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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Acknowledgements

Also available in the STORM series:

STORM: The Infinity Code

STORM: The Ghost Machine

DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

Published by The Penguin Group • Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in the United States 2009
by Dial Books for Young Readers

Published in Great Britain 2008
by Macmillan Children’s Books

All rights reserved

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

.S.A.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Young, E. L.
STORM : the Black Sphere / by E.L. Young.
p. cm.

Summary: The teenaged geniuses of STORM, a secret organization dedicated to eliminating the world’s misery through science and technology, head to the Swiss Alps seeking the last of six scientists whose Project FIREball is of interest to MI6, the CIA, and an unknown assasin.

eISBN : 978-1-101-02907-7

[1. Secret societies—Fiction. 2. Scientists—Fiction. 3.Inventors—Fiction. 4. Spies—Fiction. 5. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 6. Alps, Swiss (Switzerland)—Fiction. 7. Switzerland—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Black Sphere.

PZ7.Y8547Sqb 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008023923

For James

Prologue

Two miles east of Interlaken, Switzerland
July 15, 1:08 P.M.

David Wickett thought his blown-out tire was bad luck.

He was late. And now he had to jack up the car and replace the damaged wheel. No one stopped to offer help. He was high in the Alps. Tourists in sports coupes were zigzagging around the spectacular corners, grinning in their expensive sunglasses. From here, he had a postcard view across a deep valley dotted with wildflowers.

But Wickett’s mind wasn’t on the view. It wasn’t even on the tire. Hanging on a titanium chain around his neck was a locket-shaped miniature hard drive. On that locket was a document so secret and so important, he’d been forced to spend the past eight months in almost total isolation while he’d worked on it.

It had been the same for the others. There were six of them. Scientists from four different countries. All at the top of their field. All working on the same “impossible” problem.

And now Wickett had succeeded. Even beyond his own hopes.

Those pension-minded establishment types who had claimed it was inconceivable—they’d be the ones with egg on their faces.

About as likely to happen as an invasion by synchronized-swimming aliens, one French expert had quipped, to great merriment at an international conference.

Wickett’s cheeks had burned. Bring on the little green men, he thought now.

Wickett had called the urgent meeting for one o’clock. “Assembly Point Zebra,” he had whispered down the secure line to his colleagues, his pulse rushing.

At last, Wickett threw the jack into the trunk and leaped back into the driver’s seat. Sweat dripped down his neck. His hands shaking, he pushed the gearshift into drive and shot forward. The road snaked violently. Wickett slung the car around the dangerous bends, his foot jerking between the accelerator and the brake.

Through the next village, he said to himself as he recalled the map. Right at the church, up the mountain . . . Breathe. Breathe!

And there it was.

At least, there were the fir trees that partially concealed it. Wickett recognized their outline from the photograph in his security dossier. The disused farmhouse. Assembly Point Zebra.

Wickett urged the car up to the top of the steep mountain road, the engine straining. He crawled to a halt. Cautiously, he stepped onto the dry grass and scanned the scene. He was late, but he still had to observe protocol.

Make sure no one sees you together. If you meet, no one must be watching.

Through the drooping branches of the firs, Wickett could just make out the whitewashed wall and the lopsided door of the farmhouse. To the east, two red cars were parked in a field. Pike’s and Khan’s. A black motorcycle. It belonged to Gide. A bicycle was leaning against the front step. Pope’s. Bailey lived near Khan. He must have caught a ride.

Wickett’s colleagues were extremely punctual. They insisted on precision in everything. They would be inside, waiting. Tapping their fingers.

Wickett ran his eyes over the ragged line of the trees and the rocky mountainside. He could see no one. Protocol had been observed. He could go in. Then his thoughts blanked.

A horrendous noise pummeled his eardrums. Something came shooting through the air, slamming into the sapling beside him, splitting the bark. The crack made him jump. At the same instant, a sudden force struck him in the chest, shoving him backward. Wickett thudded down hard on his back, his head banging on the ground. His vision flickered. Orange. Black. He coughed. His lungs felt thick.

