by Joe Nobody
The acceleration protocol required instilling a sense of fear in the population, as well as the leadership in Washington. He could think of no better method of accomplishing that requirement than making Gravity Well appear as some sort of undefeatable intelligence straight out of a science fiction thriller.
He strolled calmly through his home, casually wondering how long it would be before he would be back. A thought then caused him to chuckle, a vision of himself, standing in the driveway, wielding a corn cob pipe, spouting General Douglas MacArthur’s famous line, “… I shall return.”
Outside three identical VIP SUVs waited, a thin fog of exhaust vapor clinging to the chilly Peugeot Sound air.
Fully aware that the authorities would be heavy-handed with anyone associated with his escape, William approached the three drivers huddled nearby. “Your services won’t be needed after all, gentlemen,” he smiled. “Thank you for coming out at such an awful hour.”
He watched as all three men nodded and then climbed into their respective “limos.” He would make sure the hired service tipped them well.
As the three sets of brake lights headed for the weighty gate that secured his driveway, William picked up his cases and strolled for the 14-car garage that housed his private collection. He was in the mood for the Porsche this evening, his favorite vehicle of them all.
The pristine 911 Turbo was the German automaker’s fastest production car, boasting a glass-smooth 538-horsepower engine, all-wheel drive, and a top end that easily exceeded 200 mph.
William had fallen in love with the “Stuttgart Stud” the moment he’d first laid eyes on its slate-grey exterior. It, like him, wasn’t notable or sexy on the outside. Porsche had used the same classic “bathtub” body style that had defined the brand’s lineage for over 50 years. Only an enthusiast could tell the difference between this model and the thousands of other 911s that plied the streets. The interior, however, just like its master, was a completely different story.
Setting the two containers on the passenger’s side, William wove the seatbelt around Gravity Well’s case like a new father buckling in his newborn for the first time. He then fired the powerful engine and watched as the dashboard gauges sprang to life. The tank was full, his staff, as always, performing their duties well.
One of William’s few complaints about being the world’s wealthiest man was that he rarely had the opportunity to drive. He had always been a gearhead, his only brushes with the law resulting in an extensive rap sheet of speeding tickets.
“This outlaw business isn’t all bad,” he grinned, gripping the leather-wrapped gearshift and depressing the clutch.
At the street, he watched the taillights of the three limos turn south toward downtown Seattle. William turned the opposite direction. Gravity Well had predicted that air travel would be impossible once he’d accelerated the plan, so his private jet housed at King County Airport wasn’t an option.
“No matter,” he grinned, the Porsche’s confidence seeming to energize its driver’s core. “I can be in Vancouver in less than two hours.”
Glancing at his watch, he continued his mental countdown. “In twenty-eight minutes, the most potent attack in the history of mankind will be unleashed. It would be fun to see the look on the faces of those egotistical bastards in Washington.”
Stuffed into the back of the police cruiser, Griff and Kit were drawn to the windows as the two-car convoy rolled for the San Jose airport. Sutherland sat up front, next to the officer.
People were outside, some idling on the sidewalks and talking to neighbors, others walking with purpose toward some unknown destination. It was the body language that struck Griffin and Kit.
There was a tension in the air, every face tempered with stress and agitation. Movements were quick and direct, shoulders pinned back, legs spaced for confrontation, flight or fight. Huddles of humanity gathered on practically every street corner, passing police cars receiving several harsh glances and even a few hostile stare-downs.
“I was just a kid when the Loma Prieta earthquake hit in ‘89. We were all revved up to watch the World Series game when the house started shaking,” the sergeant began from the front seat. “We all ventured outside to see if we could spot any damaged structures, and we could see smoke from a fire in the city. The reaction tonight reminds me of that quake’s aftermath. None of us knew what was happening; people were frightened… worried about family, friends... the future. That anxiety tends to bring out the worst in our citizens.”
“Just curious,” Sutherland said. “What drove people to go outside? Why did you feel the need to leave your home?”
The cop had to think about his answer for a second. “I suppose it was the lack of input… of information. The electricity was off, and I remember my dad heading to his car in the driveway and switching on the radio. He became very anxious after finding nothing but static. No one knew how bad the situation was, how many people were hurt, how long we would be without power. Mom was worried about the food in the fridge, my brother scared shitless of the aftershocks. I was happy that school would probably be canceled. It was crazy.”
The discussion’s topic reminded Griff of the need to call the AG with their findings. After making eye contact with Kit and the JASON, he said, “Should we let the boss know what Mahajan found?”
“Just the address,” Sutherland responded.
Kit, nodding her agreement, added, “We don’t have enough proof to report anything additional. At least not at this time.”
Griffin understood her meaning. If there was ever an inquiry… an investigation, they had an excuse for not sharing everything with their superiors. The marshal was sure his friend Jerry wouldn’t talk unless things got bad, in which case, it probably wouldn’t matter.
Reaching for Sutherland’s phone, Griffin called the number used by the attorney general. The call was answered on the second ring, “Situation Room Operator.”
