by Brandt Legg
“Tess,” a senior analyst said, walking up to their station and interrupting the conversation. “We just got a line from our point at the Bureau. The FBI is planning a raid on a militia compound in about ninety minutes.”
“Where?” Travis asked, knowing they wouldn’t have much time to get an IT-Squad there before other federal agents descended.
“Utah. Place called Cedar City.”
Tess, who had been hoping that Chase, or the internal investigators at CISS, would ID the suspects long before now, and certainly before the FBI, had also been relying on an illegal, yet thorough, CISS network monitoring the FBI, and other federal agencies, to provide advanced warning of an imminent arrest of Fire Bomber related suspects. In addition to electronic surveillance of computers, servers, and other devices, the network utilized eavesdropping on nearly all government personnel. CISS agents were also covertly employed at the FBI, Department of Justice, and Department of Homeland Security. It was one of these high-level moles who had provided the early warning on Utah.
“Where’s the closest IT-Squad?” Tess asked.
“I’m checking,” Travis said. “Las Vegas.”
“Can we beat the FBI?”
“It’ll be close,” Travis replied, looking at the ‘minus-twenty-three minutes” already displaying on his screen.
“Close isn’t good enough,” Tess said, heading to “Secure,” the area at the end of Mission Control which housed direct encrypted lines to the White House, Pentagon, NSA, and CIA.
Travis contacted the IT Operational Officer and ordered him to move the IT-Squad from Las Vegas.
The senior analyst looked at him questioningly. “Isn’t Tess requesting authorization to order a strike on Cedar City?”
“I suspect she’s doing just that,” Travis said.
“Then why send an IT-Squad?”
“As you know, she already has the standing-authority to use CISS resources to take out those we deem necessary to protect our interest, but once she involves the Pentagon, anything could go wrong.”
“You don’t think they’ll deny her request?” the analyst asked.
“Not a chance,” Travis replied, knowing with horUS, the President would give Tess anything she needed. “We just have to be sure.”
Armed with full authorization from the President, Tess bypassed her normal Pentagon contact and went straight to the Secretary of Defense.
“Tess, we can do this,” the former Army Colonel and Texas congressman said. “But damn sure, if there isn’t a lot that can go wrong with this. Who’s gonna catch the fire?”
“There won’t be any fire,” Tess replied.
“Hell if there won’t. If we send in ordinance and evaporate somewhere between three and six hundred American civilians in the middle of the great state of Utah, it’s gonna be a lot more than fire. We’ll be dealing with what those in the Navy call a ‘ship-storm.’”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Secretary,” Tess said, addressing him more formally than she typically did. She’d known him for more than fifteen years, and the pair shared plenty of secrets. “We can cover this at least ten different ways. We’re talking about a militia that has been terrorizing the country, blowing up tech companies, and killing Americans for weeks. We’ll release evidence which shows these people were preparing to mount a full-scale revolution once they’d shattered the economy. The line will be that we went in with a respectable show of force, and, by their own mistakes, all those nasty explosives they’ve been unleashing on everyone ended up destroying the entire compound, which, by the way, was loaded with weapons. Need I say more?”
“This is all above my pay grade anyway. The president wants to go forward, as long as you’ve thought this thing through and cover our collective butts. You got the media playing along with this?”
“As usual.”
“All right. I’ll greenlight it. You realized we’ll either retell this old war story when were retired, proud and strong, or maybe we’ll be crying about it in a prison cell. Either way, I will follow orders and make the problem disappear.”
Back in mission control, Tess linked into the Pentagon feeds and watched live as a thirty-two hundred acre compound in Idaho, home to two-hundred-seventeen men, women, and children, loosely affiliated with the “Come Freedom Militia,” disappeared off the face of the earth.
Fifty-Two
After landing in Los Angeles, Chase and Wen stayed on the plane and continued to research the companies that had already been hit by the Fire Bomber, scouring SEER results and other data to identify the potential future targets.
The Astronaut had told them of his theory that the drones had advanced tracking capabilities and could be coordinated with satellites. He’d said, “If these things are built, the CIA or NSA would be able to watch a man who wakes up in Yemen and follow his every movement until he meets a group in Syria. Maybe that seems okay in the age of ‘the war on terror,’ but what about watching a woman who leaves her home in Beijing in the morning until she checks into a hotel in South Africa, and then do it all again the next day?”
“Or what about when this technology gets into the wrong hands, or is hacked, or . . .?” Wen had questioned. “Because it will.”
“Exactly,” the Astronaut had replied.
“Maybe that’s what the Fire Bomber is doing?” Chase had asked. “Trying to get the technology and cover his tracks, or . . . trying to stop it?”
They had a list of leads for the Drone project, but still didn’t have much on the “second track,” the one that targeted Balance Engineering. Chase tried to focus, but couldn’t stop thinking about the footage of his father’s killing.
“It’s time to call the Astronaut,” Wen said.
