Black Fall

by Andrew Mayne

  Breyer and I have our own history. He seems to regard everyone as either a zero or a one. While my results speak well of my methods, he’s constantly watching for me to screw up so I can go back to the zero column in his ledger. In an agency filled with cynics and skeptics, who are mostly men, a woman who’s unintentionally become a rising star has to expect to encounter an undue amount of scrutiny. But still, can’t a girl get a break? He looks in our directions as Gerald and I take a seat at the back of the table near Ailes, who has been sitting quietly as Jennifer details her findings.

  We’d filled him in briefly on the way back and he told us about Jennifer’s harrowing journey. She’d made it into Bolivia with a group of Red Cross disaster response workers, and an FBI agent stationed there had escorted her to several of the locations she’d wanted to investigate.

  For the first day, they were able to get around fairly trouble free. The people were still in shock over what had occurred. The death toll began to climb. Then rumors began to spread. Blame started to fall on the government, and foreigners were considered suspicious.

  They’d had rocks pelted at them in one town, and were forced to leave their hotel in another when pickup trucks with angry men began to pull up outside.

  Jennifer, who unsurprisingly looks rather unshaken after her experience, displays an image of a metal cylinder surrounded by a torrent of water. “This is a rain gauge next to the main source of flooding. It’s operated by the Bolivian weather service.” She points to a smaller gauge mounted on a post near a tree. “This one belongs to an agricultural research team from Caltech. Their project ended two years ago, but they still collect data. It’s also connected to a moisture sensor. The readings between the official sensor and the Caltech one don’t match up precisely, but are fairly close.”

  “No evidence of tampering?” asks Breyer.

  “I don’t think so. We have satellite estimates of how much water fell. The gauges are within the margin of error.” She’s direct and doesn’t seem intimidated by Breyer.

  “So, it’s just a freak accident?” he asks.

  “Well, that’s what it looks like on the surface. But then I pulled up the moisture data and found that it wasn’t out of the ordinary for that season. So I did a little more investigating and found some satellite images.”

  She pulls up a photo of a pale brown hillside with sparse vegetation. Rivulets of muddy water are streaming down the side of the hill.

  “The prevailing theory is that vegetation loss caused more water to slide downhill than be absorbed.”

  “That looks pretty credible to me,” Breyer replies, not sure where this is going. But I know Jennifer well enough to know that when she says something like “prevailing theory” she’s about to demolish it.

  “It would, except this photo was taken three years ago.” She cycles through several more images showing roughly the same amount of change in foliage. “Every year, this happens. Maybe in different places, but overall approximately the same amount of precipitation and erosion. I could find no evidence that there was a greater amount this year. This isn’t my area of expertise, but it simply doesn’t add up.”

  “But the storm? The flooding? That doesn’t happen every year. Why now?” asks Breyer, trying to comprehend what she’s telling him.

  “The rainfall was normal, but the water level wasn’t,” Jennifer says. “The river overflowed its banks by several meters. Locals claimed the dam overflowed, but the water level was at least ten feet below the top.”

  I’m impressed by her ability to matter-of-factly respond to Breyer without getting frustrated. She knows she’s the authority here and has the facts to prove it.

  “I’m confused,” Breyer presses. “Where did the extra water come from?”

  “This is where it gets difficult. I was only given limited access to the dam and looked at some of the equipment. The likely explanation is that the water came from the dam, but was released through an overflow valve, either accidentally or intentionally. So the excess water came through the dam, not from the storm. That’s what caused the river to overflow its banks.”

  The import of what she’s saying hits him. “The flood was intentional?” Breyer asks, surprised.

  “I don’t know who we mean by ‘they.’ But it wouldn’t have been terribly difficult for anyone with technical knowledge to have caused this. In examining the equipment that controls the secondary release valves, I saw things that were . . . suspicious.” Jennifer displays an image of a cable going into the concrete. “This is marked as a ground wire. I traced it to the surface of the dam. It’s actually an antenna.”

  “A remotely controlled floodgate?” says Breyer. He’s trying to reconcile the full force of what Jennifer is saying with her dry delivery.

  She nods. “That’s what it appears to be. Someone could theoretically control a release off-site, remotely causing a flood. They don’t have anywhere near the security controls we have in place here, but I wouldn’t take too much comfort in that.”

  Breyer shakes his head in disbelief. “What did the Bolivians have to say?”

  Jennifer stares at the floor for a moment and her voice changes. “They were not very receptive to this. I was told our services were no longer required. At that time, I decided it would be expedient to get out of the country.”

  Holy hell. Jennifer narrowly avoided a political catastrophe. I can only imagine their reaction when she told them their natural disaster was human caused.

  Breyer was clearly not expecting this turn of events. “Is this a cover-up?” he asks Ailes.

  “An embarrassment. I doubt they know what happened. But at this point they don’t want to be culpable for what is still considered a natural disaster. That could affect disaster relief funding, not to mention destabilize the region.”

  I’ve seen this before, firsthand. In Tixato, Mexico, where I unknowingly encountered the narco-terrorist Marta, an entire town became a recruiting ground for anti-government and anti-church gangs after a failed disaster response killed scores of residents. To this day, the United Nations tries to downplay a cholera epidemic they created in Haiti by sending sewage downstream from a base after responding to the earthquake.

