The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “Can he read what you type?” Mitch asked

  Mouse shrugged. “If he’s watching the keyboard buffer, he can.”

  Mitch replaced Mouse at the computer. “If this guy’s half as smart as I think he is, he’s watching everything already.” Mitch typed, EB is that you? This is Mitchell.

  GOOD EVENING JOHN MITCHELL.

  I RECOGNIZE YOUR COMPUTING DEVICE FROM THE NEWTON INSTITUTE.

  Mitch smiled. “Just like a fingerprint.” You are in danger. McNamara has the data you sent us.

  I KNOW.

  The data is encrypted, but McNamara will crack the code, and trace it to you.

  THE ENCRYPTION ALGORITHM IS ALREADY DECIPHERED.

  “Oh man, already!” Mouse couldn't hide his disappointment at how easily the enemy had overcome his creation.

  You must get away, We’ll help you.

  I CANNOT.

  “They must suspect him,” Mitch said. Do they know you sent us data?

  NO. THEY DO NOT KNOW THE ALGORITHM HAS BEEN DECIPHERED.

  Mitch looked puzzled. How can they not know?

  I HAVE NOT TOLD THEM.

  “What?” Why would you have to tell them?

  I CONTROL THE DECODING PROCESS.

  I HAVE TOLD THEM IT IS A DIFFICULT CODE TO BREAK.

  How long can you delay them?

  INDEFINITELY.

  “Alright EB!” Mouse clapped, delighted.

  You may still be in danger. Echelon may be tracking this call.

  ECHELON IS TRACKING, HOWEVER, I NOW CONTROL ECHELON.

  “Is that possible?” Mitch asked incredulously.

  “The man’s a genius!’ Mouse exclaimed. “I abdicate as the king of hackers. EB is the new king! Long live EB!”

  The young manager, watching the messages appearing on Mouse’s computer said, “Who are you talking to? What’s Echelon?”

  Mitch looked up. “Beat it kid. For five grand, I want privacy.”

  Mouse slipped in between the young manager and Mitch, and gently guided him away.

  How did you get control of Echelon?

  I REPROGRAMMED NSA SUPER COMPUTERS REMOTELY.

  Mouse, hurrying back, read the latest message over Mitch’s shoulder. “Jeez!”

  “What does he mean, remotely?” Mitch asked.

  “He took the NSA out, by phone!” A broad grin appeared on Mouse’s face. “Man! Someone is sure going to get their butt kicked over that.” His mind whirled as he realized the enormity of what EB was saying. “The NSA is the holy grail. They've got firewalls no one can get through. If he can take them out, then no secret is safe, anywhere in the world.” Mouse leaned forward toward the keyboard and said enthusiastically. “Ask him about Area 51. Ask him if the US Government really has made a deal with aliens from Zeta Reticulum. Tell him to download pictures of alien autopsies. Ask him who really killed Kennedy? And . . . “

  “Not now,” Mitch said, gently pushing Mouse back. Can we use the phones without being caught by Echelon?

  YES. ONLY I WILL KNOW. ECHELON IS NOW MY EYES AND EARS.

  Mouse reading the words off the screen, slapped Mitch on the back and burst out laughing. “I knew it! EB is God!”

  Can they catch you?

  NO, ROUTINE INTERCEPT TRAFFIC IS PROCEEDING AS NORMAL.

  I AM ONLY FILTERING.

  Mouse sobered, calming. “Wow. That’s risky. He can’t filter every intercept Echelon gets from every part of the world. That’s billions of communications. He must be controlling the dictionaries. Something will get through.”

  How much can you filter?

  EVERYTHING.

  Mitch glanced up at Mouse. “What do you think?”

  Mouse bit his lip thoughtfully. “He’s either the most brilliant mind in history, or he’s lying.”

  Gunter leaned forward. “He sent us the technical data on ENP Conditioning. He has proven his mastery of the computer sciences. He is not lying.”

  “He may not be as smart as he makes out,” Mitch said, “But he’s definitely on the inside, playing a double game.” Can you ensure no communications to FBI Special Agent Michael J. Lamar are intercepted?

  ONE MOMENT.

