near them, and it too was on fire, and was slowly sinking into the molten tarmac.

And as for the farmhouse… it was now a towering inferno. There wasn't a chance in hell that someone could have survived in it.

The whole area around where the Firestorm had detonated was now ablaze.

Wray turned to the onlookers. "There you have it," he said.

"What's the range of it?" asked the Oriental man.

"This was only a small version. In terms of the real thing, the flames cover up to 3 square kilometres. You should be at least five kilometres from the point of detonation. And the rocket itself is powered by solar energy, so don't worry about a distant target. This weapon can fly around the whole world twice if it has to." Wray grinned.

"You say it's solar-powered," said the black man. "But it's night time."

Wray nodded. "It charges itself automatically during the day. Then, if it's used in the dark, or on a cloudy day, it uses its own battery, rather than the Sun's energy."

Wray looked around. "Any other questions?"

There was a pregnant pause. Then, the American voiced the thought that was in all of their minds. "How much?"

"That will be subjective," replied Wray. "It depends entirely on the target. If you want me to set fire to a small village in the middle of nowhere, I can do that for very little money. But if you want me to destroy the White House, then it's going to cost you."

The Egyptian put up his hand. "Yes?" said Wray.

"Okay, this missile of yours will destroy a farm. Wonderful. But how do we know it would damage, say, a city? Something made of concrete."

Wray thought about this. "You're right," he said. "I owe you another demonstration. And you will have it. This time, I will choose a large, bustling city, full of people. Where and when I set off Firestorm next is my own business. You'll know about it when it happens."

They all nodded. "So if it works, you have a deal," said the Australian.

"And if it doesn't work," added the Oriental man, "then you have no deal. With any of us."

Wray looked around at them all. "Agreed," he said. "Don't worry; the next demonstration will not fail."