  “So who is controlling this?” Breyer asks.

  Clearly he thinks Jennifer has made a solid case. I got to hand it to home girl, she knows how to walk a room through a PowerPoint.

  Her eyes catch mine. Now that she’s done with the facts, it’s time for me to interject some half-baked theory. Lucky me.

  I speak up. “I think it’s clearly the same people behind the Devon videos. Likely the Red Chain.”

  Breyer scrutinizes me for an awkward moment, probably thinking zero or one? “The Red Chain? The people who assaulted you on the train?”

  “And the ones who helped the woman track me to our stakeout.” And the reason my side feels like a steak knife holder at this moment.

  “All of this is connected?” The way he says “all” is as though I’m attempting to tie the Federal Reserve, the Moon landing, and Elvis into one vast plot.

  I point to the image of the floodgate. “We just came from a defunct government facility that was Peter Devon’s brainchild. They had simulators for causing blackouts, jamming communications, and misdirecting media. Some of the equipment looked like it was ready to be wired into an actual electronic sabotage weapon.”

  Breyer throws Ailes a skeptical look. “What’s this?”

  Ailes nods. “It’s an actual facility and former agency. I’ve seen the photos. It’s real. I’m sending Gerald and a team back to make a more thorough investigation.”

  Breyer processes this new twist. “I don’t get it. TV broadcast jammers and blackout generators?”

  “Probably installed on location by independent contractors,” says Gerald. “The same way we tap foreign embassies. And compared to the cost of a cruise missile, cheap. You just need some people who know what they’re doing. The CIA managed to bug most of Eastern Bloc Europe at the l
ocal level in the sixties and seventies. These are the same kinds of dirty tricks. Just . . . more elaborate.”

  He ponders this bombshell. “We’ll table that for a moment. Explain the Red Chain connection,” Breyer says to me.

  “They’re a cult tied to the ecoterrorist Ezra Winter. Interestingly enough, I spoke to some of our agents who deal with those types of groups. Dams are a frequent target.”

  “But the Red Chain didn’t take credit,” he points out.

  “No. That’s not their primary goal.”

  “What is?”

  With Breyer you have to phrase things succinctly through a framework of motivation and consequences. “Why are you here in Quantico, instead of in DC? Collapse of government. Panic. They use Devon’s predictions to instill fear and tell people how to respond. First he says he foresaw the earthquake, then the flood. When he says rioting is next, people fulfill the prophecy. He primes them, then gives them a target.” I let that sink in for a moment then hit him with my other thought. “I believe the police shooting in DC was staged.” I’m jumping into this blindfolded, but my gut tells me it’s related.

  “Staged?” His face can’t contain his surprise at my allegation. “You think the officers were in on it?”

  “I don’t know. But I believe that the Red Chain was involved in causing it to happen. They needed an antigovernment spark to turn public opinion. Coldly speaking, this was perfect.”

  “The drone too?” asks Breyer.

  “Drone?” I haven’t heard about this.

  “A police drone fell out of the sky in Chicago and landed on a group of people, sending several to the hospital. We suspect it was hacked.”

  This keeps getting worse and worse. “That would certainly serve their purposes.”

  Evidently, the drone incident has already raised Breyer’s suspicions about outside actors. “But you still don’t have any hard evidence that links these incidents to the Red Chain?”

  This comes across as more desperate than challenging. I’ve been preparing for a fight, but it seems that in the middle of this storm, our team is the only one with answers.

  “We could lean on Ezra Winter more,” I suggest.

  Breyer shakes his head. “That’s going to be difficult. Department of Justice lawyers have informed me he just acquired the services of a new attorney, Samuelson Gray.”

  This isn’t good. I know Gray by reputation because he has represented foreign leaders and the heads of billion-dollar drug cartels. He is a formidable opponent who can throw more lawyers on a case than even the Justice Department could muster.

  “How did he afford that?” I ask.

  Breyer throws up his hands in frustration. “They aren’t talking. So what do you need to make the Red Chain connection and take it all the way back to Ezra?”

  Wow. He’s just offered support instead of antagonism. Now I should really be scared.

  There’s another angle for me to make a connection, one where the Red Chain may be directly involved. “I want to look into the police shooting at the White House.”

  I can read his face before he even speaks.

  “I can’t do that. We already got a hundred Justice Department people all over that, plus the Capitol Police are pretty wound up.”

  “Okay. But have they found the cops who did it yet?” If they had, it would be all over the news unless they are keeping it quiet.

  “No. We’re looking into the possibility they’re being sheltered by family or other police.”

  I have a hunch and decide to make a gambit. I need to give him something they haven’t thought of, or at least show him I’m a step ahead. “Have their cell phones recently been used outside a hundred-mile radius? Maybe Atlanta?”

  Breyer raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “A lucky guess.” Actually, I’ve just worked backward from a theory and hit the nail on the head. “It’s a ruse. Whoever is using those phones isn’t them. Someone’s activated the phones far away from here to mislead the chase. As long as we’re acting under the premise that the cops from the shooting are working alone, with minimal help from family, we wouldn’t expect assistance on a larger level.”

