Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Now this Gravity Well situation, Sawyer thought. If somebody doesn’t step up and take control, we’re going to lose the entire country to a bunch of eggheads and their digital creation.

  “Not on my watch,” Sawyer whispered, now more determined than ever to seize power and end the madness. Once more, he scrutinized the political brain trust around him, watchful for others of a like mind.

  His gaze returned to General Honeycutt. Are you thinking the same thing? the AG pondered. I should keep my eye on you.

  Flying over Seattle was unsettling for Griff… and not because of the open-air ride in the Blackhawk’s bay.

  The city should have been twinkling with a matrix of streetlights, headlights, and signage. Instead, the landscape below them was a black void, only the occasional automobile piercing the darkness. Evidently, word had gotten out, without traffic signals or electricity to pump gas, it was better to hunker down and stay off the roads.

  The two Blackhawks landed four blocks away from Gravity Well’s suspected den, Marshal Storm selecting the location as a compromise between the need to conceal their position and facilitating the speed of their assault.

  “Get inside as quickly as possible,” Sutherland had recommended. “If there are any operations staff in the building, they may have instructions to erase information if discovered.”

  “We don’t want that,” Kit added. “We need all the evidence we can get.”

  The JASON had also briefed them on what to expect. “You will see row after row of rack-mounted computer servers. There should be a control room or area to monitor the liquid cooling machinery, the electrical systems, the HVAC for air conditioning, and most important of all, the external connections to the internet. The latter is where you need to focus your efforts. It will appear like any software company work area, full of monitors and keyboards. If anyone is inside, this is where they’ll be stationed.”

  “What are the chances that someone is on duty?” a marshal had asked.

  “Normally, that much computer firepower would always have at least one person minding the store. Gravity Well, however, is unprecedented in its sophistication. Given the investment it would have taken to purchase and program a server farm of this magnitude, the entire operation might be automated or monitored remotely. It’s difficult to tell.”

  “So, we’re not going to find the masterminds behind this attack on location?” another lawman had asked.

  “No, most likely not,” Sutherland had responded. “What we should find is enough forensic evidence to identify those responsible. Log files, communication protocols, and even internet addresses can be dissected, evaluated and traced. There won’t be any smoking gun in that structure, but there should be enough evidence that we can chase down who is behind this.”

  They disembarked from the helicopters quickly, the marshals quickly forming three teams.

  The snipers, or designated marksmen, deployed first, hustling toward the two tallest structures near the warehouse. They would radio when in place.

  The remaining two groups then split, each moving to create a perimeter that would encompass the entire target.

  Four minutes later, breathing hard after a quick, three-block sprint while carrying full battle-rattle, Griffin had eyes on the warehouse. He was immediately relieved by the lack of vehicles in the small parking area directly to the north of the modest structure.

  “Sure doesn’t look like the headquarters of the greatest threat ever faced by the USA,” one of the marshals mumbled.

  “They’re hiding in plain sight,” someone else chuckled.

  Using the magnification from his weapon’s optic, Griff continued to study the structure. “Those are some serious doors,” he announced into the shoulder-mounted radio after spying the solid steel openings that appeared more like a bank vault than a warehouse’s entry.

  “Same on the south side,” a voice in his earpiece confirmed. “I recommend an explosive breach, Inspector. There’s no way we’re getting through there with a Halligan bar or a ram.”

  Griff didn’t like it, Kit’s words swirling inside the marshal’s head. “We need to preserve as much evidence as possible.” Setting off multiple strings of detonation cord might damage critical equipment inside, or worse yet, start a fire.

  “There must be another way in,” Griffin broadcast.

  “Digital locks and card readers on the doors,” the same voice proclaimed. “They look pretty sturdy. No chance to pick the locks.”

  “Sniper teams in position,” confirmed the team leader. “Looks like a typical warehouse rooftop. Nothing special up there except a satellite dish. No movement in the area.”

  “Can you punch out the cameras?” Griff questioned.

  “Roger that. We have one video unit on each corner.”

  “Blind them,” Griffin ordered. “I’ve got another idea for the breach, but I need to take a closer look. Take out their surveillance.”

  One block away, on the roof of a neighboring manufacturing facility, one of the marshals pulled an odd-looking rifle from his pack.

  Smaller than his primary weapon, it was an extremely accurate .22 caliber long gun with a sizable noise cancelation device attached to the barrel.