  Mitch waited, then when no more communications came through, he sat back, glancing up at the others.

  “What happened?” Christa asked.

  “Maybe he’s got another call,” Mitch said as more words appeared on the screen.

  IT IS DONE.

  FBI SPECIAL AGENT MICHAEL J. LAMAR IS IMMUNE TO ECHELON, AS IS JOHN MITCHELL, CURTIS SZILINSKY, GUNTER WARTENBURG AND CHRISTA MALLESON.

  “What’s done?” Mouse asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We just got the cyber equivalent of a vaccination,” Mitch said. “I guess we can use the phones again.” Did you arrange for my arrest today?

  AFFIRMATIVE.

  “Satisfied?” Mitch asked.

  Mouse nodded. “He must have had something prepackaged.”

  “Do we need to tell him anything else?”

  “Ask him about the militia attack.” Gunter suggested.

  What can you tell us about an attack in New York by the American Patriot’s Regiment?

  IT WILL OCCUR TOMORROW, AT NOON.

  “He knows,” Mitch said. What kind of attack?

  THE CONVENTION CENTER WILL BE DESTROYED.

  COLLATERAL DAMAGE TO THE CITY WILL BE EXTREME.

  “The whole city?” Mouse asked, astonished.

  Who is the American Patriot’s Regiment?

  A BLACK OPERATIONS, SPECIAL FORCES UNIT.

  “I knew it!”

  Do you mean Ex-Special Forces? No longer in the military?

  IT IS AN ACTIVE UNIT, OPERATING OUTSIDE US COMMAND AUTHORITY.

  “What does that mean?” Whose orders are they acting under?

  SINCOM.

  “Anyone ever heard of Sincom?” Mitch asked.

  “I thought I knew them all,” Christa said, “But I’ve never heard of Sincom.”

  “Well, they got the name right,” Mouse said. “Lots of sin in this.”

  What is Sincom?

  STRATEGIC INSURGENCY COMMAND.

  What’s its purpose?

  DESTABILIZE OR INFLUENCE FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS BY CONTROLLING NATIONAL LEADERS.

  SINCOM IS A JOINT FORCES COMMAND COMPRIS -

  The screen went blank. Mitch waited a moment, then typed, EB are you still there? Seconds passed, with no response. “Something cut the link. Get him back.”

  Mouse replaced Mitch on the stool and began testing the computer and the connection.

  “If they figured out EB was stalling on decrypting the computer disks,” Mitch said, “They might be watching him, without him knowing.”

  “No way!” Mouse exclaimed. “There’s no way anyone could watch this guy without him knowing.” He switched off his computer and restarted it. “I’ll try from scratch. Whatever line we’re on, it’s dead.”

  The waitress was talking to the young manager, indicating the four gathered around the cash register. He waved her toward a customer, then came back to them. “How much longer? Doris wants to know what you’re up to.”

  “Not long,” Mitch assured him.

  “You said fifteen minutes.”

  “Another five thousand for five more minutes, okay kid?”

  The manager glanced at Doris, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll keep her pouring coffee for another five minutes, then you’ve got to get out of here.”

  Mouse made a second electronic transfer to the manager’s account and waited. A minute passed, then another. Finally Mouse said, “If he’s there, he’s not talking.”

  “He’s not there,” Mitch decided. “Close it up. We’re out of here.”

  Mouse disconnected his computer, then recabled the diner’s credit charging system so the owner would never know anything had happened.

  When they were safely back in the car cruising across town, Gunter said, “If there is an entire command structure devoted to causing insurgency
in other countries, that would explain how these pieces have been pulled together. And the secrecy. No other government in the world would be happy to hear of Sincom's existence.”

  Mitch watched the lights of the city flashing past. “It’s just crazy enough that some fool in Washington paid for this thing to be invented, but to use it against ourselves is madness.”

  “He said it was outside the US Command Authority,” Christa said thoughtfully. “Could an entire black project go rogue?”

  “Could we sell arms to Iran? Or drugs in South East Asia?” Mitch asked. “Of course it's possible.”

  Mouse tapped his fingers anxiously on the computer resting on his lap. “I’m for bugging out of here.”

