Mosaic (Breakthrough Book 5)

by Michael C. Grumley

  “No, it won’t. And you know what, maybe it shouldn’t be. We all need something to fight for.”

  “Fighting with hope is one thing. Fighting without hope is just suicide in the name of ideology.”

  “True.” Langford nodded, thinking. “Thirty million people die every year on this planet. Thirty million. And nine out of ten of those deaths are due to disease or starvation. Which means we could potentially save one hell of a lot of lives.”

  Miller nodded. “What happens to the world when half of it is no longer forced to live hand-to-mouth? And what happens to those in control?”

  “I don’t know,” Langford shrugged. “But Hayes is also right that in hundreds of years the human condition hasn’t changed all that much. If you live in a wealthy country, it has. But for those who don’t, I wonder how many of them could even tell what century they’re living in.”

  He looked over to see Miller slowly shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “We are old,” he answered. “But this is not sentimental. And it’s not political. It’s called being human.”

  Miller’s response caused Langford to grin.

  “Besides,” said the secretary. “There is still one more big thing Hayes does not know.”

  120

  An early morning sun appeared over the top of the Rocky Mountains. Far in the distance, the jagged outline could be seen forming the great cordilleran backbone, stretching more than three thousand miles down the middle of the continent. Still topped with patches of snow, the ridgeline towered high above the plains, silhouetted majestically beneath the sun’s glowing rays.

  Those rays soon burst through the upper panes of the giant airplane hangar, illuminating almost three dozen Navy SEALs. Thirty-two men, wide awake and dressed in camouflage desert fatigues, impatiently formed a large circle around their two commanding officers.

  “So…what the hell are we doing here?”

  With a look of resignation, SEAL O.I.C. Darnell looked back at one of his men and shrugged. “How about a little R&R?”

  “What does that mean?” Another member shook his head and raised his hands in irritation. “What are we supposed to do, just stand around?”

  “What it means, Whitman,” Darnell replied sharply, “is that you finally get the chance to be paid for your looks!” He glanced at the young officer before looking back over the group with a wry grin. “Anyone bring a deck of cards?”

  ***

  “Are you in, Will?”

  Will Borger nodded, typing furiously on his keyboard. “Yeah. We’re in. But it’s going to take some time to get where I need to be.”

  “Then hurry.”

  John Clay watched as a dirt cloud billowed up from the desert floor a few miles away. In front of the cloud, four dark objects could be seen, in single file and driving toward them.

  Dressed in worn clothes with a burgeoning beard covering his lightly dirtied face, Clay calmly scanned the crowd of people around him. His eyes found Caesare on the far side. The large Italian was dressed just as badly as he, but with a heavier beard and slouching as much as possible to hide his muscular frame under his baggy clothing.

  Clay took turns listening absently to several conversations nearby, all in Spanish, as he continued scanning the area. His eyes stopped behind Caesare on a quiet, single engine fire station on the other side of the street.

  Vernon, Utah seemed the very definition of a one-horse town from days gone by. Now with a few modern buildings, like a small church, post office, and fire station, the town felt as if it finally had one leg out of the 1850s––save for the barren dirt parking lot in which they were all standing.

  Clay’s eyes began moving again, through and then above the crowd of workers. He completed a full circle and stopped once more on the four approaching objects, growing nearer ever so slowly.

  “They’re getting closer, Will.”

  Borger momentarily stopped hitting the keys and glanced at another screen. “I see ‘em.”

  He leaned in and studied the satellite video before continuing his typing. “I’d say they’re still a couple miles away.”

  Clay didn’t answer. They looked closer than that. “If we’re not in the system, this is going to be over in a hurry.”

  Borger’s head remained down. “I am aware.”

  After several more seconds of rapid keystrokes, he slapped the enter key and waited to check the output on his screen. “Okay, I’m into personnel.”

  Borger turned and looked at M0ngol, his Chinese prisoner and fellow hacker, sitting in front of his own monitor. A dour-looking Bruna was standing behind him. Why she kept expecting the kid to run was beyond Borger.

  He raised his eyebrow at M0ngol. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Borger nodded. “How are our friends at the CIA?”

  “Fighting the attack hard,” M0ngol replied.

  “Good.”

  Still standing in the crowd, Clay ignored several Mexican men grouped together and talking about him––pointing through wisps of smoke between drags from their cigarettes.

  Clay made his way casually toward an old, rusted trash barrel at the edge of the abandoned lot, while speaking under his breath. “We’ve got a mile left. Maybe less.”

  “Almost there,” Borger answered.

  When he reached the barrel, Clay reached inside his torn coat and withdrew a crumpled paper bag bearing a familiar fast food logo. Inside the bag, he could feel the small black cell phone he was communicating through, having purchased it the day before. Then in one smooth motion, he turned away from the crowd behind him and withdrew the miniature earpiece from his right ear.

  “Logging off,” Clay said, dropping the earpiece into the bag. He immediately scrunched the bag into a ball and deposited it into the trash.

  This was it.