Wickett raised his head—and stared.

The farmhouse had been obliterated. All he could see was a mass of dust and broken wood. Splinters were still falling through the sky. He looked up at the sapling. A ragged chunk of split pine—it looked like a piece of floorboard—was jutting from the trembling trunk.

Wickett’s brain felt like mud.

The farmhouse had exploded. Could it really be . . . It had to be . . . An accident? A bomb.

But the others! They must have been inside.

Wickett registered motion. A figure.

A man.

He was running from behind the rubble of the farmhouse to the scrubby path that led farther up the mountain. It was Bailey! Unmistakable curly blond hair gleamed in the sun. Bailey was all right!

Wickett took a deep breath. He was about to call out—when Bailey stopped. He lifted his hand. He was holding a gun. Wickett’s eyes tracked, following Bailey’s aim. He gasped. A circular black object, about the size of a dinner plate, was zinging through the air, right toward Bailey.

Wickett rubbed his head. The fall had jolted him. He was even seeing UFOs.

But what he saw next was even more astonishing.

Two events. They happened simultaneously. Bailey let off a bullet, and at precisely that moment a red beam shot out from the thing. It connected with Bailey’s chest. Wickett saw blood suddenly rush from Bailey’s rib cage. He smelled burning skin. Bailey staggered, his face deathly white. Then he fell. But his bullet had already arrived. The UFO was blasting apart, tiny fragments flying like black confetti.

Bailey wasn’t moving. He was lying facedown on the grass.

Wickett staggered up. His car door was still open. He stumbled in.

His arms felt like lead. With a clenched hand, he turned the key and threw the gearshift into reverse. He swung the car in a wild semicircle, slamming his foot down.

At seventy miles per hour, the Nissan jolted down the mountain and onto the main road. It picked up speed. Ninety. One hundred. Wickett didn’t dare to look in the rearview mirror. He drove with his eyes fixed and staring dead ahead. Two thoughts searing his stunned mind:

My colleagues are dead. Someone has killed them.

And: If that tire hadn’t blown, I’d be dead too.

1

London. 8:22 P.M.

The black cab swerved. Will Knight was thrown against the window. A pedestrian in shorts had stumbled into the road. He held up a hand apologetically.

“Open your eyes, mate!” the cabbie yelled.

But Will smiled. London in summer, and the city was walking on air. People swarmed over the sidewalks with cardboard cups of coffee. Water-swigging tourists brandished cameras out of open-topped buses. Will drank it all in. He’d spent the past three days in rural Oxfordshire, and he’d missed the city.

As the cab swerved onto Seymour Street, Will checked his watch. He was late, but only by ten minutes. He should still have plenty of time. The driver flicked on the radio, and Will glanced again at his backpack.

It was still there, on the seat beside him. Of course. But he couldn’t help that trace of anxiety. Maybe it was just anticipation, he told himself, knowing what was inside that bag—and what he was about to do. As he turned back to the window, his pocket vibrated. A text.

Where ru? ru here?

Will could hear Gaia’s impatience. In his mind he could see her. Bright brown eyes flashing.

He texted back: In cab. Nearly there.

As the taxi crossed Tottenham Court Road, Will’s brain tuned in to the voice of the radio presenter.

“And now we’re about to go to Jenny Lake, who is at Bushell House, which is playing host today to a conference on computer security—and a very special guest: Walter Dillane, the Vice President of the United States.

“Vice President Dillane is in London for this week’s International Energy Summit. He’s putting in a brief appearance at the IT conference today to make a speech on global Internet access. However, it’s his controversial views on the environment that are getting most people talking. In fact, green groups are expected to turn out later today to stage a demonstration in support of Dillane’s calls for firm international targets for phasing out fossil fuels like oil and coal.”

The cabbie turned the volume down. He glanced back at Will, a gleam in his eye. “So, you’re a greenie, are you?” And he nodded at the backpack. “Is that placards you’ve got in your bag?”

