Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer?

by Theo Cage

  Working for the CIA for all these years had made it abundantly clear to him that there was no escaping the big birds anymore. U.S. Intelligence had dozens in orbit. Worldwide there were over fifty spy satellites currently operating with detail capability down to less than a fraction of a meter; they could easily make out the details on a license plate even in bad weather.

  BW lived in a small apartment in the city, but he had purchased land near Fredericksburg, paid for with the money flowing into his London bank accounts. The property was mostly oak trees, forested. From the sky, undifferentiated from the surrounding parkland and reserve land. He cleared a very small area one summer, sweating profusely. He wasn’t in great shape. But he needed to be able to grow some subsidence crops and still limit the amount of open space on his land that could be tracked from space. He would look up at the sky and imagine true anonymity one day. Did it still exist? Was it possible to escape the eyes in the sky?

  BW became so obsessed he had built a database of satellites from every country. Call it a hobby, like stamp collecting. Some of the old keyhole style birds, the original spy sats of the eighties, were still functioning, the KH-12 and 13 models. Not high resolution at all. The new ones, the stealth sats, were the size of school buses and wrapped in classified material that reduced the reflection of light, so they were harder for the enemy to detect. They still produced black and white imagery, but better quality and an enhanced ability to peer through cloud cover. These were the feeds that Division 213 was proposing to turn into sexy 3D color video for the American military. BW called it spy porn. He believed it would totally destabilize geopolitics globally. He wasn’t going to let it happen.

  Back on the protective porch that covered two sides of his home, he felt better. But he had no time to admire the scenery. Inside the big house, through the country-style kitchen, he entered a large windowless room he called command central. There he was surrounded with large displays tracking the progress of GIPETTO, the communication activity of every U.S. intelligence organization and major international news feeds.

  He propped the Winchester up against the wall near his work pod and began updating himself on the progress of the denial of service attacks being carried out by the Avion.

  BW smiled. So far Hyde had kept his word. The Avion had been in full attack mode now for over two hours. The first targets were designed to get the world’s attention, the Hong Kong and Shanghai stock exchanges. Under the Avion's blistering attack, neither had been able to open on Monday morning, which was causing early panics in both economic centers.

  BW didn’t have access to the actual details, but he could see that comm Traffic between the White House and China had jumped precipitously over the past hour. China was pissed off. They couldn’t access their stock markets and they knew the attack was coming from U.S. soil. The attack had also taken out all of their key government sites. That would send panic through the streets.

  Back home, BW had initiated a blanket scrambling program on all U.S. intergovernmental communications. Most secure data such as emails transmitted between intel organizations used encryption for security purposes. BW had made a minor change to the encryption routines garbling all messages. He also scrambled all phone routing in the capital. That would slow down any progress on an intelligent response to the attack for hours. Enough for him to make his point.

  BW looked up at the news feed from CNN. All eyes were on China right now. A press conference from the President was planned for Monday morning. By then Dubai would be added to the pile of stricken economies. Every major bank and investment firm on American soil would be added to the attack list as well. It was simple. The Avion was so powerful and so fast, it could easily overrun every major Internet portal on the planet. Most importantly, the GIPETTO launch would be forgotten and the CIA would be shamed, emasculated, hopefully even dismantled for good.

  BW momentarily switched over the display on one screen to the security camera in the Avion room. There were his two pawns; Med and Jo, hunched over in defeat, watching their Avion undo everything they had worked for. All this to protect some teenager they didn’t even know. How pitiful he thought.

  He checked one other app he used to locate people of interest. Hyde was still in Washington, according to the GPS unit in his cell phone. Beating his head against a wall in police HQ, he guessed. He zoomed into the location on the map for more detail, squinting at the large screen in surprise. The Plaza Hotel. Both Hyde and Strange were still at the Plaza Hotel. What useless plans were they making, he thought, so far from where the real action was.

