Prodigal Son

by Gregg Hurwitz

  He was dumbfounded. “So why…?”

  “The party?” She gave a sad little laugh. “I guess … I guess I wanted the attention.”

  The sentence hung in the air between them, an ugly little confession that was also somehow graceful in its honesty. It was so revealing, so intimate, and he felt a quick counterweight pulling him to get up out of his chair, to head for Creech North, back into the mission where the rules were clear and distinct, governed by Ten Commandments handed down from on high.

  And yet he fought back all those urges and remained. She was telling him something about herself, yes, but she was also telling him something about himself, something he couldn’t understand but needed to know.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I’m so ashamed. What am I gonna tell everyone?”

  Evan dug deep in the quagmire of his feelings, sorting through the confusion for a single clear thought. But as always in these situations, he came up short.

  He rose respectfully. She kept her gaze out the window. He walked away.

  When he looked back from the elevator, she was sitting there silently staring at nothing, alone with the wreckage of her plans.

  51

  A Blob of Undefined Nothingness

  Area 6 was literally off the grid. Even Google Earth refrained from mapping the experimental military zone. Satellite imagery all around showed the pockmarked expanse of the Nevada National Security Site, the earth punished with untold devastation, but the forbidden sector itself appeared as a blob of undefined nothingness. Ironic that the Internet’s only blind spot was a facility devoted to engineering all-seeing drones.

  Creech North itself lay on the shore of Groom Lake, a two hour forge north from Creech proper. Evan chugged toward it in a well-used Honda Civic that he’d bought for cash three hours ago in Barstow. He’d adhered Hargreave’s parking sticker to the windshield, the covert laser readable hologram throwing back the midday glare. He was all but certain that surveillance drones had noted his approach over the past few miles, along with any other movement in the area.

  At last a series of compounds came into view, clustered like grapes along the vine of a paved road, each with its own perimeter and security. Creech North had a solid seven-foot-high concrete wall, the better to keep out inquiring eyes. Evan had no idea what lay beyond. Signs posted everywhere warned drivers not to leave the road under any circumstances.

  He pulled alongside the security entrance, confronting a solid steel gate sandwiched by barriers on either side and a guard station composed of concrete slabs. Same drill as the Veterans Reintegration Center in Fresno, but on steroids. The Military Police toted M4 carbines, their eyes invisible behind reflective blade sunglasses. One casually brought his rifle to his shoulder. No warning shots here.

  Evan coasted up to the checkpoint, and an MP stepped forward with a handheld laser to verify the hologram. It took a specific input illumination to allow the encoded information to appear.

  Jake Hargreave had lost his life going back to the impound lot to recover the parking sticker, a strong indication it was still active. But now, in the jaws of facility security, the First Commandment needled at Evan: Assume nothing.

  The MP scanned the hologram unsuccessfully, shook the control device, and tried again.

  Evan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the trapped heat of the desert sun amplified through the windows, reflecting off the dash, soaking into the seat. His fingers were tipped with next-gen transparent silicone composite adhesives that sported a false set of prints. At fifty microns each adhesive was thinner than a piece of hair and nearly invisible. He’d pulled the impostor fingerprints off the FBI’s IAFIS database, choosing an offender around his age with long shaggy hair, a ragged beard, the same-color eyes, and the most relevant rap sheet. Once again he’d molded chewing gum inside his cheeks and lips to alter his appearance, just enough to skew the facial-feature data points.

  As the MP tried the scan once more, Evan steadied his breaths.

  And then the steel gate was rumbling aside.

  He exhaled through his teeth.

  To his right a rabbit bounded along the perimeter fence, paused to nibble. The MP looked up at it, said, “Uh-oh.”

  The rabbit took another step. A click came audible even at this distance, and a land-mine explosion hurled it into the air, its legs stretched wide, brown-gray with a slash of violent red. It hit the dirt with a puff.

  The security signs posted on the road leading in made a lot more sense.

  The MP shrugged. “Poor little guy.” He waved Evan through. “I assume I don’t have to remind you to stay on the prescribed paths.”

  “Not after that.”

  “Straight to parking. Third or fourth floor. Check in again at the guard station when you exit to verify your access level.”

  Evan entered the inner sanctum. A ribbon of road stretched ahead, the secure facilities placed at a far remove even from the remote perimeter, withdrawn that much farther from civilization. For a time he rumbled forward, kicking up a dust cloud, anticipating what would come next.

  Fortunately, a big sign arrowed the way to the parking structure. He dutifully followed. The hologram had allowed him entry, sure, but that didn’t mean that the powers-that-be weren’t using the parking sticker as bait. They’d done so already with success at the impound lot.

  Evan had to imagine that the hologram scan had announced his presence—that someone was using Jake Hargreave’s credentials—and that he was being watched from here on out. They’d give him some rope and hope he’d reveal what he was after.

  Sure enough, within seconds a Humvee fell in behind him, maintaining a respectful distance. He kept his foot steady on the gas, heading for the parking structure like a good little soldier.

  The interior roads seemed to be laid out like the spokes of a wheel, leading to the bunched buildings that served as base headquarters.

