The Term Sheet: A Startup Thriller Novel

by Lucas Carlson

  “That’s Andrea, our fearless leader. Want to meet her?”

  “Yeah,” they both said in unison.

  “She’s usually on back-to-back phone calls, but you can occasionally grab her for a minute.”

  As they made their way through a meadow of couches, David noticed a wall covered in what appeared to be a huge crossword puzzle. A couple of geeks were standing at the wall, filling in words in different parts of the puzzle. Down a corridor, there appeared to be a large metal tube that another employee was crouching into. Jeni jogged to catch up with Andrea’s quick pace.

  “Andrea, I’d like you to meet David and Andrew.”

  “I am really excited to meet you,” said David.

  “Nice to meet you too, David.” Andrea wasn’t nearly as young as he initially thought. Up close, he noticed neck and forehead wrinkles that aged her, but she was so well put together in a fitted Kelly green sheath dress, white knitted cardigan, and white pumps that she pulled off looking much younger.

  “Thanks for letting us come see the office,” said Andrew. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. It’s awesome.”

  “We're keen to recruit and keep Portland’s best talent. I’m glad you both could come. Has Jeni shown you around?”

  “We just picked up some coffee. I was going to show them the inter-floor slide next,” interjected Jeni before the guys could answer.

  “Actually, I just started a company recently, and I would really appreciate some advice if we could schedule a coffee or something,” said David.

  “Jeni, why don’t you finish the tour with Andrew. I have a couple minutes before my next conference call starts. I can take David to my desk for a chat.”

  “Careful,” said Andrew. “David will talk your ear off if you let him.” David blushed. Andrew winked and turned back to Jeni as they walked away. Andrea escorted David a few desks down. She pulled up a second chair and invited David to sit.

  “I thought you would have a big fancy office,” said David.

  “I do my calls from shared private offices, but I try to spend as much time with my people as possible. So how can I help you?”

  David felt nervous and excited. He didn’t know how much he should really say, given that he had just met this woman. But he figured if anyone could help, it would be she.

  “I just bought a website in an auction that sells jellyfish tanks. It’s based on a drop-ship system so I don’t need to buy inventory. All I have to do is get people interested in buying them. The problem is that I haven’t sold any yet. The website was super popular a year ago, but I’m having trouble making it relevant again. How do I get people to find me?”

  “I see. Let’s back up. Tell me your story.” Andrea sat in her chair and waved for David to sit near her.

  “Well, I started using computers when I was little. I was really good at programming—took to it like a fish to water.”

  “Or a jellyfish.”

  David blushed. “Yes. A jellyfish. Anyway, I read The 4-Hour Workweek and Hackers & Painters and realized that I could do that. I realized that I could make money on the Internet with my skills by carving out a niche. So I started looking on auction websites and found the jellyfish site and thought I could use my computer skills to revive it. I thought it would be a slam dunk. I’m good at SEO and design, so I just needed to give it a new look and give it some new content. Easy.”

  Andrea leaned forward with a pensive look in her eyes. “So that’s why you’re doing this? The money?”

  “Well, no. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I hate working for other people.” David looked at his watch. 11:56 a.m. He worried he was out of time, but Andrea didn’t seem concerned with her next meeting. Her light brown eyes were focused only on him.

  “David, please, I am not judging, just asking. It’s fine if money is your only motivation. I just want to know what makes you tick.” Andrea uncrossed her arms.

  “I guess I just want to do something important. I want to do something meaningful. I want to help people through software. In a small way, the jellyfish startup gives people better access to a service most people couldn’t get before. Owning personal jellyfish wasn’t possible until these specialized tanks came on the market. So…yeah, I guess ideally I want to fill a niche where everyone is happy, the customers, the guys building the tanks and me.”

  “But do you like being a salesman? Why not work as a programmer or a designer?”

  “I wrote code for my day job, but, okay, yes—it’s really about money. I want to be independently wealthy. I don’t want to have to work again. And I want to be able to help my sister. She is chronically sick, and I want to be able to support her.”

  Andrea paused. She settled back into her chair and let the moment be. Then slowly, she turned to David. “There are much easier ways to get rich, David. The road to wealth is a well-beaten path. Go work on Wall Street for a few years. Get into real estate. Flip houses or become a broker for high-end properties. Why create a tech startup?”

  “Because it’s what I know,” said David. “It’s what I’m passionate about. Ever since I was a kid, I loved computers. I wanted to change the world. I wanted to change the way people use computers. The computerized age has brought so many efficiencies to our lives, but has left so many opportunities untouched. People think computers have changed the landscape of things for the better, but that’s only half of the story. Yes, it’s brought many outdated klutzy things up to date, but there are downsides. We now stare at screens instead of looking at each other at restaurants, and we think that’s acceptable behavior. We let anonymous services search and control our email and calendars without any concern about the future implications. The most popular email system in the world is run by one of the world’s largest ad agencies. Does nobody else find that disturbing? When the consequences of our actions are made clear, people will wonder how we got there. It happened slowly, one degree at a time. We won’t realize until it’s too late. This is a blessing and a curse, and…it’s an opportunity.”

