by Scott McEwen
Wyatt took a breath. He flipped the throttle, and the motorcycle raced up into the boxcar just as the train hissed into motion. Wyatt dismounted and pulled off his helmet, and instantly two military-looking men approached.
“The boys will secure your bike.” Darsie motioned to the men hovering around in tactical gear. “And your weapon. Don’t worry. You’re safe. Leave your rain gear and come with me.”
Wyatt slipped off his jacket, and did as he was asked. A security guard motioned for the gun, which Wyatt unclipped and handed it over, leaving his knife still hidden against his torso.
Not the best security, Wyatt thought.
The man passed Wyatt a towel and grunted something about dripping on the carpets. Toweling off his head and neck, Wyatt followed Darsie through a series of train cars. Where the train’s facade was dark, foreboding, militaristic, the interiors were the opposite—sleek and minimalist, like a luxury high-rise in Manhattan, the kind that overlooked Central Park, timeless in any epoch. Fastidiously clean, organized, expensive looking.
“I apologize if you had any inconveniences in meeting me. I’ve always found a few extra hoops to jump through … can save your life, even if it inconveniences others.” He smiled. “And it separates the nimble from those who stumble.”
“It was no problem,” Wyatt lied.
“Well, there are two factors I consider critical above all else. The first, of course, is security.” Darsie looked out where the windows should have been, but in their place, a wall of 4K screens displayed the dark night as it blurred past. Wyatt assumed the screens were linked to cameras outside the train’s armor, but the picture was unnaturally detailed, like a nature film. Through Darsie’s lens, the world Wyatt now saw was somehow cleaner.
A security guard came forward for Wyatt’s damp towel. Wyatt put it in his hand, and Darsie began to pace.
“And the second is secrecy. If we are to do anything substantial in this life, we are to do it with utter secrecy.” He looked at Wyatt intently. “Are you able to keep a secret, Wyatt?”
“Depends on whether it’s worth the effort to keep it … or if it’s a secret at all.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ll give you an example,” Wyatt explained. “The Americans spent years and billions of dollars during the Cold War trying to keep their spying on the Russians secret. But all along, thanks to superior Russian spies and double agents, the Russians knew everything we ever did. And while we were worried about the Space Race and sending cosmonauts and dogs into orbit, we missed the big signs—the breadlines and phony grocery stores. The Soviet government was failing, communism itself had failed.”
“Of course,” Darsie said. “It’s also worth noting Americans in the Cold War were relatively new to the spying game. It was like sending a middle-school soccer team to the World Cup. Europeans have been spying on each other since they could grunt. Hopefully, as Americans, we’ve gotten a tad better at it in the past few decades.”
Wyatt looked around the office, thinking of the many ways he was likely being spied on at that moment. The office reminded Wyatt of works he’d seen by the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. It was modern, but the furniture and decor felt timeless, like the room could exist in the 1960s as well as today. The only pieces of ordinary tech are a slim laptop, closed on his modernist wooden desk, and an iPad. Wyatt stared at it.
“Like the desk?” Darsie smiled. “It was made by a hero of mine, Donald Judd. He was quite a fancy artist, actually. This piece alone is worth hundreds of thousands, if not millions.”
“Nice,” Wyatt said, less concerned with furnishings than where recording devices might be hidden.
“Would you like something to warm up? Tea?”
“I’m okay,” Wyatt lied again, his teeth nearly chattering as he spoke.
Darsie nodded, and again a man in black appeared. In his hands, a gleaming silver teapot, complete with service.
“Thank you,” Darsie said as the man poured tea for both of them. “Wyatt, please. Have some.” He extended a fancy saucer. “Perhaps I should give you my own personal history.”
Wyatt nodded.
“I was born John Thomas Darsie, to British parents in Hong Kong,” Darsie began. “And like yourself, I was a troubled youth. Also like you, I displayed an intense precociousness early on, and at the age of nine, I became an international chess champion. This opened doors to other pursuits, and by fourteen, I was studying at the college level.”
