Harbinger (The Janus Harbinger Book 1)

by Olan Thorensen

“But that’s not a meaningful scenario,” protested Andrew. “There are too many questions. How do you know this information? Is it accurate? Does the knowledge actually exist, or is the ayatollah blowing smoke?”

  “You’re avoiding the scenario. You can only deal with the scenario’s conditions in making your decision. YOU know he has the information. You believe it is accurate. You know what he plans to do. YOU know only you have hours to do something.”

  By this time, Zach was smiling with the expression of someone who knew the answer to a nasty question and was watching others wrestle with it. He was sympathetic to Andrew’s position, but he understood Sinclair’s purpose in posing the scenario. How far was Andrew willing to go in extremis? Was he willing to take personal responsibility to protect billions of lives in this scenario? Zach knew his own answer, but he waited for Andrew’s.

  Andrew wanted to argue that the conditions of the scenario were artificial and not possible . . . or were they? Two days ago, he would have held his ground that nothing that drastic could happen . . . but now?

  “All right, I assume you’ll be getting around to the Object, but sticking to a limitation on your Iranian scenario, if I was absolutely sure the ayatollah was the only source of that information, the only option might be to kill him. Then, to extend it to the extreme, if there were too many people and repositories of the information, all within the city of Qom, then nuking the city would be the only option. Then wait to see if I’m charged with mass murder.”

  “And what if you knew you would be so charged? That even when it was proved the danger was real, the system insisted on charging you with murdering hundreds of thousands of people?”

  “In your scenario, the consequences to me would not be a factor in my decision to nuke Qom.”

  Sinclair’s right forefinger tapped the tabletop lightly. He accepted Andrew’s statement, although one could never be 100 percent confident until such an event occurred. His gaze shifted to Zach. “And how about you?”

  Without any hesitation, Zach responded. “Same answer as Andrew. Given that I believe all your conditions in this scenario, there would be no choice but to act.” Zach paused briefly, and Sinclair knew more was coming.

  “Here’s the rub. I would have to be personally convinced and not just hear an order from someone on the other end of a radio transmission . . . or sitting across a table from me.”

  Sinclair smiled at this last shot. Zach was telling him he was willing to act, but that he would make the final choice on any action he took. Andrew, however, though probably at least as honorable as Zach, might accede to a lower level of conviction—for example, with the president’s order. Since there were no precedents for their situation, Sinclair had to be satisfied with their answers.

  “So, let’s bring it closer to home. If the Object or Simeon or whatever has knowledge threatening the entire Earth, should we allow any nation or any human to have that knowledge?”

  Both Andrew and Zach shook their heads.

  “No,” said Zach, “if we become aware of such knowledge existing within the Object, we have to do everything possible to suppress that knowledge.”

  “And if Russia, China, Iran, whoever, says they are prepared to go to war to get the knowledge?”

  “Then we go to war,” Andrew said grimly.

  Sinclair continued pressing them. “And what if the ACLU or some other group gets the Supreme Court to say we have to release the information?”

  Both men’s expressions had turned into “thousand-yard stares,” attributed to men who had experienced too much battle. Zach’s was sadder.

  “Then the Constitution falls,” said Zach.

  Sinclair stopping tapping on the table, gathered his thoughts for a few seconds, and then said, “And what if the threat is not from ourselves but from the Object? What if we come to believe the Object itself is an existential threat to humanity?”

  Zach responded first. “We try to ameliorate the threat. Reason with it. Bargain. Whatever. Then, as a last resort, destroy it.”

  “But could it be destroyed?” asked Andrew. “Look at it! The Object does things and has physical properties all our science says is impossible. God knows what its ultimate abilities are. What do we do . . . shoot it?”

  “You’re right. There’s no way we can be sure any action we take will have any effect. However, we can only do what we can do.” Sinclair stopped speaking, rose, and walked over to his desk. From his left pants pocket, he took out a key ring and opened a locked drawer of his desk. From there, he withdrew an envelope, undid the string holding the flap closed, and removed something. He then walked back to the table, sat, and laid three keys on the table—one in front of each of them.