  “So why jellyfish?”

  “They look cool?”

  Andrea laughed.

  “Well, it made sense at the time,” said David.

  Andrea’s phone started buzzing. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. It was really good meeting you. Leave me a business card. I think you might be on to something, but stop thinking so small. Follow your instincts, stop fooling around with the latest financial trends like passive income. That stuff is snake oil. People make more money teaching passive income techniques than through actual passive income methodologies. There is no way around the hard work of building a lasting business.” She waved him off and answered the phone. “Hello, this is Andrea.”

  David quietly left a card on her desk and snuck away to find Andrew.

  Chapter 8

  Police had blocked off the celebration areas the night before, but people started streaming into the streets at dawn. By breakfast, the crowds were in full force. There were flags and banners everywhere. People started cheering slogans that didn’t quite rhyme and barely made sense, like “Let’s go Mike, this time it’s right” and “Two more years, John’s our beard.” Election Day had begun.

  Shawn and his team had been working through the night on logistics. Though the morning had been going smoothly so far, he was in a sour mood and everyone knew it.

  “Sir, Congressman Jones from Minnesota has just arrived,” said Brandon Frank while staring intently at his iPad. “High winds made the landing pretty rough, though.” The Secret Service didn’t usually keep track of senators and congressmen, but for Election Day, Shawn was put in charge of all travel. His boss had told him they needed a bigger picture and more centralized access to information, but Shawn thought it had more to do with recent budget cuts.

  “That’s fine. What about the train schedules?”

  “All trains have reported on time so far. Extra security has been posted at all the stations.” Brandon scratched his head and adjusted his glass
es.

  “Check them again, and get it right,” barked Shawn.

  The temporary transportation headquarters tent had been set up on Constitution Ave. NW near the Washington Monument, the epicenter of this year’s Election Day Celebration. Outside the tent were three large black buses with electronics and antennas coming out from all sides. Near the buses were a line of militarized Hummers carrying gas generators and a satellite dish soaring fifty feet in the air. Surrounding all this were rows of police cars with all their lights flashing like the Fourth of July. Compared to the outward military appearance, the inside of the tent looked more like an operating room.

  Shawn walked up and down the three rows of desks, looking over shoulders at large screens with people on phones yelling status updates to each other. As he approached the third line of desks, filled with maps and checklists, the tent flexed and billowed slightly in a gust of wind. He re-reviewed the printouts with flight schedules, car schedules, and train schedules for all public figures and family members leading up to, during, and following the day’s events. It was one of the biggest events of the year.

  “Air Force One has landed,” yelled Abigail from the corner.

  “Brandon. Show me the routes we have planned for the president’s ride to the Mall.” The table of papers in front of Shawn was cleared and a large map was spread out, filling most of the table. Though Brandon had suggested that Shawn use digital maps, Shawn insisted on redundant paper copies of every important plan and route.

  “Here are the main and secondary routes.” Brandon pointed at the red and blue lines on a sheet of paper that featured an atlas of information, including the locations of gas stations, office buildings, and even fire hydrant level details. “Police have blocked off the main route.”

  “The president’s in the Beast,” said Abigail.

  “Redirect the police blockade to the secondary route right now. Tell the driver to use the secondary route.”

  Shawn’s staff scattered and started yelling orders into their radios.

  “The main route goes over a train line. Jesus Christ, Brandon, why am I the first one to catch this?”

  “We have eyes on every train within ten miles of the president, sir.” Brandon scurried through his notes. “There’s nothing wrong with this route.”

  Shawn looked indignant.

  “I don’t care, there is no need to take unnecessary risks. Redirect the president to the secondary route right now. Why the fuck are we arguing about this?”

  “Yes, sir.” Brandon was nearly hiding behind his iPad.

  “I swear to god, if you say sir to me one more time…”

  “The president’s on the secondary route now and the police blockade has been moved. Mall arrival in twenty-three minutes.” Abigail held a hand to her ear to hear an update. “Senator McMinniman from Oregon has just landed.”

  “Make sure no other cars cross any train lines for the rest of the day. Go.” More of Shawn’s staff scurried off to their radios and computers.

  Shawn had not found any more messages since the newsgroup went quiet seven months earlier. The now-abandoned email addresses had been run through a series of anonymizers and proxies which led nowhere. But that made Shawn even more convinced that something was imminent. It was too quiet. Against Shawn’s adamant recommendation, six California congressmen insisted on a grand entrance in an old steam train to a turntable surrounded by press promoting a Green Party stunt. Shawn tried to explain to the congressmen that the steam came from burning coal, but the point seemed lost on them.

  “Brandon, when is the Green Party train stunt happening?”

  “Twenty minutes; it was scheduled for eleven but Congressman Dernier was late. Apparently he had been celebrating a little heavily the night before.”

  Abigail looked up from her computer, growing panic on her face. “Sir, there is a problem with the president.”

  Shawn and half of the team rushed over to Abigail’s workstation. “What’s going on?” said Shawn with clenched fists.