  CHAPTER 46

  Roger looked down at Spotsylvania County from a height of several hundred feet, his stomach boiling and his knuckles white. The Ultralight they were flying was owned by Bob Goodyear, who sat in front of Roger in the fragile aluminum frame, his big hands on the control tiller, a pump shotgun across his lap.

  Goodyear, during their earlier briefing, had told Roger that most of the farmland around Fredericksburg was planted in snap beans and corn. Roger could only see square patches of brown and green fields, separated here and there by large stands of oak, an occasional pond or dugout and the ominous Trench Hill Lane, which cut its way through the heavy forest into Buzzworm’s property like an unhealed wound.

  Roger had seen the Ultralight logo on a rusty shed in Goodyear's yard. He knew what was inside, so he asked the BATF veteran what it was used for. Goodyear's eyes lit up. It turned out it was Goodyear's hobby, something that often came in handy in investigations. Roger told them his idea and Goodyear got wound up like a steel spring. They would pretend they were hunters. That was their cover. Goodyear would bring the two-man plane down in the small open field as near as possible to the mysterious out buildings that Roger had seen on the surveillance photos. Meanwhile, Med would head back to the city to shield the Avion from harm.

  Goodyear banked the small plane and Strange's stomach lurched. Below, a seamless forest of mature trees covered the landscape to the east. Ahead of them Mott’s Run reservoir looked swollen and dark in the fading light of the day.

  "Deer. Down there!" yelled Goodyear, pointing into the foliage. Roger didn't know if this was for information purposes only or if Goodyear truly expected him to fire on them. He tightened his grip on the shotgun, wishing he could hold on with both hands. It was now almost six thirty and they wouldn’t have sun for much longer. It seemed impossible that they could find anything to do in the next few hours that would stop Buzzworm. And it seemed so pointless now to be hundreds of feet above farmland and oak forest without a computer in sight.

  Goodyear pointed again. A small clearing opened in the forest below, some freshly tilled soil to aim for. A long unmarked steel shed stood near the center. The second building had a small exhaust stack, where they guessed the generator was housed. A pick-up truck was parked in the shade by the forest, but there was no sign of people. Goodyear turned into the wind and they dropped in altitude.

  They had discussed making the landing look like an accident, something that was fairly common in Ultralights so no one would be suspicious. Goodyear had laughed. The difference between a real accident and a fake one was what? One broken leg instead of a broken neck? But the challenge appealed to him. You could tell.

  Roger looked now at the back of his close-cropped skull encouraged by the man's skill with the small plane and at the same time, aware that this was the BATF equivalent of a suicide bomber. A single guy, twenty years in the field, Mr. Guts and Glory. This would not be a gentle landing. If Goodyear wanted it to look like an accident it would damn well give every appearance of the genuine article.

  They were low now, skimming the last of the treetops, when Goodyear killed the engine. Roger imagined this was for effect. He gunned it, again making the engine pop and sputter. Goodyear had told him to let go of the shotgun just before they hit the dirt. He didn't want it wrapped around his ears. "Take a deep breath, and then let it out. Relax your body. Taught muscles mean more broken bones." Roger looke
d perplexed and Goodyear smiled. "Something's going to break. Let's make it something unimportant."

  They were skimming clods of black earth now, their descent path parallel with the biggest steel building. Strange had expected the plane to glide. It was dropping far too fast. All he could think of was the rotor spinning a couple of feet behind him.

  The Ultra light’s right wheel made hard contact with the dry soil and the plane flipped over onto its back in a sudden sickening explosion of separating aluminum. Roger landed harshly on his neck and was instantly dazed. He sensed a brief flash of pain and light. When he cleared his head, a man dressed in Army fatigues carrying a dangerous looking automatic weapon had him laying on the fresh soil several feet from the crash site. He could smell gas.

  "Can you hear me?" said the other one, a boy in overalls, acne raging across his cheeks, snapping his grimy fingers in Strange's face. Roger tried to move, but a terrible stitch of pain drove down through his back.

  "Who are you?" the older man asked.

