The Null Prophecy

by Michael Guillen

  In only a half hour she’d gotten Mike to weigh in on many topics: increasing chatter in the blogosphere about China’s secret plan to wage a cyberwar against the U.S. from outer space; massive protests expected at the coming weekend’s G-20; and consequently heightened security for the summit, starting with its gala welcome reception on Saturday afternoon at San Diego’s Mingei International Museum.

  “The G-20 is what we designate a ‘national special security event,’ or NSSE,” Mike explained to her, “which means my people are put in charge of intelligence and counterterrorism. The Secret Service on the other hand has lead responsibility for actually securing the two-day event.”

  She’d asked him how seriously Homeland Security was taking threats of violence.

  “Very seriously. We’re deploying four thousand state and local law enforcement officers,” he said. “Some from as far away as Chicago. Also the National Guard, Coast Guard, and other armed services. Does that answer your question?”

  She and Mike had worked together on numerous stories during the past four years, developing a close working relationship based on mutual trust and respect. He frequently remarked on how much he liked the thoughtfulness and fairness of her reports, as well as her reliability with off-the-record information. “You’re not the average knucklehead reporter,” he’d once said to her. “It’s refreshing.”

  For her part, she liked Mike’s no-nonsense approach to things and people. She was happy his star at the bureau was rising. Why shouldn’t it be? His academic creds were through the roof: summa cum laude in computer science from MIT, law degree with honors from Harvard.

  She also liked his physical features: hazel eyes, nicely trimmed, wavy chestnut-colored hair, and strong Mediterranean build. Altogether, he communicated potency—a strength on which one could rely.

  “When are you guys planning to come down?” Mike asked her, referring to the summit’s San Diego venue.

  “Probably Friday, to get everything set up.”

  “Where are you guys staying?”

  “Not sure. Hopefully, the Grand Hyatt.”

  Mike, being pressured by his hovering subordinates to get going, quickly buttoned his suit coat. “The protests are already starting—like Saturday’s march and the tent cities popping up all over Balboa and Petco parks. The mayor’s office tried denying them permits, but the ACLU took it to court and won. So we’ve got our hands full. Any help you guys can be . . .”

  Mike didn’t finish the sentence, nor did he need to. Allie understood completely. It was the unspoken tit-for-tat relationship common between reporters and sources, especially ones as battle tested as Mike’s and hers.

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “But just one more thing before you go.”

  Mike’s people stared daggers at her. She didn’t care.

  “What makes you so sure there’s a secret instigator working to unify the protestors?”

  Mike’s flinty eyes locked on hers. “I’m willing to tell you, but not on camera. Strictly off the record. Capisce?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Mike made quick placating noises and gestures to his agents then led Eva and her into an office. Quickly seating himself at the computer, he beckoned them to his side.

  “We have plants who’ve been covertly taping meetings of the various activist groups planning to disrupt the summit,” he said, his fingers working the keyboard. “The video I’m about to show you was taken at a secret gathering of Planet First near UCSD last night. Mostly a bunch of college kids. I absolutely forbid either of you to speak about this to anyone, even your boss at the network. Got it?”

  Allie agreed, feeling warm, the way she always did when she sensed a major scoop coming.

  “Understood,” echoed Eva.

  The video on Mike’s computer showed a crowd of about thirty people crammed into a small room. It was blurry and the sound was muffled, but Allie could understand most of what was being said.

  “The resolution isn’t great,” Mike said, “but trust me, when the lab gets done with it we’ll be able to see every freckle and hear every hiccup.”

  Abruptly, a person wearing a Guy Fawkes mask stepped into the frame. Allie and Eva looked at each other. “Who’s that?” they asked simultaneously.

  “Precisely,” Mike replied. “That’s what we’re going to find out. But listen.”

  Mike cranked up the volume. The masked man—for clearly it was a male voice—was dissing the “military-industrial elites” and damning rampant technology for endangering Earth’s plants and animals. By the end of the tape, the kids were on their feet pumping their fists.