“To see if he’s cracked the pattern of the second track?”
“That would be nice,” Wen said. “But he may be able to tell us how to identify the people in the home-security video, since our facial recognition attempts are coming up blank.”
“‘People?’” Chase asked rhetorically.
Chase transferred the security footage of his parents’ home from his laptop to the Antimatter Machine, and then Wen uploaded it so that the Astronaut could access it.
“Know that I will continue to do everything I can to help you identify and locate these perpetrators,” the Astronaut said across the encrypted video conferencing window.
“Thank you,” Chase said, relieved the Astronaut was committed to his case, feeling a warmth toward him he hadn’t felt before..
“I am tied into every facial recognition and biometric system in the world, including the Chinese MSS, FBI, and NSA, and it shouldn’t take long to produce a match. We’ve got good images from the security cameras. Men like these will be known—past arrests, military service, even a stop at their local bank will get them in the database. We’ll find them.”
“While we’re waiting,” Wen began, “can I ask you about Lipton Innovations?”
“Of course,” the Astronaut said, smiling. “I anticipated your question, and I’ve just sent you a summary data report on the company, its ownership, corporate affiliations, vendors, clients, customers, and, even more important, their products. If you tap into that second section, you’ll see an analysis of which product could be used in surveillance or weaponized drones. It’s broken down into three parts, color-coded—I think color coding is important with this kind of process.”
“Yes,” Wen said, used to his precise ways.
The Astronaut continued. “In the next section on the other tab—the green one—you can see how these components match with the other target companies in the past, beginning with Tri-Knight Avionics in Crystal City. I’ve prepared a second report on the same companies intersecting with the potential future targets that we’ve identified. You definitely will want to cross reference that with what you are seeing with SEER.”
As they began looking through the material, they quickly spotted one specific component that the Astronaut had highlighted in many sections, and t
hey asked him about it.
“Yes, there are actually two critical components,” he replied. “One is a flight evasion solenoid transistor energy resister, often referred to by its acronym ‘FESTER.’ It makes the drone virtually invisible.”
“Really?” Wen asked.
“Is that possible?” Chase added. He looked out the window for a moment as he felt a slight tremor. The tarmac was busy. In fact, an ambulance whizzed by. He thought of his mom, wondered how she was, and made a mental note to try to call her shortly.
“Impressive engineering. Then there is the CSR, which stands for “capture sort relay,” also quite an advanced piece of technology. The CSR is a high-resolution still camera and super hi-def credit-zoom-capable video-capture system. This little marvel enables the drone to record and process endless live feeds, then sort and prioritize data images onboard, in real time, before instantly sending them to either satellite or ground-based computer enhancement facilities that provide the intelligence agencies with the acquired assets, short only a microsecond lag when viewing high priority targets of literally infinite streams.”
“Amazing,” Chase said, returning his focus to the screen. Wen noticed his minute of daydream and knew where he’d went.
“That’s not all Lipton Innovations manufactures in this little drone project. They make the hardware and software that can process the image data coming in from tens of thousands—potentially hundreds of thousands—of sources, enabling them to composite, again, in real time, all these images.”
“You mean they can put these ‘invisible’ drones over China in sufficient numbers to record everything going on in Shanghai, or a Chinese military installation such as Zhurihe Combined Tactics Training Base?”
“You’re thinking too small,” the Astronaut said. “They can watch the entire People’s Republic of China, including the South China Sea, Taiwan, and anywhere else. They get enough of these up there, they’ll know everything that’s going on in the world.”
“Unbelievable,” Chase said. This represented everything he feared about misuse of technology. “Why is it whenever we create a beautiful, life changing new invention, governments figure out a way to weaponize it?”
“Or,” Wen added, “to use it to control the population?”
Fifty-Three
Westfield continued his rage on Ryker and Damon for botching the raid on Chase’s parents. “Now we’ve got another investigation to deal with, and you missed Chase yet again!” His anger was made worse because they weren’t in his office where he’d be able to berate them in person, maybe even unleash some violence of his own. Although more than twice their age, Westfield still proudly maintained his prowess.
“We’ll get him in Los Angeles,” Ryker said, having just received word that Chase and Wen boarded a private plane at the San Francisco Airport with a flight plan filed for Los Angeles.
“No,” Westfield said. “You stay in San Francisco. We have people in Los Angeles who can handle them. I want you monitoring the hospital and Balance Engineering.”
Ryker pleaded their case, but Westfield would not be swayed.
After the call, Westfield checked the latest internal reports. The FBI was getting closer. There were three strong leads. Arrests were expected within the next twenty-four hours. “Damn it, I’m too old for this,” he said to himself. “Time to elevate.” Westfield called a number he had not used in many years.
“Hello?” the man on the other end said.
“Three-six-three-JH,” Westfield replied.
“Yes.”
“Fourteen-three,” Westfield replied, after referencing a chart that informed him Washington DC was number fourteen.