“Can’t say my precociousness was that productive,” Wyatt offered. “Mine just got me in juvie.”
“Well, it wasn’t all impressive. I had a pathological propensity for theft—I won’t bore you with details, but it resulted in my own admission to Camp Valor.”
“A klepto,” Wyatt said knowingly.
“Mischief often levels the playing field, so there I was, just like all the other delinquents, a scared candidate of Group-C. But I held on. I progressed through three summers, from B to A, but midway through my A summer, we were on operation in Switzerland, and I’d had enough. I blew the horn. I tapped out.”
“What?” Wyatt interrupted. “But you were an A. I didn’t even know it was possible.”
“Of course. Like the Old Man always said—you can quit at any time. I was done with the program, so I left. Naturally, no one appreciated this decision, especially not your father and not the Old Man.”
“You were in Dad’s group,” Wyatt said, suddenly understanding.
“Yes. And so I packed a go-bag, but instead of returning to Valor, I stole some Swiss francs, boarded a train in Zurich, and rode it all the way to Amsterdam. From that moment on, I’ve loved trains. I have a plane or two, but I despise flying. So I appreciate you meeting me in this little office of mine.”
“Why’d you leave Valor?” Wyatt heard himself asking.
“Good question. My experience at Valor was complicated to say the least. One thing I learned was that to be successful, you must be independent … and after I realized I could think and operate on my own, I knew I could no longer stay. A lot of people at the camp resent me for it, but I’d become the thing they designed me to be. I left because I was ready.”
“Let’s get back to why I’m here,” Wyatt redirected.
“Right. Hi Kyto,” Darsie said, motioning an attendee to bring Wyatt something to drink and eat. “Now, what do you know about Encyte?”
Wyatt accepted the delicate cup and took a couple of cookies from the tray. “Only what I’ve been told in debriefs or read online—”
“Only what you’ve been told or read?” Darsie asked flatly. “You didn’t fly to Pontiac, Michigan, and spend two hours with Jalen?”
“If you’re referring to confidential information, I can neither confirm nor deny,” Wyatt said.
Darsie rolled his eyes. “You know Mr. Yellow, correct?”
“I know someone who is called that, yes.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“You’d probably know better than me.”
“Don’t try to guess at what I know or don’t know. Just answer the question.” Darsie grinned and tapped his foot, waiting.
“Not that I’m aware of. The only people who know I’m here are Avi, Mackenzie Grant, who drives the Sea Goat—”
“Ahh … Mackenzie Grant. Always liked him.”
“And a new addition to Group-A.”
Darsie considered something for a moment. “Small enough group—if you’re being honest—so perhaps secrecy is attainable. Never know where you might have a leak. Take Hallsy, for example. A Valor poster boy defecting right in front of the Old Man’s nose.”
“Well, there’s your honesty to consider”—Wyatt motioned around—“and the secrecy of these men to consider. But what does it matter? I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Then why did you come?” Darsie asked.
“Because Avi said that if I helped you, you might be able to help us … find someone.”
“Now that I like.�
� Darsie laughed. “A clean commercial exchange, a favor for a favor.” Darsie took a sip of tea and studied Wyatt. “Suppose you’d like me to go first.”
Wyatt bit another cookie and chewed slowly, saying nothing.
“My interest in all this,” Darsie said, “is significant. Jalen told you about the gamer Hi Kyto, correct?”
Wyatt nodded.
“Awful mess Jalen’s in,” Darsie said as he walked over to a chessboard. “Poor kid was lured into something far above his understanding.”
Wyatt wondered if Darsie knew that Jalen was currently en route to Valor at his request. Maybe he was fishing again.
“Well, the girl, Hi Kyto,” Darsie went on, “is a genius polymath wonderkid. She lives in California, and tries to be a normal fourteen-year-old named Julie Chen. Her parents—both former members of the Communist Party—became friends of mine. How is unimportant, but the point is, my real interest was not in the Chens, but in their daughter. I arranged for her parents to have positions as professors at Stanford; I gave her a fellowship.”