  When he cut back around, the objects in the distance were much closer. Despite the clouds of dust billowing high above them, all four were now clearly visible. Buses. Painted white with dark lettering on the side, reading simply “United States Government.”

  ***

  The inescapable fact was that there was no easy way into Dugway. It was simply too well fortified. The razor wire, infrared and motion-detecting systems, armed towers, and flat open terrain were only the tip of the iceberg. An aerial drop by the SEAL team into Dugway had quickly become the only real option. But once inside those fences, entrances requiring biometric signatures and interior cameras with facial recognition all made the prospect of getting back out hopeless. Even if they could make it onto the grounds, the ensuing fight would be futile. Given no quick way out, the SEAL team would inevitably be faced with only two options. Fight their way out from a surrounded position or die trying.

  But what Clay knew, as did Caesare, was that in a world of near-perfect technology, failures in security still occurred because of one simple and unswerving vulnerability. One constant that could never be fully eliminated no matter how advanced or complex a security system was. Because it was the same vulnerability that every system, every process, and every environment ultimately suffered from. Human error. Or sometimes better described as human oversight.

  For those at a disadvantage, the antidote to a world of infinitely more capable technology was and would always be a human being. A human being with a brain that learned and adapted quickly. Then became complacent, growing overly reliant upon the very technology designed to assist them.

  It was the only vulnerability Clay could find…and hopefully the one exploitation they needed. Deception and sleight of hand had fooled the greatest minds and the greatest systems in history. And would again, if done correctly. Provided the deception was sophisticated enough.

  Because what every large building, business complex, and military base had in common, no matter how large or how secret, was the need for someone to help keep it clean. Whether a state capitol or an ultra-fortified complex in the middle of the desert, every large establishment on the planet requ
ired a janitorial crew. A large group of people with enough security clearance to, if nothing else, get inside and clean the place.

  In the end, Clay knew there was only one way into Dugway. And that was through the front door itself. He and Caesare would be hiding in plain sight.

  121

  All four buses rumbled to an abrupt stop before the crowd of workers, all in single file. A massive cloud of dust, which continued rolling forward in slow motion, came with them. Washing over each giant vehicle, it soon reached the waiting group of people––Dugway’s dutiful and mostly migrant cleaning crew.

  The front door of the first bus opened with a loud hiss as a short, rotund guard emerged and stepped down onto the hard-packed ground. He was immediately followed by two others. Gradually, several more guards stepped out of the bus and began fanning out. All wore neatly pressed khaki uniforms with sidearms holstered on each hip. A few, including the first guard, also sported dark sunglasses, while others held a flat object in their free hand.

  Almost immediately and without any instruction, the crowd of workers began moving forward and narrowing into six lines. Many of the women did so without even interrupting their conversations. At the front of the lines, a guard raised the device in his hand and began motioning the first people forward.

  Obediently, each worker stepped up, one by one, and presented their right hand, placing it on the device. Methodically, each guard watched the flat screen before motioning the person past and looking at the next in line.

  Waiting his turn near the back, Clay glanced forward and spotted Caesare. He was in the far-left line and making his way forward along with the others. His posture slumped slightly, his weathered boots shuffling lazily through the dirt.

  Silently, Clay examined each guard. Half of them were overweight, standing with legs apart, and nodding absently as each worker passed. One guard made a comment causing others close to him to laugh. A second joke was followed by more laughter.

  Caesare was closer now. Just a few places back in line. His hair, messy and unwashed, hung down over his forehead.

  It was the moment of truth. Clay prayed Borger had gotten in and uploaded their pictures in time.

  The guard in front of Caesare was not talking with the others. Instead, he was young and firmly planted on both legs, watching each person carefully as they moved past. When Caesare stepped forward to the front of the line, the man eyed him curiously before holding up his hand.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Caesare kept his head low. Respectful and obedient, he spoke in Spanish. “Soy nuevo.”

  “English.”

  Caesare stuttered. “I’m new.”

  “Hand,” the guard replied and held out the device. Caesare raised his right palm and placed it on the screen.

  After several seconds a loud beep sounded, causing the other guards to look over.

  The man in front of Caesare looked at him intently. “No match.”

  Caesare made a helpless gesture and reached again for the screen. This time his hand was abruptly caught in midair. The guard turned it over and frowned, disgustingly. “Jesus. Try washing your damn hands.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Step back,” the guard commanded. “And look at me.”

  Caesare complied and watched as the other man brought the screen up and pointed it at him. He snapped a picture and lowered it again, waiting.

  In front of his monitor, Will Borger watched nervously from his satellite feed as the tiny human figures filed past the guards. He suddenly held his breath when he saw Caesare’s picture appear on his screen as part of the security check. He and M0ngol looked at each other as the software checked the database for verification. Several seconds felt like an eternity, leaving Borger to slowly inhale until a message finally flashed in green lettering.

  VERIFIED. ACCESS GRANTED.

  He exhaled with a burst of relief.

  Over a full minute later, Clay’s picture appeared. Like Caesare, messy hair and a beard covered much of his face. Yet even in the picture, Clay’s eyes were unmistakable.