  “Are you saying the fugitive cops are part of the Red Chain?”

  “I don’t know. I need to get more information. My instincts say no. Maybe they were coerced. But right now, neither the Justice Department nor Capitol Police are looking for a Red Chain connection. That could be key.”

  Breyer weighs this over. “If I let you look into this, how do you propose to find that connection? Capitol Police isn’t being super cooperative right now.”

  “I have a contact in Metro who knows some officers in Capitol Police. She might be willing to work with me if I can make it clear there’s a scapegoat here other than her fellow cops.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Vigil

  My sense of dread builds as I move toward the center of the protests. It’s one thing to see them on the news, but it’s something else entirely to be on the ground.

  Beyond the abandoned barricades, I see more shattered windows, more graffiti. A vandalized BMW is still spewing black smoke toward the night sky as its interior smolders. People walk past, indifferent to the wreckage. Occasionally someone picks up a rock or a bottle and tries to smash any remaining glass. There’s no sound of a fire truck within miles. Authorities have given up trying to respond unless a building is burning.

  Three young men with shaved heads, black denim jackets, and angry expressions almost collide with me as I walk down the street. There are a lot of scowling faces around tonight. If Ailes knew where I was right now, he’d kill me himself. But for me to understand what happened during the shooting, I have to get a look at where it took place.

  This neighborhood near the White House has become a no-go zone for uniformed cops, and those who do venture into the vicinity are subject to a barrage of insults, rocks, and worse. A consulate worker from the German embassy was attacked, almost killed, when someone announced to the mob that he was an undercover officer. But there’s definitely a police presence here. I can spot undercover law enforcement a mile away, watching and only discreetly intervening when absolutely necessary. When violence does flare, backup units in riot gear can scatter the crowds with tear gas. But they keep flooding back in even larger numbers.

  Those who are in this for the long haul have erected tents on sidewalks. I spot a group of college-age kids camping in a burned-out Starbucks. Convenience markets are being looted for toilet paper and food. Concrete barriers and portable fences have been put up around the Treasury, Senate, and Congress buildings, and a line of civilian volunteers at the Castle has been pleading with people to leave the Smithsonian’s museums alone. So far, that seems to be the one line nobody is trying to cross. There are reports that curators have been putting the most precious artifacts in their basement vaults and barricading the doors.

  Outsiders watching all this on television news keep asking why they don’t just arrest everyone. Pundits have to point out that there are five hundred people to every police officer. Beyond that problem is the question of where to house them. On the police scanner I listened to on my way here, I overheard chatter about prepping Nationals Park as a holding facility. Attempts to shut down the entire DC metro area have been met with several problems, both legal and practical. Civil rights attorneys from all over the country have filed petitions with the courts to allow the protests to continue.

  Part of the problem is that this isn’t just a bunch of millennial barbarians storming the gates. A number live and work in Washington themselves, so it’s a protest, at least partially, from within. Whether it’s based on genuine grievances, or just locals’ desire to be part of the scene, I’m not quite sure. But I’d wager that 90 percent of the people here could give a damn about some greater cause. There’s a lot of laughing as they move toward the White House, like they’re on their way to a concert. They’re here because they feel a sense
of self-worth by instagramming and Facebook updating that they were part of whatever this is.

  Within the crowds, fleet-footed journalists try to do standup interviews with iPhones to avoid calling too much attention to themselves. There have been several instances of assault on reporters, and of million-dollar news trucks being firebombed and tipped over.

  The safest places for them to cover the story are from helicopters and the rooftops of secured buildings. The lights of at least five choppers are visible overhead: far enough away not to call attention to themselves, but close enough so they can use advanced optics to follow individuals in the sea of humanity.

  “Where you going, white girl?” someone calls out from behind me.

  My hand goes to my waist. I’ve got my sidearm in a quick-draw position, and a can of mace in my pocket. And my side still aches from two days ago, when I last let someone get too close.

  I steal a glance over my shoulder and do a double-take. It’s Detective Aileen Lewis in street clothes. Emphasis on street. Her hair is tucked under a knit cap. She’s wearing a gold jacket, and as much makeup as a showgirl.

  She sizes me up. “You look like a Georgetown postdoc doing fieldwork. The blond wig and glasses are a good touch, though.”

  “You still spotted me.” I get a nervous thought about what would happen if someone recognized me here who I didn’t want to see me. I took all the right precautions, but . . .

  “True. One, you told me where to meet you. Two, you’re the only girl other than myself dumb enough to be alone out here.”

  Like me, she’s out here unofficially. Her dedication is admirable—and borderline suicidal. Which sounds familiar.

  We walk toward the White House keeping the conversation light, in case anyone is listening. Groups of people are going around trying to sniff out anyone they think doesn’t belong. In some cases, they’re getting women to scream for help to see who comes running with a gun drawn.

  The tactics being used to ferret out the police make me suspicious. College protests and other riots are never this strategic, and undercover cops rarely have difficulty infiltrating them. Here, it’s more like a counterintelligence agency is pulling the strings.