  The central zone was bustling, fields and runways sprawling all around, teams jogging past in formation, unidentified objects of various sizes speckling the sky. It was all Evan could do not to crane his neck and stare out the window.

  The four-story parking structure was covered, a stroke of much-needed luck. The guard station waited ten feet from the structure to receive anyone who walked out of parking from the stairwell or elevator. The Humvee following him was joined by a second, idling casually at the curb.

  Evan pulled in and wound up to the third floor and chose a spot facing the open air, a good oversight position for the buildings to the east.

  He had a loadout bag in the backseat filled with a change of clothes. Moving swiftly, he pulled on a white undershirt on which he had Magic Marker–ed several peace signs and written DRONES DESTROY OUR HUMANITY. Retrieving a Ziploc from the console, he cracked it open, releasing the skunky-sweet scent of weed. He took a hit, presidentially avoiding the inhale, and blew smoke all over himself. The windows were rolled up, the haze compounding.

  A few more strategic puffs and the Civic was effectively hotboxed, the smell suffusing his hair and his clothes. He twisted the vape pen open as Joey had instructed him and clicked an interior switch, the inner core illuminating with indicator lights. He rotated it closed once more and slipped it into his front pocket.

  As Joey had promised, the vape pen wasn’t what it looked like. It sent out wireless malware that targeted embedded devices—like printers and monitors—connected to the highly secured, air-gapped computers he really wanted to get into. It compromised those devices and acted as a hub linking them so they could speak to one another around an entire office over the Bluetooth connection nobody knew they had. The malware broadcast through the vape pen used Van Eck phreaking through a wide-band antenna, an ultraprecise oscilloscope, and an amplifier to measure the electromagnetic emissions of the embedded devices’ video signals. Then it correlated those minute readings to the data being worked on to siphon out the passwords and security keys. Those were sent back to the vape pen, which in turn transmitted th
em to Joey. He just had to get the pen within twenty meters of the nearest embedded device.

  Next he freed the long-range laser listening device from his bag, the same one he’d used to spy on Joey at the restaurant. He got out of the Honda, the intake of fresh air making him cough, and sat on the hood facing the compound three stories below. Leaning forward, he saw that the Humvees held position by the guard station, exhaust spiraling from their tailpipes.

  At this point he was on borrowed time and had to move quickly. As he aimed the microphone on the buildings below, he let his Steiner binocs pick across the windows.

  A jumble of voices came off the different panes.

  “—supply chain clusterfuck getting in the way of our agile combat-support capabilities—”

  “—issue for the VA. You’re gonna have to contact your wife’s doctor to—”

  “—rather eat MREs than this shit. Smell this? You think that smells like beef stew?”

  He zeroed in on the center building. Shaped like a hockey puck or—more aptly—a UFO. Dark windows along the curved exterior and not a lot of them. He could pick up only a few faint vibrations from the glass:

  “—better encryption—”

  “—in-flight repair—”

  “—improved guidance algorithm for automated collision avoidance—”

  That was the place.

  He zipped up an air-force-blue Windbreaker over his shirt, dumped the surveillance device beneath the tarp of a pickup parked beside him, and checked his false fingerprints. He crossed to the north-facing edge of the structure, stepped over the rail, swung himself out and down to the concrete ledge of the next level. A tricky bit of parkour that hurt his ankles and knees, but it wasn’t backbreaking.

  Repeat to the second floor. And then the first.

  He wound up winded on the packed sand behind the structure. Out of sight of the guard station and the waiting Humvees, positioned to face the stairs and bank of elevators. Peering around the corner, he waited until the foot traffic thickened along the path ahead. Then he swift-walked out to join it, circumventing the guard station, not daring to look behind him.

  Walking rapidly now, the afternoon heat raising sweat across the small of his back. He neared the disk of the center building. Unlabeled like the others, the front doors a wall of tinted glass, black as obsidian.

  He slowed his walk, timing his approach with a cluster of engineer types nearing the building, sipping coffee from plastic cups. In succession they held their electronic access cards to the panel, the doors unclicking electronically as they filed in.

  Evan queued up behind them, tapping his hand to the sensor as if presenting a card, and caught the handle before the door resealed.

  He entered.

  A loud hum hit him immediately, the sound of a concealed server farm working overtime. The front lobby space was bathed in warmth from various vents suctioning air from a vast sunken area that constituted the building’s inner core. A row of curved interior windows looked down and in, but Evan wasn’t close enough to see what lay below.

  He passed through a security metal detector, tossing his keys and the vape pen into a plastic dish. The MP running security pulled him aside and wanded him from head to toe, checking every last zipper and metal eyelet on his boots. Joey had warned him to forgo the digital contact lenses for precisely this reason; they would have alerted beneath the metal detector.

  The MP handed him back the dish with a smirk—smoking devices were clearly not in vogue at Creech North—and waved him through.

  As Evan moved toward the rounded bank of windows, a giant lab three stories below drew gradually into view. The scope of the space was breathtaking—part factory floor, part Hieronymus Bosch painting. Uniformed airmen and white-coated scientists scurried insectlike between computer stations and lab benches. Robotic entrails and dissected drone parts lay scattered across virtually every surface. Banks of monitors blinking with code, UAVs hovering above test-launching pads, airmen in Operational Camouflage Pattern uniforms huddled around diagrams, in heated discussions with bespectacled engineers.