  Andrew looked as if Sinclair had just laid a scorpion on the table. Zach was expressionless but had an idea what was coming.

  “This key opens the locked shed marked ‘73’ situated to the rear of the Lab 2 building, next to the back of the Level 3 section of the building. I’ll have one of the keys. Any of the three keys will open the locker. Once someone is inside, he will need two keys to be worked simultaneously in order to continue, similar to the two-man rule in nuclear missile silos. The insertion points are too far apart for one person to do both at the same time. Under extreme circumstances, I can override the system to allow a single key to be used, but you can be assured it’s not something I would do lightly. I can’t give you guidelines for when to use the keys. You’ll know when it’s necessary. Later, when most people are in their rooms, the three of us will go to the shed, and I’ll run you through the code sequences to set off a tactical nuke.”

  Neither Zach nor Andrew moved—both appeared set in stone.

  When the meeting was over, Sinclair watched two sober men leave. He knew that if worse came to worst, he would use his key. He also believed both men would do their duty.

  CHAPTER 18

  SETTLING IN

  The community’s excitement about the new arrivals faded. The three VR men worked at getting the system operational, which took longer than they’d feared. Andrew absorbed himself in reading several years’ worth of reports and transcripts. Jill, Zach, and Willie slid into their roles.

  Creating a Position

  The first day at “work,” Jill looked around her “office.” A more descriptive label would be a corner in the small room where Bre Huttleston’s desk sat—Sinclair’s work area was in the adjacent room. So far, any duties that people explained to her sounded like she’d be the universal gofer for Sinclair, Lindskold, Mueller, Bre, or whoever needed help. She looked forward to having something to do . . . anything to divert her from the confusion of not knowing how she was supposed to have reacted to the revelations about Level 3. Strangely, she had moments of satisfaction in her uncertainty. She was so out of her depth with the Level 3 staff, it was reassuring to sense some of them were as at sea as she felt.

  Whatever came next, she was determined to be useful, even if only by being an outstanding gofer. An advantage of sharing a workspace with Bre was that she could leave Bobby if she was dispatched elsewhere. The two women had arranged a play area that took up half of the already crowded room.

  “Don’t worry,” said Bre, when Jill expressed concern about pushing into Bre’s workspace. “I spend a good half the day or more elsewhere around the site. When I’m here, my desk is all I need. If you’re away and I need to do something somewhere else, I’ll leave a note and take Bobby with me.”

  “So . . . do I just sit here until someone wants me to do something?” asked Jill. She wondered whether she was being shunted aside with no official duties.

  Bre smiled. “This place is so short-staffed, there’s no end of things that need doing. It’ll start slow for you, but don’t be surprised if within a few weeks you’ll be wondering how to get everything done.

  “For now, relax and I’ll be back in a few minutes. This is the time every morning when I check in with Lindskold and Sinclair.”

  Jill watched Bre leave and glance
d at Bobby, absorbed with a set of multicolored blocks. She examined the room. Her desk was a smaller version of Bre’s gray workstation. The two rolling chairs were reasonably comfortable. Filing cabinets and an open bookshelf lined up against one wall. An office-style phone with speed dial buttons sat on Bre’s desk. Jill unconsciously looked around to check whether Bre or anyone else could see her, then she quickly went to the phone to see if it had an outside line. She read the hand-written identifications on labeling tape: Sinclair, Lindskold, Clinic, Kitchen, Maintenance, IT Help, Weather, and “Taxi.” The first six she could understand, but where did a weather report come from? And “Taxi”?

  She hurriedly returned to her seat and found Bobby asleep. A small mattress, a pillow, and a toddler-size blanket had been laid out on the floor. How had they known Bobby liked to sleep on the floor during the day? It had to have been Marjek, the Gestapo agent who had capsized her life. He must have seen the mattress in Bobby’s play area in their apartment.

  Hmmm . . . , she thought. I guess even jerks have good points.