  "Roger," said Roger, guessing that lying would only get him in trouble.

  "Who's your friend?"

  "My Uncle, Bob Goodyear. He has a farm up the road."

  "You don't sound like you're from around here!"

  "I'm visiting. We were just deer hunting."

  The man in cammies seemed to relax. "That's against the law."

  "So arrest me," winced Strange.

  "Your uncle got a wife back home? Kids?"

  Roger didn't like the sound of that question. He tried to sit up. "No," he answered, trying again to stay with as much truth as he could.

  "Your uncles bought it."

  "Let me see," grunted Strange. He could only stand with difficulty. He turned to the wreck, but what he saw of Goodyear convinced him the farm hand was right. Goodyear’s head was at an impossible angle to his body. His eyes and mouth were open, his teeth covered with fresh dirt. He had taken the brunt of the landing impact.

  Roger slumped over and shook his head. He couldn’t believe that Med’s uncle was dead. It was like he had killed him or had at least been complicit by going along with the exagents gung ho plans. Med would never forgive him. Without even thinking Roger mumbled, "I need to call someone," and pulled out his cell phone. The older man knocked it out of his hands with the butt of his rifle and then angrily stomped it into the dirt.

  “You won’t be needing that here,” he growled, pointing towards the nearest building with a tobacco-stained finger.

  They stumbled the one hundred and fifty yards to the shed, Roger between them, his arms over their shoulders. They entered the dark interior of the building. "You just sit. And don't touch a thing. I’ve got to call the owner first."

  "Why don't you call the police?” Roger asked, his mind racing. How would he explain this to Med? And how was he going to carry out their plan of taking out Buzzworm’s power without Goodyear?

  "The local sheriff? Shit, you'll be waitin' here till Halloween."

  “Who’s your boss? The owner of this place.”

  “You ask a lot of questions. This is just a farm. You own a gun?"

  "It's in the wreck."

  "It's bust. If you're meaning the 330 pump? That you're Uncle’s?"

  Roger shook his head. The older man pushed him away from the door and deeper into the shed, looking more concerned by the minute. Roger guessed he just realized that this new development wasn’t going to make his boss very happy. Roger waited for his eyes to adjust, the inside of the shed smelling of diesel fuel and freshly cut grass. There was a newer tractor and a number of pieces of farm equipment parked inside. Skylights lit up the interior, but not by much. They sat him down on an old folding chair next to the biggest tractor and nylon-strapped him to the upright exhaust pipe. The younger man took Roger’s shotgun and shoved it into a tool locker by the door.

  “You stay put. I’ve got to check with the boss. You make a fuss and I’ll have to bury you with your uncle.” Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  "Two shit kickers have landed in our pea patch. Crashed in an Ultra light.” Roger couldn’t make out a voice on the other end, but he got a sense from the worker’s expression that he had stirred up a wasp’s nest. “I don’t know. One of them tells me they were deer hunting. The thing is, Mr. W, one of them is dead."

  Mistah Double-yuhh was how the guy said the name. The farm hand looked stressed, his boss yelling in his ear. Roger realized then what a problem Goodyear’s death created for Buzzworm. He had a body on his property now that he had to deal with. As well as two employees he needed to keep in his confidence. Was he going to call the local police? And risk a dozen cops roaming over his property?

  The hired hand continued explaining into the phone. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Goodyear lives around here. I’ve seen him fly over before looking for whitetail. The other guy is shook up a bit. Nothing broken, but he may need help.”

  More chatter that Roger couldn’t make out. Then he put the phone back in the side pocket of his overalls. “You’re going to have to sit tight for a while, son. I’ve got to go up to the farmhouse and work out what to do with your uncle. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Both workers left quickly and closed the steel door behind them.