  Signs indicated that the elevator bank waited to the left, but as Evan arced around the curve, he saw with dismay that two armed MPs were inspecting credentials before letting anyone on. Even worse, the lift wasn’t summoned by button; it required an electronic access card for entry.

  There was no way for Evan to even board the elevator, let alone get the vape pen within twenty meters of the data stations below.

  That’s when he sensed a flare of movement overhead and heard the three-note bugle of his Laser Warning Receiver playing Taps.

  He’d been lit up.

  52

  Dogpile

  Overhead a diminutive quadcopter drone zipped around, holding its laser on Evan. He could only hope that it was unarmed, strictly for interior surveillance.

  No time to delay.

  He’d be in custody within seconds.

  Already the MPs from the security checkpoint had alerted to him.

  Evan ripped off his Windbreaker, releasing a miasma of marijuana fumes, and cast it aside. He shouted, “Drones can’t hear the cries of children on the ground!”

  The MPs started for him, and he freed the vape pen from his pocket and sprinted away. The air felt heavy, the heat drafted up from the lab floor venting along the elevated corridor.

  Down below, the commotion went unnoticed, but people in the corridor froze all around him. A number of passing airmen keyed to him, going on point.

  Evan feinted left, sprinting around an MP, and hurdled another coming in for a tackle. Suddenly a dozen people were in play, a wall of blue berets and camouflage, the noose closing fast.

  He curled his hand around the vape pen, vectoring hard for the outer wall, aiming at one of the heating vents. Someone struck him from the side, and he rolled away like a running back evading a tackle. His momentum spun him 180 degrees, his forearm slamming into the concrete. His other hand, clenching the vape pen, swung around to absorb the impact, and he opened his fist just before it hit the vent. His palm slapped the metal rectangle, the slats digging into his skin. The vape pen rolled between his flesh and the metal, horizontally positioned but not popping through.

  Someone rammed into his back, dragging him toward the floor.

  He fought back, holding himself against the wall, his hand sliding down along the vent. The vape pen clanked unseen across each slat, and finally Evan felt the pressure in his palm release, the pen squeaking through. He heard it tick against the inside of the ducting as it plummeted downward, and then he was on the floor, buried beneath the dogpile.

  * * *

  Evan had to dip his head to press the ice pack to his swollen cheek. His knee felt bruised, and the index finger of his left hand had been torn at the nail in the one-sided rumble. Raw skin ringed his wrists where he’d been steered hard by the handcuffs. His fingerprint adhesives were still smudged with ink from when they’d printed him, and dried blood from a nosebleed had crusted on his upper lip.

  He’d been brought into a concrete box of a room in the neighboring building and deposited into a chair bolted to the floor, his cuffs locked to a metal ring on the table before him. His reflection gazed back woefully from the one-way mirror.

  His activist high jinks had earned him two hours locked in this position. His arm muscles were cramping, his hamstrings tight from sitting on the hard chair for this long. He watched a fly crawl across the ceiling. He wondered if it was real.

  At last he heard footsteps.

  The door was flung open with seeming great annoyance, and then a major general entered and steadied an iron gaze on Evan. He had pale blue eyes that looked hard, chips of gemstone. Yellow-red mustache, blond-white hair in a dated center part, two-star insignia riding the shoulder of his pressed uniform. His rank showed that these people treated any intrusion as a national security threat.

  At first assessment he seemed to be stalwart, one of those men whom the military had disassembled in
basic and rebuilt from the boots up. He filled those boots now with a forward-tilting confidence that seemed righteous—or at least approximated righteousness with conviction.

  Evan wondered if anyone at Creech North had an inkling of Molleken’s extracurricular activities, that the good doctor was putting his considerable resources toward cleaning up those who might interfere with the massive government contract that the DoD was on the brink of awarding him.

  “Every last thing on this base falls under my purview. My attention is valuable, Mr.…” A glance down at a printed report in his hand. “Paul Norris.”

  “I know what you’re doing here,” Evan said. “I know you’re building drones that violate international law. I have a hundred and eighteen Freedom of Information Act requests in with the CIA, and as soon as I get those results”—he faked a tic that jerked his head to one side, a mannerism he’d picked up from Danny when he’d visited him in prison—“I’m gonna whistle-blow on your whole operation.”

  The words seemed to wash over the major general without moving him in the least, tide over a boulder. He kept on his own track. “How’d you acquire a Creech North parking credential?”

  “Our 4chan group keeps track of drone pilots. We know when someone goes down, gets arrested…” Evan paused coyly. “When their truck winds up in an impound lot. We won’t stop until the killings do.”

  “I see you have previous arrests at other bases.” The major general’s eyes slotted to the paper and then assessed Evan once quickly, top to bottom, like a computer scanner. He folded his arms across his chest, his uniform starched and wrinkleless, as if it had been painted on. “So it shouldn’t surprise you that sneaking onto a military installation is a federal offense. As is impersonating a member of the U.S. military.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Arrest me.”