  After chambering a special, sub-sonic cartridge, the marksman then pulled a rangefinder from his vest and “lazed” the distance to the nearest camera.

  It was just over eighty yards to the wall-mounted video unit, the bug’s eye lens clearly visible – an easy shot, even with the slow, tiny bullet he would be using.

  Making no more noise than a man spitting, his weapon discharged.

  Everyone on that side of the building noticed the camera jerk, followed a moment later by the tinkling of glass as pieces of the shattered lens tumbled to the pavement below.

  Less than a minute later, all four of the surveillance cameras were down.

  Griffin then emerged from the shadows, his frame bent at the waist and darting for the nearest steel door blocking their entry. After a quick examination, the marshal double-timed it back to his hiding spot. “I’ve got an idea for the breach,” he broadcasted a moment later. “We need to wait for Team Omega to arrive, but I’m sure we can get inside without letting everyone on this side of Seattle know we’re here.”

  William had fallen into his own trap.

  When the electrical grid went down, the drawbridges around the Seattle area had automatically been raised, federal law giving priority to marine transportation. Given he had wanted to avoid the main traffic arteries on the way to Canada, William found himself having to take several unexpected detours. The lack of traffic signals and resulting snarls were making the journey exponentially more complicated.

  Twice he’d had to initiate an unscheduled turn to avoid emergency vehicles, the street ahead blocked by a sea of flashing police lights and fire trucks. He’d even watched the cops bring down a looter, the hapless crook rushing down the sidewalk carrying a huge flat screen television on his shoulders.

  He found himself not far from Gravity Well’s original location, a circumstance which made him extremely uncomfortable. Law enforcement would be descending on the complex at any time, and his physical proximity not only increased the odds that his escape would be thwarted, but it would also add to what he was sure was a growing mountain of evidence against him.

  Reaching over to gently pat the football, he avowed, “We’ll fix all that once we’re reestablished, and I can upload you. Until then, you’ll just have to trust my instincts and wit.”

  He was now heading northeast, trying to snake his way out of the city. Fellow refugees were sparse here, as was the population. And it had been at least three minutes since he’d seen a police car roaring to some emergency with its lightbar strobing and siren blaring. He was finally making some time.

  At first, William ignored the string of traffic beginning to trickle his way. His attention had been focused on his rearview mirror and avoiding the pitfalls of esc
aping a city in turmoil.

  But now the stream of travelers in the opposite direction was growing. His first reaction to the extended streak of vehicles venturing into Seattle was positive. If traffic was flowing toward him, that meant that the road ahead was open.

  As the approaching line of lights drew close, William had to brake hard and hug the shoulder. The lead truck, or whatever the hell it was, was driving right down the center of the two-lane load. “What the hell?” he barked, his palm flattening to press the Porsche’s horn.

  Upon closer inspection, he realized that it wasn’t a truck at all, but some sort of tank! This was a whole Army convoy!

  William’s eyes opened wide as the column of Stryker Combat vehicles passed, their massive guns pointing forward, each weapon manned by a soldier wearing a helmet and microphone.

  Interspersed among the huge 6-wheel units were Humvees, trucks, and other military hardware. The software executive stopped counting after 10 of the vehicles had passed.

  One set of headlights peeled off and headed directly toward the Porsche. With his heart rate soaring, William had to shield his eyes from the LEDs as the unit stopped directly in front of him.

  He observed the outline of someone trooping between his car and the military behemoth. A man in uniform moved beside the driver’s window.

  Hitting the button to lower the glass, William peered up at the face of a large man in combat fatigues and helmet. An eagle donned his lapel, a name above his left breast pocket.

  “You coming from Seattle?” the officer asked, the gentle voice not at all what William was expecting.

  “Yes… yes, I am.”

  “So, this road is clear? For how far? We’re coming in from Yakmia and have had one hell of a time tonight. Interstate 90 is blocked… completely unpassable. We’ve had to go cross country twice. What a mess,” the colonel complained, pointing toward a folded map in his hand.

  “I turned on this highway about twenty miles back,” William stuttered, his mind struggling to make conversation while gathering precious information. “Did the president declare martial law or something?”

  The officer, ignoring the question, held up his map, so it was visible in the passing headlights, “Twenty miles you say?”

  In the light, William noticed a red circle drawn on the paper, his gaze locking on the military unit’s destination. Gravity Well! exploded in his brain. They’re going after the warehouse.