  “We re-routed the president, but the secondary route has a roadblock. Division Avenue is shut down due to a water main break,” explained Abigail. The pressure was high, but she kept her composure. “I looked for ways around the roadblock, but every route crosses a train track.”

  Shawn smiled. This is it, I knew it. “Get my maps.”

  He shoved a computer aside to make room. A large map with red and blue lines was brought next to Abigail’s station. She pointed to Division Ave. Shawn stared at the map and the room went quiet. He pulled out a yellow sharpie from his back pocket and uncapped it. Without hesitation and with a single smooth, confident motion, Shawn drew out a route and handed the map to her.

  “Station two police cars each one block on either side of this train intersection. Once you have confirmation that they’re in place, send the president through. Brandon, send the helicopters in to watch the area from above for any trains.” Shawn relaxed his shoulders, remembering to breathe. The room returned to its clatter and chaos as people continued to shout orders and report status updates.

  Brandon held his hand to his ear again. “Sir, there are two trains within a mile of that intersection, each going opposite directions. One is a freight train and the other is a passenger train.”

  “Is either train running on steam?” asked Shawn.

  Brandon looked down and talked into his earpiece.

  “No sign of steam power.”

  “Tell the DC Railway Station to stop those trains.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Abigail looked back at Shawn. “The police cars are in position, they’re confirming they can see trains approaching in both directions. Both trains appear to be slowing down. The driver’s awaiting our signal.”

  “Tell him to proceed.”

  Abigail’s monitor began to quiver. The last significant earthquake near DC had been in 2011. At magnitude 5.8, it didn’t damage any buildings, but Shawn remembered it well because his wife was taking a shower when it happened and it was just enough movement to have her fall and break her arm. The quiver became a shake, and a grumbling noise grew into a roar. This earthquake was worse. Maybe a seven or an eight? Then Shawn heard a whistling sound. The kind a guy makes when he is trying to call a taxi. But the whistle grew louder. The roar and the whistle grew deafening and computers began falling off desks. Half the tent was gone. Brandon was on the floor. Shawn was standing over Abigail’s shoulders, but in a flash she had disappeared. Where did Abigail go? The hot summer sun was streaming in and bathing the chaos with stifling heat. Then everything went dark and the ground stopped shaking. Something was blocking the sun; something black. Steam had filled the air. Shawn found himself on broken concrete. He was warm and wet and covered in red.

  * * *

  “Mr. Douglas, thank you for being here today. I know it has only been a week and I understand you are still recovering and appreciate you comin’ in today. I have enormous respect for your, let me see here, forty-one years of service. Can you please walk us through the events that led up to that horrible incident?” Senator Gadfly from Arkansas spoke with a low, almost apologetic tone. He was an older Southern man in a seersucker suit and bow tie, practically a stereotype. To either side of him were a half-dozen members of the Senate Judiciary Committee on Terrorism and Homeland Security. The Senate office they were in usually felt cozy with wood paneling on the walls and ceiling, but that day it just felt crowded and stuffy.

  “Yes, Senator, of course,” Shawn stood up in front of the panel of senators like a bird with a broken wing. “The day started with the planned arrivals of the president, congressmen and senators, coming together to celebrate each other’s victories.”

  “Did anything go wrong with your preparation that morning?” interrupted Senator Gadfly.

  “No, sir. The morning went smoothly. It was not until the president’s arrival that something started to go awry.”

  “What about Congressman Dernier? I read that he had been…” S
enator Gadfly scrutinized a piece of paper as he spoke, “intoxicated, I believe, the night before and had held up a train? Was that not something that had gone wrong?”

  “I suppose so.” Shawn clenched his fist on the table. “Yes. That did go wrong, but they just held the train for him, adding a twenty-minute delay.”

  “I see. Go on, please.”

  “Upon the president’s landing, I noticed that the main ground route crossed a train track. I don’t know how we had missed that earlier, but I redirected the driver to the secondary route, which did not cross any train tracks.”

  “Couldn’t a helicopter or even just a policeman at the intersection have identified if a train was likely to intersect the president’s path? Why redirect in the first place?”

  “I didn’t want to take any chances. It was a hunch. We didn’t know what exactly their plan was, clearly.”

  “Of course, hindsight being what it is, we all now know that crossing the train track could have been dangerous indeed. However, Mr. Douglas, how exactly did you know that crossing a train track could be so dangerous? What intel did you have on this possibility?”

  Shawn relaxed. Finally, a question he was looking forward to answering. “Senator Gadfly, I had picked up chatter on the Internet about seven months prior to the attack that hinted at a steam powered train-based attack. My team researched stream trains still operational in the United States. At 485 tons with 6,200 horsepower…”

  “We’re not looking for a Wikipedia report. Please just tell us what happened next.”

  Shawn coughed. “It looked like an oversized canon on wheels to me. That’s why we recommended to the California congressmen who were insisting on using it to make a grand entrance to find another means of transportation.”

  “And they decided to use it despite your warnings?”

  “That’s correct, Senator.”

  “So the train was supposed to arrive at 11:00 a.m.? Is that correct?”