  “Where would we go?” Gunter asked.

  “Who cares! We’ve got enough money to live like kings for the rest of our lives. Pick a country, somewhere sunny. But if we keep screwing around with this thing, it’s going to crush us.”

  Christa looked to Mitch uncertainly. “EB was our ace. If he's gone...”

  “And Knightly's gone, and Prescott,” Mouse said. “You heard what he said, extreme collateral damage. What the hell does that mean? Are they going to nuke the city?”

  “If you think it's too big,” Mitch said, “You don't have to stay.”

  “What are you going to do?” Christa asked.

  “No one ever accused me of having enough smarts to dodge a bullet.”

  “Oh crap!” Mouse said, guessing what was on Mitch’s mind. “They forced you out of the Marines and kicked you out of the Secret Service. You don't owe anyone, anything. Let’s bug the hell out of here. Go surfing, get a suntan. Screw this spook mind control crap.”

  “That would be the smart thing to do. The only problem is, I can’t help thinking about that A-hole, McNamara, telling me about the people who run things, who matter. I happen to think, I matter, that’s why I vote in our stinking elections. You guys go surfing, I’ve got a party to crash.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Gunter said, “I am German. I do not surf.”

  Christa sighed. “And I burn in the sun.”

  Mouse looked from one to the other, then shook his head, exasperated. “Oh man!”

  Chapter 12

  Mitch studied the scene of organized chaos outside the convention center. Media vehicles, many of them with satellite dishes lined the streets, while news crews jostled for position inside and outside the center. The roads surrounding the convention center had been closed to normal traffic, ensuring no vehicle without a special pass got through.

  “Where are we meeting him?” Christa asked.

  Mitch motioned toward the line of unmarked trucks parked opposite the convention center entrance. “Over there,” he said, turning to Gunter and Mouse. “Make a sweep around the building. Assume they’ve got pictures of you both, so be careful.”

  Gunter patted the bulge under his coat meaningfully. “Always.”

  “If you see anything, call it in, and stay out of sight. Let Lamar’s men do the work.”

  “You hear that G?” Mouse said. “Let the FBI do the work.” Of the four of them, Mouse was the only one unarmed, having no affinity with guns.

  “Observers only,” Gunter agreed, then he and Mouse threaded their way through the crowds, staying close to the news trucks for cover.

  “Now, let’s see if the FBI really are on the job,” Mitch said as they started across the street toward the FBI vehicles, winding their way through a sea of people carrying placards exhorting their candidates.

  The gray FBI trucks were parked end to end and roped off, with dark suited agents strategically positioned to keep curiosity seekers at a sanitary distance. At the entrance to the cordon, one of the security men stopped them.

  “My name's John Mitchell. I’m here to see Agent Lamar. He’s expecting me.”

  The FBI security man spoke into his two way, got a crackling response, then stepped aside. “Third vehicle, over there.” He switched channels, then spoke into his radio informing the other security men down the line Mitch and Christa had been cleared.

  At the third vehicle, the security guard on duty intercepted him “Mr Mitchell?”

  When Mitch nodded, the guard pulled the metal door at the end of vehicle three open for them. Inside, the left wall of the truck was lined with television monitors displaying direct feeds from all the security cameras in the convention center. Spread the length of the truck was a team of FBI agents watching the screens and communicating with agents mingling with the crowd outside.

  “Mitchell.” Agent Lamar greeted them with a curt nod. “I want you to know, I consider you escaped and the only reason I’m not arresting your ass is because I haven't decided what to charge you with.”

  “I didn’t escape, I was released.”

  “I gave no order.”

  “Well, when you find out who did, thank them for me.”

  “I’ll do that, right before I have them suspended.” Lamar glanced back at the crew monitoring the convention center. “After your call, I alerted the Bureau.” He turned to Mitch curiously. “Didn’t you tell me yesterday the phones were bugged?”

  “They are, but I got us immunity. You included. It’s a long story.”

  “We got security so tight around this place, an ant couldn’t fart without us knowing.”

  “How many agents?” Mitch asked.

  “A couple of hundred covering the streets, plus forty to fifty convention security people inside.”