Darsie sipped tea, and Wyatt also took his first sip, figuring that Darsie had been drinking from the same pot and enough time had passed that he did not have to worry about it being laced with any kind of sedative.
“Julie’s mind is a powerful asset,” Darsie continued, “one that belongs to the United States. And simply, it was a good business investment to acquire that kind of talent. So in exchange for her ideas, I allowed Julie to work directly under me at Red Trident. As a fellow, she has access to everything we’re doing.”
“Isn’t some of that classified?”
“Yes, like I said, it’s a new program … somewhat experimental. In general, we follow every security protocol, except when it comes to Darsie Fellows. I suppose you understand the value of making exceptions to the rules?”
Wyatt shrugged. “Who doesn’t? But breaking the rules can come back to bite you.”
“Or to benefit you. Usually benefit. Hi Kyto—Julie—was by all measures a huge success. She blossomed—the raw talent, the propensity for discipline, the hunger…” Darsie trailed off, looking into the train’s 4K windows. “She was supposed to be my protégé, my confidant, my friend.” His face softened and his tone grew wistful. “She may be the closest thing I’ll ever have to a daughter.”
Then, silence. The whirring of the rain on the screen was the only sound.
“And what makes you think she’s gone rogue?” Wyatt asked.
“Well, it didn’t dawn on me until I was contacted by Avi. But lately, she’s been acting strange … withdrawn. She was always a private person, but she’s become secretive in new ways.”
“Such as?”
“A few months ago, she started to routinely lie about her whereabouts. And she’s spending an exorbitant amount of time playing violent video games.”
“So does, like, seventy-five percent of the teenage population.”
“Yes, but of that seventy-five percent, only one works for me and has access to the tools and platforms we’ve developed at Red Trident. And there’s the connection you discovered to Pro_F_er, who we now know is Encyte. And to Jalen.”
“Jalen told me he’d only encountered her once,” Wyatt said.
“That proves my point. It looks like a mistake. A slip … You see, at Red Trident our core business is creating spiders that crawl the internet and darknet looking for suspicious content.”
“Spiders?”
“Yes, bots. Google does the same to improve the algorithm. We did it to … learn.”
“You mean spy.”
Darsie shrugged. “And to save lives. We had conversations—a web chat—from one of Osama bin Laden’s drivers, that tipped us off that the driver might be working for OBL. Information can be like dead bodies on a hiking trail or like a spring of a trap. It can provide both evidence of a crime and tip you off to one that’s about to happen.”
“So what does that have to do with Encyte or the Austin attack?”
“As I said, we started in the spider business, gathering intelligence, but eventually, all customers ask the same question: Now that I know what’s happened or what’s going to happen, what can I do about it? How can you, Red Trident, help me, the U.S. government, to act on information?”
“And by act, you mean take an action? As in, how can you take an action once you’re armed with information?”
“Exactly.”
“So you were asked to develop a weapon?”
“Here’s the more specific question we get: Can you weaponize the internet?”
CHAPTER 12
Adam Drake bought his first drone when he was in China in 2008. He was walking through the Beijing airport when he heard buzzing and saw a clerk flying what looked like a tiny helicopter with multiple rotors around the narrow store. Though in his late twenties, Adam was a kid at heart, and at the time was a copywriter for an advertising agency, specializing in packaged goods, specifically candy. Adam was the kind of guy who made the fun commercials that would crack you up—a caveman who does his own taxes, a waterskiing squirrel who loves chocolate—that kind of thing. So a flying toy that reminded him of his favorite remote control car from childhood was a no-brainer. He bought one of the devices, took it home, set it up, and promptly crashed it.
His girlfriend at the time could only shake her head. “That was three thousand Chinese yuan you just flew into our wall.”
“Test flight,” Adam said, picking up the pieces. “I’ll figure it out eventually.”