  “Wow!” said Allie, stunned by the artfulness with which the masked man had manipulated the idealistic crowd.

  “For now we’re calling him Anonymous,” Mike said, “because that’s the kind of mask that group tends to wear. They’re known for—hold on.”

  Mike began typing away. A moment later large red lettering appeared on the computer screen. Allie and Eva leaned in for a better look:

  News/Alerts from Occupy the World

  To the community of users of the Burn server: The server is down until further notice. The data is still intact and there will be a forwarding address posted when and if the address is changed.

  MicroSupport/UCSDComputingServices/burnisdown.html

  “This is also off the record,” Mike said. “It’s a defunct website out of UCSD the university shut down last week. We’re working with them to track down the author.”

  “Interesting that it’s from UCSD,” Allie said. “Just like Planet First.”

  Mike ignored her observation. “Take a look at the last thing they posted before the website was taken down.”

  On the screen appeared large red letters and yellow flames on a black background:

  !!! We will obey on the first of May !!!

  We are Anonymous. We are legion.

  We do not forgive. We do not forget.

  We will be heard. Expect us.

  Allie and Eva gasped.

  “But—I don’t understand,” Allie said, feeling positively hot now. “The first of May—that’s the last day of the summit. What are they talking about?”

  “Short answer, we’re not sure,” Mike replied, “we’re working all the angles.” He rose abruptly from the seat. “What we know is this: May 1 is an important day for anarchists and communists. It goes back to the last century, when the American Federation of Labor voted in favor of creating the eight-hour workday. But we’re not sure whether this has anything to do with it—and if so, whether it’s originating from someone at UCSD or somewhere else. Lots of foreign nationals in our colleges these days, you know.”

  He looked at his watch. “Look, I gotta scram. Remember what I said: not a word to anyone.”

  MONDAY, APRIL 24 (8:18 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME)

  “Can you believe our luck?!” Eva exclaimed.

  After leaving the Cannatella interview and mounting the news van, they headed to a local, big-box electronics store. They were going to tape a report on the ongoing consumer hysteria over the Quantum I microprocessor, a natural follow-up to the abbreviated Kilroy interview. Not since the launch of the original iPhone or Pokémon Go had people gone so gaga over a piece of technology.

  Allie shook her head. “You know I don’t believe in luck anymore.”

  “Oh, please.” Eva settled into her seat. “Don’t get all religious on me. Call it whatever you want; we’ve hit pay dirt here.” Pausing, she gave Allie a calculating look. “Now we just have to figure out a way around Mike’s off-the-record thing.”

  Allie would’ve been floored by the remark if it weren’t Eva making it. Her beloved producer was what the world called a good person; she’d give you the blouse off her back. But her professional aggressiveness sometimes caused her to say and do things that ventured into the unethical.

  “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that, okay, chica? Let’s just see what happens. Mike’s been really go
od to us. The last thing we want to do is—”

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Bueno?”

  Growing up, Allie always heard her father answer the phone that way. The small things helped keep her grounded, close to her roots.

  It was Amy, her AP, on the phone; she sounded agitated. “The network wants you to beat it down to San Diego. There’s a huge whale stranding down there and they want to go live ASAP.”

  “A whale stranding? But that happens all the time. Wait a sec.”

  She quickly briefed Eva.

  “Absolutely not!” her producer exploded. “The Quantum story is way bigger. There’s no way we’re cutting out to cover a bunch of beached whales. Oy gevalt!”

  Allie communicated the unanimous decision to Amy.

  “But Allie,” the young woman said, “you didn’t let me explain. It’s not just happening in San Diego. It’s happening all over the world.”