“Three?” the man repeated, verifying the number of people to be killed.
“Correct.”
The man then gave him a series of numbers which indicated the time and place to deliver the files of the people to be eliminated.
Westfield double checked the names and the order of their executions—Tess Federgreen, Travis Watts, the Secretary of Defense—then he sent the dispatch, thanked the man, and hung up. One way or another, within twenty-four hours, his worst problems would be solved.
Gunner watched as the trucks were loaded. He hadn’t been sure until an hour before if he was going to give the order to fight or to evacuate. However, with the success of the Phoenix strike and Powder still going undetected, ready to hit the critical target in Las Vegas, the difficult decision became an easy choice.
The expected call from Gunner’s source, someone who had never understood the full extent of the militia’s capabilities, hadn’t come. The leader of the resistance pondered the possible reasons; the source could have been discovered, a government clampdown could have occurred in the face of an imminent raid on the training grounds, or the pressure could have finally proven too much. After the deaths in Austin, the source had become more reluctant to provide information.
In their last conversation, the source told him that the authorities were hours from putting it all together. “As soon as the FBI identifies you,” the source had said, “the operation will be over.”
However, Gunner had informed the source that “The militia were prepared to fight ‘the final standoff,’ long into forever.”
“It’s a suicide mission,” the source had countered. “Your people may be well-trained and well-fortified, but there are what, a thousand of you? Be realistic. You are no match for the US government’s full might, which will swiftly be brought to bear against any insurgents. They will mop you up in a day. Don’t let it get to that.”
But there was something the source didn’t understand, Gunner had no intention of fighting at the Training Fields. He had trained in guerrilla tactics. Having prepared for this moment for years, this fighting machine of a man was ready to fight them everywhere.
As the last truck filled, the vehicles began to depart in a staggered operation designed to attract little attention through varied routes. Gunner nodded knowingly to the sky. We are on the move now.
His phone vibrated. The source.
“The FBI is going to knock on your door in less than sixty minutes.”
“Good for them,” Gunner said. “I’m happy they’re not completely incompetent, as it turns out.”
“You’re not still thinking of taking your final stand now, are you?”
“No, we’re not going to be around when those friendly agents show up. I’m afraid they’ll just miss the party, but we’ll leave them some beer.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But they have other ways to find you, and they’ll be looking.”
“Are they sure it’s us?”
“No. If they were, there would already be a thousand personnel surrounding the Training Fields. But when they arrive to find it empty, they will know you fled, they will know it’s you, and a fury the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine will be unleashed on you.”
“Likewise,” Gunner said, pressing his lips together in a maliciously repugnant grin. One couldn’t be sure if this surly backwoodsman was as confident as his words, or crazier than hell, and would absolutely follow through—and win. In either case, one would want to be on his side.
Fifty-Four
The Astronaut reported that the men in the videos were either ex-military, ex-agency, or some other similar type. “Because only someone like that can scrub their record. And there is a link—US Government.”
“Whoever is behind the drones . . . ” Wen began.
“Is behind the attack on Chase’s parents,” the Astronaut finished.
“And the ones trying to kill us,” Chase added.
“Exactly.”
“Then you can’t get their identities?” Chase asked.
“I did not say that. It may take another hour. I have programs running as we speak, pulling and dividing data. They exist, they work for the government—or did—there is a trail, and I’ll find it. Don’t worry, we’ll get them.”
“Thank you,” Chase said, instinctivel
y wincing from the silent pain within his gut every time the thought of his father surfaced in any form.
“Of course,” the Astronaut said. “And while I’ve been searching across Heaven, I discovered drone footage of the two of you after you left Shasta, at the dam, and of your parents’ home.”
“They’ve been tracking us with drones,” Wen said, as many things suddenly became clear. Constantly amazed by the Astronaut’s abilities, Wen was especially impressed by how he could move through Heaven, the ultra-classified intelligence computer/satellite network of the US spy agencies.
“Footage of my parents’ place?” Chase echoed.
“The morning of the attack,” the Astronaut explained. “It would seem that they were checking the security guards’ movements.”
“Bastards. That proves whoever is behind the drones are the same ones after us.”
“I’ve taken some precautions,” the Astronaut said. “If all goes well, they won’t be able to use their drones to track you for at least twenty-four hours.”
“How can you do that?” Wen asked.
“Remember CSR?”
“Lipton Innovations. Capture-Sort-Relay.”
“Very good,” the Astronaut said. “The drones’ CSRs are linked into a secure section of Heaven for updating, maintenance, and merging, so that it can work with the other programs, applications, components, and necessary equipment. That made it easy to disable. Not completely, of course, but sporadically there will be issues, making it unreliable and, therefore, they will ground for repairs.”
“Brilliant,” Chase said.
“I certainly hope so,” the Astronaut said, “because I can’t dance and am not good at sports.”
“Okay,” Wen said. “But we’re after the Bombers, not the Drones.”