  Roger sat up, feeling his arms twist in the strap. Handcuffed again. Second time in three days. He figured he could slide the nylon cuffs up the vertical stack, so he had a bit of room to get comfortable. Could he slide it all the way to the top? He twisted around. The stack had a cap at the top with a rain cover on a hinge with a big bolt. The cuff would never slide over. He looked around the floor. It was clean, like in a military barrack. He was twenty feet from the nearest wall with no tools in sight. He pulled hard and the fine nylon cord cut into his wrist causing his eyes to water. He guessed that Buzzworm had more things on his mind right now than to worry about an illegal deer hunter on his property.

  Roger twisted around as far as he could. Then using his grip on the exhaust pipe, he pulled his right leg up and stepped onto the tractors frame. He slowly slid the cuff up along the pipe until he could stand straight again. He started to sweat. He realized now that if he lost his footing and fell, he would be hanging from his wrists, the nylon cutting into an artery. Could you die from that? Would it matter once they found him here looking like a strung up rabbit? Several feet above him was the top of the stack, too high to reach. He had to give it to these boys; they came up with a clever plan. He twisted again and realized he was only a foot from the open cab. If he could step onto the floor of the cab, he would be safer and less likely to slip and hang himself in the process. He wiggled his wrists up again, turned and stepped up onto the operator’s platform. Then he saw the keys. Someone had left the keys in the ignition.

  CHAPTER 47

  Roger stared at the shiny tractor keys only inches away. What good would starting the engine do? He couldn’t steer, couldn’t press the clutch from where he was tied. The tractor was hemmed in by what looked like some kind of plow machinery and the steel north wall of the storage shed. How about the exhaust pipe though — how long would it take to heat up? Could it melt the nylon strap? He might be fried in the process or gassed. But was there any choice?

  What he did know is that tractors had a throttle set by hand. Starting was really just turning the key. He lifted his foot up and touched the keys with the toe of his hiking boot. Nothing. He pressed down, twisting his body against the exhaust pipe. Making a mistake like that in a few minutes, if he could get the engine started, would be painful. This time he pressed his toe along the top edge of the key. It moved. He pressed harder. The newer engine ground and coughed to life in seconds filling the steel shed with a frightening roar. Someone had to hear the noise. Black smoke jetted from the exhaust and filled the top of the storage shed with a stinking gray-black fog.

  Strange tried not to breathe in the suffocating exhaust. A futile effort. He could feel the exhaust pipe already starting to warm. He tried to relax and pull his
wrists away from the pipe as far as possible.

  Very soon, Roger began to feel light-headed. The exhaust was nauseating and had quickly filled the large shed. Black smoke continued to pour out of the exhaust pipe. How long did it take for carbon monoxide poisoning to take effect? He knew the symptoms were long-lasting, full recovery sometimes taking months. And once you nodded off, you were unlikely to ever wake up. He was almost hoping that the hired hands would come back and rescue him. He could feel the warmth from the exhaust stack on his palms, but he couldn’t be sure if there would ever be enough heat to melt through the tough plastic.

  He leaned hard away from the stack, pressing the nylon up against the pipe. Minutes now. He was visualizing the carbon monoxide molecules locking onto red blood cells, his ability to get oxygen to his brain slowly and relentlessly decreasing. His leg slipped momentarily. He hadn’t thought about that – loss of motor control. Great. He was gassing himself to death.

  He pulled harder, barely feeling the strap cut into his wrists. Was it giving way? He wasn’t able to turn enough to see any effect. He felt drunk now, his mind wandering. He pulled harder, hardly caring, starting to cough now. His eyes were stinging from the thick smoke. For a few seconds he zoned out. It’s happening, he thought. It didn’t take long although he was no longer sure how long this had gone on for. His head was pounding now and he was on the verge of passing out, his body swaying. Then he rolled back, his palm touching the hot exhaust pipe and he cried out weakly as he tumbled to the concrete floor below.

  It was like a dream. He had flown over this dark landscape through a fog and then plummeted from the sky and hit the ground hard. He felt cold concrete against his temple, blood in his mouth. His hands were an agony. He moved them forward and was able to touch his head. His fingers came away wet. He laid there — the cool floor against his cheek, the tractor engine roaring above him.