  CHAPTER 8

  DISTRESS CALL

  MONDAY, APRIL 24 (6:40 P.M. CENTRAL EUROPEAN SUMMER TIME)

  POOR CLARES’ SACRED HEART CONVENT; SEVILLE, SPAIN

  The eighty-two-year-old Reverend Mother Abbess Yolanda Jimenez, OSC—a stooped figure in brown, black, and white—limped slowly across the dusty courtyard past the moss-covered cherubim fountain. Pausing, she looked up at the blue Sevillano sky in supplication to the One she was counting on to save the convent’s orphanage.

  Three months earlier Sevilla swore into office a young, new alcalde who was very enthusiastic about his progressive ideas. Professing to be concerned about the welfare of Spanish orphans, he quickly announced strict regulations about how orphanages throughout the city should be run.

  His good intentions came with a very big price tag. The costs of updating the orphanage’s 160-year-old facilities would shut them down unless she could find someone or some way to raise the needed funds. They had only until the end of May to comply.

  While still looking skyward, beseeching the Heavenly Father, it came to her, como una chispa de inspiración divina. It was the sudden recollection of their humble operation’s most memorable and illustrious alumnus: the orphaned boy whom they had placed with an American couple. They all moved to the United States when he was—what? Nine or ten, she recalled.

  She’d heard somewhere he became a great inventor. If so, he would have the resources, the influence—above all, the motivation—to help. But how to find him after so many years?

  Changing direction, she shuffled toward the storage building where the convent kept records of its residents and placements. After 160 years they were forced to pare down the paperwork to essential information only. Normally she would assign the task to one of the young sisters, but she decided to do it herself, in secret. She didn’t wish to raise false hopes among the faithful in case her idea came to naught.

  After several hours of digging she was not able to find much. But she hoped it would be enough to start things rolling.

  The archival records, what was left of them, showed the person of interest came to them forty-two years earlier as an unnamed newborn. She remembered he was of mixed blood, but no details about his biological parents—except she was fairly certain the mother was from the local area and died giving birth.

  The extant records further showed the sisters named the boy Francis, after the saint, and the adoptive parents were a Dr. and Mrs. Sinclair of the United States.

  That night she was unable to sleep, so excited was she about the hopeful thought God had planted in her bosom. She watched the waxing moon drift across the small window of her stone-walled cell, then was struck by an idea.

  ¡Sí!

  Moments later she was seated in front of her beloved, antique shortwave radio speaking in a quiet voice so as not to awaken the community: “Saludos mis amigos en nombre de nuestro Señor Jesucristo. Este es Mateo 19:14. Necesito su ayuda. Busco a un hombre que de niño fue nombrado Francisco. Él fue adoptado por una pareja de los Estados Unidos llamado Dr. y Sra. Sinclair. Él es cuarenta y dos años de edad. Por favor, mis amigos, este es un encargo de la misericordia, más importante y más urgente. ¡Gracias! ¡Dios les bendiga!”

  Then she repeated it in English, praying that God would send angels to steer her plea to just the right pair of ears: “Greetings, my friends, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. This is Matthew 19:14. I need your help. I am looking for a man who as a boy was named Francis. He was adopted by a couple from the United States named Dr. and Mrs. Sinclair. He is forty-two years old. Please, my friends, this is an errand of mercy, most important and mo—”

  Her broadcast was inundated by a tsunami of static. She smiled and nodded her head slightly. The enemy had been roused; she was on the right track.

  “Gracias, mi Señor,” she whispered.

  Then, ignoring the pain of rising from the seat and bending her arthritic joints, she knelt on the cold cement floor and began to pray.

  And wait.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHALE OF A PROBLEM

  MONDAY, APRIL 24 (12:15 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME)

  MISSION BEACH; SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  Allie was standing on her mark in the sand, facing away from the ocean, ready for her live broadcast. They’d selected the Belmont Park stretch of Mission Beach for two reasons: it appeared to be the epicenter of the mass stranding; and its amusement park—famous for the Belmonty Burger and Giant Dipper wooden roller coaster—made an enormously telegenic backdrop. It reminded Allie of Coney Island, but upscale.