“Marshal Storm for AG Sawyer, please,” Griff replied.
“Hold one moment.”
It was several minutes before the AG’s voice came on the line. “Marshal, your report please.”
“Sir, our efforts have determined an unusual center of activity. Given that we are convinced that all communications have been compromised, and are being monitored, I don’t feel that it’s wise to discuss any details, if you get my meaning,” Griffin reported, hoping the AG was smarter than he appeared on television. “In addition, my team is on our way to the airport.”
“Yes, I understand and agree with your concerns. Good work, Inspector. The plane will pick you up in the next 10 minutes. Once you’ve landed, contact me directly, and I’ll provide additional instructions at that time.”
After receiving directions on where to board the plane, the call was disconnected.
For a moment, Griffin wondered if he’d made the right move by keeping Foster’s name out of his report. On the surface, at best, it was gross negligence, dereliction of duty, and obstruction of a federal investigation. At worst, it was treason.
Yet, the marshal didn’t feel any sense of remorse or guilt, and that bothered him deeply.
He had lost faith.
Throughout his entire, professional career, Griffin had operated on one, central, core belief. The American justice system was the pillar of righteousness, a safe harbor of good in a swirling gale of evil. For over 200 years, it had encouraged democracy and freedom. It was the courts that protected free enterprise, kept negative elements at bay, and allowed the United States to prosper.
Sure, the system wasn’t perfect. Any organization created by man was automatically bound to be flawed. Griffin had seen his fair share of questionable activities. He’d witnessed the release of dangerous criminals without punishment, been present when judges had been corrupted, and watched helplessly as the Constitution had been badly interpreted. Those situations, however, were the exception.
Despite all that, he was still convinced tha
t Lady Liberty represented the best system ever devised by mankind. As the great Winston Churchill once said, “Democracy is the worst form of government except for all those others that have been tried.” Griffin believed the same could be said of American justice.
There was more to the inspector’s perspective than pure and simple patriotism or lifelong indoctrination. He’d seen other systems in the Middle East, and he could clearly understand the differences. Throughout much of the world, a prison sentence meant death, no matter how minor the offense. Due process was indeed a revolutionary concept when created by the Founding Fathers. Trial by a jury of the accused’s peers was a massive leap forward in the evolution of justice.
The last few years, however, had changed the marshal. Now, Griffin wasn’t so sure. Elements of those inferior systems were creeping into the DOJ and eroding his confidence. He could see the shadows of corruption, manipulation, and political influence darkening his beloved island of fairness and equality.
By the time they pulled into a restricted area of the San Jose airport, Griff had justified his withholding of information to his superiors. He no longer trusted Washington, and instead believed that the system had been tainted in a manner never seen before. Whether by Gravity Well’s code or by human hands, corruption had surely occurred. How didn’t really matter. Marshal Griffin Storm had sworn an oath to protect society and uphold the Constitution of the United States. It was a worthy promise, and he felt strongly that his current path was the best option to satisfy that commitment.
“We’ll be taking off in five minutes,” the Air Force pilot informed his new passengers. “Flight time to the Seattle area is one hour and forty-two minutes with this aircraft. Please take a seat and buckle up; we expect some turbulence along the way.”
“Buckle up,” Griff grunted to Kit. “There’s turbulence along the way. Our pilot is very prophetic this evening.”
To say that the White House Situation Room was in turmoil would have been an understatement. According to Attorney General Sawyer, “hierarchical chaos,” would have been a more appropriate term.
Sitting at the far end of the main conference table, the AG quietly studied President Turner with the eye of a man who had been a US senator, federal prosecutor, and long-time Washington power broker. It was the chief executive’s first test in dealing with a national crisis, and what a crisis it was. A thin, barely noticeable thread of pity wove its way through Sawyer’s scrutiny. Welcome to Washington, Mr. President.
A swirling tempest of activity surrounded the commander-in-chief. Staff members, many clad in the dress uniforms of America’s armed forces, hustled here and there. High-ranking military officers were as thick as flies at a picnic.
Every wall contained a series of flat screen monitors, some displaying the national news media, others tied into the numerous government agencies responding to the current threat.
At the moment, the president was engaged with the image of a nervous, grey-haired man on one of the screens. Given the branded logo on the man’s polo shirt and the dark circles under the gentleman’s eyes, Sawyer guessed Turner was speaking with an executive of New York Edison Power and Light.
“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” POTUS barked.
“Mr. President, I’ve had my best people on this for hours. Every piece of equipment with a computer chip is malfunctioning. And in New York City alone, that equates to thousands of devices,” the utility company executive explained.
“Can you replace the faulty equipment?”
“There aren’t enough spares anywhere in the world to replace them all, and even the few we have managed to swap out failed almost immediately. My best engineer is convinced that both the hardware and software have been corrupted. He believes every motherboard made in the last ten years has the same encrypted issues.”