And he did, and the drone technology got better. More sensitive gimbals created steadier flight patterns; innovations and battery technology allowed for faster, longer flights, and artificial intelligence programmed into the drones themselves allowed many of the high-end commercially available drones to fly themselves, navigating through spaces with the kind of precision that even a hummingbird does not possess.
Along with his growing passion for drone technology, Adam developed an equally strong interest in photography. Photography and drones made for a happy union, which was good for Adam, who now had a wife and daughter, as he could enjoy both hobbies at the same time. And so it wasn’t long before he bought his first drone equipped with a high-quality camera. “But honey,” he told his wife when she saw the credit card bill, “now we can take a family photo from the air, in front of our house.”
But that wasn’t all Drake captured. There were sunsets and boats skimming along the East River and Long Island Sound, nature areas, rocky hides, sweeping majestic marshes with birds in flight—all of these screen savers his wife saw playing over and over on their TV, the sheer magnitude of them only made bearable by images of their baby girl.
The hobby had even become a family affair. Adam flew his drone at the park, his daughter cooing in a carrier strapped to his chest. So he spent many happy mornings, walking with a baby and a flying photo studio. He’d left the big agency, quite thankful to no longer be at someone else’s beck and call. He ran his own small agency, and though there was more freedom, it did not eliminate the presence of overbearing clients, but at least Adam himself was allowed to decide when to react.
And so when Monday mornings rolled around, before he dropped his daughter off at daycare or his wife slipped out of their Brooklyn apartment to catch the train to Manhattan, Adam could sit on the roof of their brownstone in the predawn darkness in an ever-present attempt to capture the perfect sunrise.
On one particular morning, at two thousand feet in the air, a good thousand feet from max range and a solid two miles from any flight path, the drone he’d affectionately named Kitty was hovering, snapping photographs that Adam could see on his cell phone, which served as the viewfinder. The city, just starting to step into the electric morning all in stunning 4K HD. From the baby monitor in his pocket, Adam could hear his daughter, now three, singing in her crib. He squinted into the sky, hoping to see Kitty, but he knew the drone was too far away to be visible. After years of training his ear to the pitch, he could j
ust barely hear the buzz in the distance and worked the toggles on the transmitter, bringing the drone home like an electric dog. He didn’t need to see it, he knew how to guide it in, but something was wrong. He knew the direction Kitty should be flying in, but he could see from the camera that she was going in the opposite way—flying northeast instead of southwest. And then, something even more worrisome occurred: the drone began to sharply descend, speeding toward the ground.
Beep, beep, beep. The device blared a warning signal. He hit the auto “return to home” button, but nothing happened. He’d always felt perfectly safe with Kitty in the air, but now, he was panged with uncertainty, imagining the two-pound hunk of plastic falling from a couple thousand feet and hitting someone on the sidewalk below. A proverbial penny dropping off the Empire State Building. His mind reeled, trying to recall facts from an old physics class—wasn’t terminal velocity 53 m/s?
But then Kitty leveled off and continued in a northeast direction. Adam shook the controller. “What the hell’s happening?” Again he worked the toggles, but the drone still would not respond. The camera went black somewhere between the Queens Zoo and LaGuardia.
“Babe, what’s going on?” Adam turned to see his wife standing behind him.
“I’m not sure … I think I lost it.” He looked out at the skyline, the intense oranges of sunrise now dissipated into the haze of a regular day. He held up the transmitter. The screen was off. “It was flying that way…” Adam pointed off into the distance, vaguely aware of an airport he flew in and out of all the time, some ten miles away as the crow flies. Then Adam had another, perhaps more disturbing thought: before the camera cut out, he saw what looked like geese, flying in the V formation like tiny dots somewhere in the airspace below Kitty, but he wasn’t positive that’s what they were. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had photographed enough wild birds to know that these weren’t quite right, that there was something almost mechanical about their wing movement.
CHAPTER 13
“You’re going to have to explain the internet as a weapon thing,” Wyatt said.