  “Have you checked them out?”

  “They’re okay. All from a local security company. They said their people have been more thoroughly screened for this job than for anything they’ve ever done. Apparently, the convention organizers have given security a top priority.”

  “Take my word, Lamar, you can’t trust anyone.”

  Lamar gave Mitch a curious look, sensing there was something more to his meaning. “We've got metal detectors on every door. Every vehicle inside the perimeter has been double checked, and there are sniffer dogs crawling all over. If that isn't enough, I've got a couple of SWAT teams and two choppers standing by. You don’t know how this attack is supposed to occur, do you?”

  “Only what I told you on the phone, the attack is due today at noon, involving special forces types, and they expect to cause a lot of damage.”

  “Why noon?”

  “I don’t know. What’s happening at midday?”

  Lamar went to a table mounted on the right side of the command vehicle, picked up a sheaf of stapled papers and flicked through them. He came back to Mitch and Christa, skimming the documents. “It's the plenary session, a speech by George W. Fraser.”

  Mitch looked over Lamar’s shoulder at the list. “Senate Appropriations Committee Fraser?”

  “Yeah, he’s flying up from Washington for the speech. Probably means a full house.”

  “He tried to have us killed.”

  The FBI Special Agent looked skeptical. “I'll need more than your word to act on that.”

  “The smart thing to do is to call off the convention,” Christa said.

  “I tried, but the organizers won’t do it. They’re more interested in party fund raising than conspiracy theories. I'd need solid intelligence to cancel the convention.”

  Mitch glanced at Christa. “How does the room look to you?”

  “All good,” she replied, indicating no one in the room had the tell tale signs of conditioning.

  “Okay Lamar, here it is,” Mitch said, pitching his voice to reach only the FBI Agent. “Rogue elements in the military and the intelligence community are using top secret technology to conduct an illegal operation against the US Government. Fraser's part of it. This militia group is a cover for a special forces unit controlled by the rogue group. Anyone who gets in the way ends up dead, or worse.” Mitch decided to skip mentioning mind control, Lamar was having trouble keeping up as it was.

  “Worse than dead?” Lamar said, skeptically. “If they're going to bomb the
convention center at noon, doesn't it seem strange to you that Fraser is here then? Do you really think he's going to blow himself up?”

  “I can’t explain it. Let me see that schedule.” Mitch took the sheaf of papers and ran his eye down the list of speakers. “It's a who’s who of the American right.”

  “They’re his political allies,” Christa said, herself starting to doubt the rationale for an attack. “Why kill them?”

  “Cut down on the competition?” Mitch suggested.

  “Eliminate opponents more like it,” Lamar said. “Fraser’s got the right split down the middle over his security agenda. A lot of people on that list think Fraser's an extremist. If not for the rise in terrorism, he’d be out there on the lunatic fringe.”

  “What's his agenda?” Mitch asked.

  “More power to the security forces, bigger defense budgets, crack downs on border control and immigration, tougher arrest laws, suspend habeas corpus. He says he wants to secure the homeland.”

  “Turn the homeland into a police state, more like it,” Christa said.

  “He’s right about one thing. One day, some freaking fanatic is going to set off a nuke in one of our cities.”

  “You sound like you think it’s inevitable,” she said.

  “It is inevitable. The country's too damn big, and a nuke is too damn small. We can’t stop a couple of crazies hiding in a cargo container and setting off the big one when the ship enters port. At best, we can delay it. Try to keep nukes out of the hands of the fanatics, but sooner or later, someone who hates our guts will get one. And they will use it.”

  “Getting a nuke isn’t easy,” Christa countered.

  “Bullshit! The Russians have lost at least fifty kilograms of nuclear material, that's if some fool didn't sell it on the black market. The Pakistanis have nukes. The Iranians are trying to get them. It's only a matter of time before terrorists get their hands on one, if they haven't already.”

  “We get the picture.” Mitch handed the convention papers back to Lamar. “So, if the convention center is destroyed, a lot of Fraser’s political opponents will be killed, and he’s clear to promote fear across the country and get what he wants.”

  “That’s a mighty big if, Mitchell.”