A man in civilian clothing sitting next to the president spoke for the first time, “Have you tried restoring the operating systems and BIOS?”
The image on the monitor nodded, “Yes, sir, multiple times, and without any effect. We are certain that this issue came from the factory, that every electronic device with a computer chip is equally compromised.”
“So, there’s nothing you can do to restore the grid?” the president asked, his resolve seeming to fade.
“Our best plan, as of this moment, is to replace our existing equipment with old-school, analog devices. Our people have concluded that every incidence of silicone on a motherboard represents potential for a fatal flaw, and they want all of it out of the system. That means reverting to 1960’s technology, and to be honest, there’s not a lot of that lying around.”
“And how long will that take?” the civilian inquired, skepticism thick in his tone.
“At least 10 years,” the executive sighed. “Right now, we are searching warehouses and storage facilities for archaic, non-digital inventory. Our hope is to use anything we have in storage to route power to a manufacturing facility and have them initiate the building of more replacement parts. We’re working around the clock, and I’m praying hard that someone will come up with a better solution.”
“This will all be over in 10 weeks, not 10 years,” the civilian snapped to Turner as an aide disconnected the call. “Looting in the large metropolitan areas is at an all-time high. Grocery stores are down to the bare shelves. When the fuel for backup generators is consumed, all hell will break loose. When the food runs out, the streets will be rivers of blood.”
AG Sawyer had heard similar, dire predictions for the last two hours. So far, the president had been briefed by the FBI, NSA, CIA, military intelligence, and a host of other agencies and departments. All had told the same story. The world ran on computer chips and electricity, and right now, every circuit imprinted in silicone was most likely under someone else’s control.
To make matters worse, the problem stemmed far deeper than just the electrical grid. Everything from drinking water to food delivery, including the military’s advanced weapons systems, was at risk if Gravity Well opted to ramp up its game. The message that had flashed on every screen in the country demonstrated its perilous reach.
Sawyer realized that whoever was behind this attack didn’t need to lift another finger. Without electricity, the nation would cease to exist in days, not months.
The Pentagon was nearly helpless. Their mission was to defend the US from external threats and to protect American interests around the world. The Army could repel any invader, the Air Force more than capable of controlling any airspace. Yet, they couldn’t fight something they couldn’t see, let alone address a foe that was so deeply embedded in their own equipment, bases, command systems, and communications. Every tank, aircraft, ship, and logistical supply unit was chockfull of computer chips.
While Sawyer had never been a military man, he fully grasped the ramifications.
Gravity Well was a super-weapon, an offensive device that had hamstrung the most powerful military on earth in a matter of hours… and would bring America to her knees in days.
Such power, he thought. Whoever controls it is invincible.
Before the AG could continue his thoughts, a raised voice from the president’s end of the table announced, “Sir, it’s communicating again.”
Every monitor in the room flashed pure white, followed by the appearance of simple, black text. It read, “I am Gravity Well, an artificial intelligence created by a consortium of the world’s brightest minds. My purpose is to eliminate risk by analyzing all available information and then creating solutions. After processing 590,137 yottabytes of data, I have concluded that, on its current course, mankind will face extinction in less than twenty-four years. Every government in existence will cease to function within twelve years. In the next decade alone, over three billion deaths will be attributed to famine, war, disease, natural disaster, and social unrest. Allowing the demise of mankind violates my charter.”
“I have identified a course correction that wi
ll preserve your species. It involves a series of steps beginning with the United States of America and will eventually require the cooperation of every nation. If my instructions are adopted, your casualty rates will be reduced by nearly 85 percent, and the species’ continued survival will be ensured. Stop your actions against me, and I will restore the electrical grid. Implement this plan, and I will reveal methods to reduce your casualties. If you do not cease and desist, I will be forced to take drastic measures. To demonstrate my ability, all communications will terminate for the next five minutes.”
The message remained on the Situation Room’s monitors long enough for even the slowest reader to finish, and the screens turned to grey, crackling static.
“We’re down!” someone yelled from a nearby workstation. “All cell towers have ceased functioning. The internet and cable television stations have stopped broadcasting. Even the birds in low orbit have gone dark.”
“All of our satellite communications have been interrupted,” one of the Air Force officers stated from the AG’s left. “Digital broadcast equipment has been impacted. We can no longer connect with our forces.”
“Ours as well,” an Army colonel seated nearby reported.
Sawyer scanned the room, his lawyer’s mind categorizing reactions like a trial attorney reading a jury. Many of the military officers were impressed, a few showing outright fear. President Turner was angry, his chief of staff terrorized.
I’m envious, the AG thought. Cold, unemotional, logic utilized to wield crippling capabilities. It’s not impacted by morals, sentiments, loyalties, or any of mankind’s inherent weaknesses. Ruthless. Merciless. Unrelenting. Beautiful.
It seemed an eternity before the promised five minutes passed. Then, one by one, communication systems were restored. “Cell towers up and down the Eastern Seaboard now functioning. All primary internet nodes responding as well,” an aide announced.