Will swallowed a smile. “Something like that,” he said.

A black T-shirt. Jeans. Curly brown hair, pulled back.

Will spotted her from across the road. Gaia was standing under an oak tree near the front steps of Bushell House, hands plunged in her pockets. Will hitched the backpack higher on his shoulder. He made for the tree. “Gaia!”

She turned.

As he reached her, she said, “Finally!”

Her eyes were flashing. But it was hard to tell if she was annoyed or pleased. Both, he decided.

It had been a week since they’d seen each other—at one of the regular STORM meetings in Andrew’s basement in Bloomsbury, central London. Andrew had dreamed up the “official” Tuesday night update sessions after a particularly eventful Easter in Venice. But they weren’t really necessary. Andrew, Will, and Gaia spent most of their time out of school in one another’s company anyway. It had been that way since Christmas, since the first STORM mission to St. Petersburg.

Sometimes, though, Will headed out to Oxfordshire, to work at Sutton Hall, the headquarters of STASIS, the Science and Technology Arm of the Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6. Shute Barrington, the STASIS director, had become a colleague in Russia. In Venice, Will had saved his life. Every few months, Barrington invited Will to Sutton Hall to help him hone his skills as an inventor. Now Will was back in London to put a few new devices to the test.

“So you’ve got the kit?” Gaia asked.

“Yeah.”

“And Barrington knows?”

“Barrington’s gone fishing.”

Gaia flashed him a look of total disbelief.

“That’s what it says on his door.”

“Yeah, well, last time he was supposed to be on holiday—”

“I know, but apparently he really is fishing.” Will started to dig into his backpack, looking for a blue pencil case. “I hear he’s promised to bring back enough salmon to keep STASIS fed for a month.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s he going to do—dredge the rivers?”

“I guess he’ll have something more high-tech in mind. Cloning, maybe.” Will smiled. Carefully now, he opened up the pencil case. Inside was an asthma inhaler. At least, it looked like an asthma inhaler. Will slipped it into his pocket. Then he pulled a gray canvas bag from the backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

In his pocket he had a map of Bushell House. It was a printout of a page he’d downloaded that morning, showing the layout of the conference center and the entrances and exits. The front doors were marked EXIT ONLY in black, for everyone but Vice President Dillane, Will guessed. Regular delegates were instructed to use a gate at the back. He had to go around the block. It wasn’t far.

He held out his backpack to Gaia. “Can you look after this? I’ll see you back here.” He started to head off.

Gaia called: “Don’t you want me to wish you luck?”

Will glanced back. Smiled. “If I need luck, I’m in trouble.”

Malet Street, London WC1

The single occupant of the Mercedes Pullman limousine tapped a manicured finger against her phone. She connected to the Internet. In moments, she brought up the website for the IVth Annual Conference on Information Technology Security.

Some of the unclassified presentations were being streamed live. Right now, a pale fourteen-year-old boy wearing frameless glasses and a black suit over a black T-shirt bearing the slogan Soft Wear was standing at the podium in Hall C, waving his right hand animatedly. With his other hand, he pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“And so, I have demonstrated that it is indeed possible to hack into a printer and thereby steal documents that have recently been printed. The security implications are of course enormous. Now, I will move on to potential methods for protection.”

“Printers . . .” she murmured. “Surprisingly low-tech.” She flicked open the cover of the black folder on the seat beside her. The report was on top.

She had found it late the previous night, posted on the website of an Italian girl named Cristina della Corte.

STORM

(Acronym, but I do not know for what). They seem to think they are a secret organization. Based in London.

Will Knight, 14. Inventor of devices. Arrogant but daring. His mother is an astrophysicist. His father was a field officer for MI6, now deceased.

Andrew Minkel, 14, has made millions from software. Funds STORM. Is a computer genius, I think. Though very willing to use underhanded methods. Wears T-shirts with molecules on them. Father is a psychiatrist. Mother’s occupation unknown.