  Free to Socialize

  Dinner that evening was a more formal affair than the previous nights, when the newcomers had been kept separate from the other staff. Tonight, tablecloths covered the tables, with settings for eight diners at each one: cloth napkins, silverware, and water and wine glasses. The head table, assuming the “head” meant wherever Sinclair was positioned, included Lindskold, Bre, Huxler, the doctor (Emily Wilderman), Zach, Andrew, and an army lieutenant they hadn’t met yet. Willie was at a table with other maintenance staff, and the three VR developers sat with IT members. Jill and Bobby were at a table with all women. Bre had made the seating arrangements and thought surrounding Jill and Bobby with women would make her more comfortable. The women could also spoil Bobby rotten.

  Bre was evidently the impresario on such occasions. When it seemed as if everyone participating that evening was seated, she rose, pulled out an honest-to-God gold bell, and shook it. It wasn’t tinny sounding but a definite “pealer.” The three quick tones cut through all conversations, and everyone quieted and turned toward Bre.

  “It’s been an exciting couple of days, folks. Eight new people! Wow! We haven’t had this much excitement since Harriet wandered into a dorm one day and wouldn’t leave.”

  Laughter broke out at every table except Sinclair’s. He noticed Zach’s raised eyebrow. “Someone can explain later what Bre’s talking about.”

  “Now . . . we’ve all heard endless complaints from Jeff Rotham about the wine selection . . . or, as he puts it, the lack of selection.”

  More laughter.

  “The options are bad enough,” announced Rotham from across the room, “but that godawful white zinfandel is beyond the pale.”

  “Hey, I liked that white zinfandel!” exclaimed a woman of partial Asian ancestry sitting at Jill’s table.”

  Huxler leaned toward Zach. “Sandra Chu,” he whispered. “Level 1 IT.”

  “Philistines!” yelled Rotham with a cheerful expression. “I’m condemned to an icy north accompanied by Philistines.”

  Bre held up both arms. “Help for Jeff has arrived, and if I read the label correctly, even Sandra will be pleased. The last shipment included frozen chicken breasts. It’s taken a couple of days to thaw them out from the solid block they came in, but tonight we’re having Chicken Kiev paired with a dry sauvignon blanc from New Zealand.”

  Most of the staff uttered appreciative words and sighs. Rotham feigned swooning.

  “Hey, General, who do we have to thank for the new wine?” asked a woman dressed like she was from the maintenance crew. She sat at Willie’s table.

  Sinclair stood in place. “Being a general means I get credit for anything good happening and I pass the buck if it’s bad,” he said to accompanying laughter. “But also, being an officer and a gentleman, I must confess to having had significant assistance in this particular endeavor. Being an experienced delegator, I asked our new Safety Officer, Zach Marjek here, to look over the manifests for the resupply we came in on. Now . . . my formal instructions to Zach merely suggested he peruse the manifest for any additional equipment or items related to site operational safety. Zach, being obviously blessed with initiative and a keen insight into my real intentions, immediately spotted errors in the invoices for alcoholic beverages and made the same adjustments to the manifest that I would have made.”

  He gestured to Zach, who rose briefly as laughter rolled through the dining hall.

  Poker

  Three days passed before the four agents found an innocuous excuse to meet without raising suspicions. Logan Porter and Willie were two of four men and one woman who started playing poker after dinner. At 8:30 p.m., one of the players left, replaced by Harry Houdin at 9:00. By 9:30, the other two original players had left, and Zach joined them.

  The occasional shout of triumph or curse confirmed a serious poker game concealing the meeting’s purpose. The men played with their own money, and if they lost a hand, the money was gone—this both reinforced the impression to any onlookers and ensured the players focused on the game. Eventually, they were alone in the lounge room after other staff had retired or gone to night duty. Even the cooks and the day’s scrub crew had finished cleaning up.

  They played Texas Hold ’em. Logan dealt the next hand. Each man peered at his two down cards. Harry raised one eyebrow upon seeing his cards—one of his many responses he randomly showed other players so as not to connect any specific expression with the quality of his cards. In contrast, the other three maintained the classic “poker faces”—revealing nothing.