  Again, the message appeared. VERIFIED. ACCESS GRANTED.

  Each photo promptly disappeared, along with the verification request.

  Borger turned again to M0ngol, who was watching for his lead. Taking another deep breath, he leaned forward and returned to his keyboard. “That was the easy part.”

  122

  The lead bus bounced and swayed from side to side as it rumbled over the dirt road, headed for the entrance to Dugway. Several seats back and next to the window, Steve Caesare maintained a solemn, cheerless expression. Keeping his eyes down, he glanced periodically at the guard standing near the front.

  Two more guards stood in the aisle, one in the middle and another at the rear. Both men held on firmly to the thick chrome bar running overhead, with their free hands resting casually atop holstered guns.

  There was no talking or even mumbling that Caesare could hear. Just the continued roar from the bus’s rear engine, partially masked by the outside crackling of gravel beneath giant rubber tires.

  The guard standing near the driver appeared older. Perhaps in his fifties, he had enough of a gut to suggest he was out of shape but certainly not feeble. The other two were younger and closer to their prime.

  Caesare studied what he could of the vehicle’s layout without attracting attention. The width of the aisle. Distance between seats. And the windows, all of which appeared to be sealed from the outside.

  A heavyset man next to him wore a frayed hat and seemed unaware of anything, including his constant bumping against Caesare’s shoulder. The man, probably in his early sixties with deep brown skin and a dark mustache, remained transfixed, staring lazily forward through the bus’s dirty windshield. To Caesare, if anything unexpected happened, he would be an obstacle.

  A loud squelch sounded over the radio, prompting the driver to examine the radio before pointing at the guard to his right. A second later, the guard held up a finger to his ear and listened to someone on a hidden headset.

  The guard squinted slightly and nodded, speaking a few words. His eyes ran over the passengers, pausing briefly on Caesare, who remained motionless.

  He knew how quickly concern could turn to paranoia. The common worry that you were the one someone was whispering about. That you were the one being watched. It was the same nervousness that people felt when the passing police car suddenly turned around, even if they thought they hadn’t broken any laws.

  But observing the guard, Caesare saw no change in demeanor. No tension or shift in posture. No unclipping of the strap on his holster. No glance or signal to the other guards who would have undoubtedly received the same message.

  Always remain calm. Until the signs were obvious.

  Fortunately, it appeared whatever the message was had to do with something else.

  Caesare relaxed a bit and continued thinking how he would move if he had to. Where to step and how quickly he could reach the first guard if necessary. The last place to be was in the middle, partway between them.

  The guard at the front glanced again at the rugged man to his right, sitting near the window. New faces were not uncommon. This one kept his eyes down yet was furtively glancing at the others around him.

  He was clearly nervous.

  The feeling of authority inside the bus was palpable. Intentionally so. Designed to keep the workers quiet and docile, if not fearful. A constant reminder that nothing they saw or heard at Dugway was to be repeated.

  The new worker at the window looked to be in his forties. A sloppy appearance, combined with slow-blinking eyes and limited speech, left the guard to conclude that the man was a little slow. Which suited him just fine. The dumber they were, the better sheep they made.

  ***

  Things were not much different inside Clay’s bus. Quiet and subdued, virtually all sound was drowned out by the vehicle noise outside.

  Sitting near the back, his situation was no better than Caesare’
s, apart from having the aisle. It provided him a better view down the center and out the front window at the thick dust cloud obscuring all but glimpses of the bus in front of them.

  He guessed their speed to be about 35 or 40 miles per hour, which translated to between fifteen and twenty minutes before they reached the first gate to the base. Precious little time remained for Borger to penetrate further into their systems, even under the diversionary cloak of the DoD’s cyber attack. They had to not only find what area of the base the women were being held in but also get Clay and Caesare close enough to reach them. All before anyone noticed the Dugway security systems had been compromised.

  As much as Clay hated to admit it, what they were going to need was a miracle. A near perfect operation where everything went exactly to plan. Which, unfortunately, never happened.

  123

  “Crap!”

  Borger looked again at the satellite feed, following the buses on their return trip to Dugway. They’re moving too fast.

  He shook his head in frustration. “I can’t make heads or tails out of these systems!” He closed one window and opened another, scanning through it. “It’s as if their naming conventions are all random. Including the databases.”

  M0ngol looked over from his own screen, where a network topology map was beginning to take shape, forming a complex diagram. One by one, each new system detected was added as a new icon––along with a network address and details appearing adjacent to it. “They are random,” M0ngol said simply.

  “Well, if they are,” Borger retorted, “then that would mean–” His face instantly froze. He turned back to M0ngol. “That would mean…a central repository.”

  “Yes.”

  Borger’s eyes moved back to his own monitor. “A central system that keeps track of everything.” Borger pushed himself sideways, rolling his chair over the thin carpet, stopping in front of M0ngol’s screen. He studied the network map as it continued to populate, pointing to several devices with his finger. “It wouldn’t be on this network. It would have to be on its own. One that’s more robust, with the most redundancy.”