  Next to her was Colin Berg, president of Planet First, who she was going to interview. Nearby, Eva was talking to somebody through her headset. Allie guessed she was getting last-minute instructions from Stu, who was at the main studio in Manhattan. The segment would be introduced by the anchor there, Ashley Folsom.

  Pitsy came up to her. “This breeze is messing with the audio big-time. Try using your body to block it, like this.” He helped to reposition her. “That should do it.”

  She surveyed the scores of whales and dolphins around them struggling for their lives. Volunteers were covering many of the animals with blankets and wetting them down. “I haven’t been here in years,” she said to Colin. “This is heartbreaking.”

  “Yeah, it is, for sure. Thanks for letting me be on this morning.”

  “Absolutely. You’re perfect for this.”

  Since the start of the year, she and Eva had gotten to know Colin quite well. His group was being featured in her May TV special because of its vocal opposition to the unintended consequences of military technology. Planet First’s YouTube video about whales and the Navy had thirty million hits and counting.

  But the real reason they chose to interview Colin over other possible experts was the video Mike Cannatella had shown them earlier that morning. After the segment, she and Eva planned to take Colin aside and pump him about Planet First’s protest plans for the G-20.

  “We’ll only have about four minutes,” Allie said to him, “so keep your answers short, okay? If I think you’re going long, I’ll go like this.” She nodded her head quickly. “When we’re down to our last fifteen seconds, I’ll kick your toe with my foot, like this.”

  Colin nodded nervously. “And you’re gonna stick to the questions you told me, right?”

  She reassured him there’d be no surprises.

  At least not while we’re on the air.

  Eva rushed up to them. “They’re giving you thirty more seconds, babe, so live it up.” She studied Allie’s hair with narrowed eyes and tightly pursed lips.

  “What?” Allie said with faux irritation.

  “I hate you. No one should have such beautiful hair.” Eva reached out and relocated a strand. “Break a leg, girlfriend.” Then she added: “Colin, babe, relax. You’ll be great.”

  On a small TV monitor nestled in the sand at her feet, Allie was able to watch and listen to the pre-taped news package they had slapped together beforehand.

  “According to officials at the National Marine Fish
eries Service,” her voice-over began, “the multiple strandings are unprecedented.”

  More than a minute later Eva yelled at her through the IFB. “Ten seconds! The out is ‘hoping to find the cause.’”

  “No theories yet,” the voice-over continued, “but blame is being directed at everything from El Nino to solar max to off-shore military experiments. Marine biologists from around the world are flocking to the stranding sites hoping to find the cause.”

  Allie stood tall, took a deep, calming breath, and looked into the camera’s glass eye.

  AF: “And now Allie Armendariz joins us live from San Diego. Allie, what’s the latest?”

  AA: “Thanks, Ashley. I spoke to Adam Lucas just minutes ago. He’s the communications director for the Marine Fisheries Service. According to him, the number of strandings worldwide is now up to five. Besides here in San Diego, strandings are being reported along the coasts of Japan, Australia, Spain, and Canada. It’s got everyone stumped.”

  AF: “Tell us what’s happening where you are now.”

  AA: “The stranding here started late this morning and, as you can see, there are dozens of whales and a few dolphins on the beach. Rescue workers are doing everything possible to keep the animals alive and comfortable. But as much as I hate to say it, strandings rarely end well.”

  AF: “Allie, I understand you have a special guest with you.”

  On cue, Pitsy’s camera lens spun slightly—he was widening out to a two-shot of her and Berg.

  AA: “Yes, I do. His name is Colin Berg and he’s president of Planet First, an environmental group based at the University of California, San Diego. Colin, you and your group have a theory about what’s causing these strandings. Tell me about it.”

  CB: “Yeah, thanks, Allie. The problem is San Diego has a huge Navy presence, one of the biggest in the world. In the waters between here and Hawaii, they’re always testing bombs and sonar and it’s hurting a lot of the sea life. Mostly whales and dolphins, which use sound to navigate.”