  Willie was to Logan’s left and therefore had the first option to bet. He held a six and an eight—nothing. But to ensure the others wouldn’t realize that, he made a small bet, and it went around the table—the others meeting the bet but not raising.

  Logan then dealt the “flop”—three cards face-up on the table. They each compared their two hole cards with the three face-up and determined whether a possible winning hand could be created with those five cards. It was again Willie’s turn to bet “on the flop.” His six and eight joined a king and two sixes. Three sixes! A potentially good hand. Not likely to get a fourth six on the last two cards, but if another pair occurred, he would have a full house: three of a kind and a pair. A hand tough to beat.

  “I’ll bet five,” said Willie, putting five white chips into the pot, a medium-level bet at this point in the game and consistent with their pre-agreed betting limits.

  “Willie, Willie, now what does Willie do? Willie nillie, is Willie silly?” rhymed Harry to Willie’s left.

  Can’t he just shut up and play? thought Willie. But he knew the chatter was Harry’s way to give himself a few moments to think and had the additional benefit of irritating the other players. An annoyed player was distracted and more likely to make a mistake.

  Zach noticed that Harry’s chatter to Willie was edgier than with Logan and himself.

  Is there a problem or history here? wondered Zach.

  “Well, we’ll see,” said Harry as he met Willie’s five chips.

  Zach and Logan both matched the bet, and Logan proceeded to the “turn”— dealing the fourth face-up card. It was a jack. No help for Willie, but now Houdin had three jacks, two down cards, and a jack showing. Zach had a possible straight. This round of betting, Willie passed, and then Harry bet twenty. Zach matched it, although he was looking at trying to fill an inside straight—an unlikely outcome. Logan folded and dealt “the river”—the final face-up card. It was a king. Willie had his full house but suspected Harry had a strong hand because he had bet twenty on the turn. But now it would take a higher full house or four of a kind for Willie to win.

  Willie added five red chips to the pot. “I bet fifty on the river.”

  Harry frowned, smiled, and raised an eyebrow. Harry didn’t realize he tended to do the same whenever he wasn’t wholly confident of his hand. If Harry had been a friend, Willie would have warned him. However, he di
dn’t like Harry, so fuck him.

  “I’ll see your fifty and raise two hundred.”

  This was the limit bet of the game, and Zach folded. He also hid a smile. He had worked with Willie enough to know people tended to underestimate the big man. He might have been broody and he seldom spoke, but he was a shrewd observer of people.

  Well, thought Zach, a good judge of anyone but himself.

  “I’ll see your two hundred and raise two hundred,” said Willie.

  This time Harry’s frown was for real. He had expected Willie to match his initial two hundred but not raise further. Willie must have something good—but good enough to beat three jacks? Maybe not, but Harry was too far into the game to fold. He added another two hundred and laid out his hole cards without speaking. Three jacks.

  Willie grunted, which gave Harry momentary hope, but then Willie flipped over his hole cards. “Three and two, a full house.”

  Harry cursed under his breath, and his look at Willie was anything but collegial. This was one reason Willie disliked Harry—a friendly façade hiding darker undercurrents.

  As Willie pulled in the pot and began sorting the chips, Zach spoke softly, “Okay, I think we’ve established a casual game, and we’re alone. Let’s get to it. Keep playing, though.”

  It was Willie’s turn to deal, so he gathered the cards and shuffled.

  Zach continued. “We haven’t all worked together at the same time, but we’ve worked with some of the others at various times, except for myself and Harry.” His querying look was answered by nods.

  “We won’t meet very often like this, but I want us all to be on the same page. Our primary job is security of this facility and the staff. This means both information security and physical. Let’s take the information one first.

  “There are two levels of operation here. The obvious one being part of the radar and weather networks across the northern latitudes. These staff and most of the maintenance people are part of what’s called Level 1. The rest of the staff members work in a separate building. What they’re doing is classified. They’re supposed to be a secret, but we know how that goes. This is Level 2. No one in Level 1 is to know anything of what goes on in Level 2. The staff has been warned repeatedly about a Level 1 person asking Level 2 people what they’re doing.