  The colonel nodded and then, without another word, pivoted and made for his Humvee. He then paused and, over his shoulder, shouted, “Thank you, sir. And nice car, by the way.”

  William was again alone, his thoughts racing.

  “Why would the government send in the Army to capture a warehouse?” he mumbled to the Porsche as the last Stryker passed by. “Why so many guns and tanks?”

  He had expected the FBI, or the state police, or some other law enforcement agency to swoop in and seize the facility. But the Army? And with such a massive force?

  Other than a period of boyhood fascination with John Wayne movies, William didn’t know squat about military matters. He’d never served, nor been that closely associated with the defense industry. He did know enough about the Constitution to understand that the US Army couldn’t operate domestically without a declaration of martial law. Yet the officer at his window had avoided the question.

  Remaining beside the road, William switched on the high-performance sports car’s radio, quickly punching the buttons to scan for AM stations. He found only one, an Emergency Broadcast System frequency out of the Emerald City. They were playing a pre-recorded loop, basically asking all residents to shelter in place until the electrical grid could be restored and promising additional information as it became available. There was no mention of martial law.

  Reaching to shut off the worthless newscast, it dawned on William what was occurring. “The military wants to capture Gravity Well intact. They want to weaponize it.”

  His brilliant mind sorted through the possibilities at an amazing speed. In the wrong hands, his creation’s capability would indeed be a weapon of mass destruction. Gravity Well could order airplanes to drop their bombs on the wrong targets, could spread false information, could completely disrupt any chain of command. Hell, there were probably a thousand uses he couldn’t even fathom.

  He would have been horrified were it not for an unwavering conviction that Gravity Well’s security was impenetrable.

  No, William’s reaction to this latest turn of events was more akin to indignation than fear. “Now I know what it’s like for the father whose son just received a draft notice,” he whispered to the football. “I don’t want my child to go to war. Your purpose is to save the planet, not to kill and destroy.”

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, he watched the fading taillights of the convoy in the distance. He then turned to the football and announced, “What an opportunity! We can accelerate the timeline even further. We can use this development to our advantage.”

  Gravity Well had been instructed to shut down and erase its essence upon any unauthorized access. The programs that compromised the system’s core intelligence would be deleted if any one of several potential scenarios occurred, including physical entry into the warehouse, an outside hacker gaining entry via unknown means, or one of Sebastian’s team members going rogue. While the likelihood of such events was nearly impossible, William had insisted upon such safeguards.

  Doctor Mahajan’s excellent detective work might have uncovered Gravity Well’s physical location, but even his genius couldn’t penetrate the system’s multiple layers of protection. William had begun his exile without ordering his creation to shut down. Gravity Well was still running, still managing the plan, still mining the world’s data. It would do so until its safe haven was finally violated, and then it would commit digital suicide.

  “I need access to the internet,” he informed the football. “Together, we can strike the final blow and start rebuilding society in days, not months or years.”

  The challenge was identifying a location where he could shelter while he altered his plan. With the grid down, popping into the corner coffee shop and accessing their free Wi-Fi was out of the question. He pictured a nearby college campus, but their electricity would be down as well. He considered his own corporate offices with their emergency generator, but there was a good chance the authorities would have already infiltrated that entity. The same could be said of his home.

  “Who has an excellent connection to the web and a long-term power supply?” he asked the Porsche’s dash. Then, a eureka answer dawned on him, “A hospital!”

  His hand moved to the Porsche’s GPS-based navigation system. Punching the voice activation button, he instructed, “Navigate to the nearest hospital.”

  “Working,” the screen updated, followed a few seconds later by a route displaying on the console-mounted screen.

  “Let’s go cause some trouble,” William grinned at the football.

  Jerry and the Omega team arrived ten minutes behind schedule, their convoy of five black SUVs rolling onto the scene with emergency lights flashing.

  “What took you so long?” Griffin teased, already aware of the answer.

  “What a mess!” the frustrated marshal responded.

  Sutherland and Kit soon joined them at the lead vehicle as the rest of the marshals hustled to take up their assigned positions.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Jerry commented, scanning the warehouse with a small set of binoculars.

  Griffin explained the issue with the door. “If we blow it open, I’m afraid we’re going to damage critical equipment or evidence inside. There’s no time for a thermal breach. What I want to do is take one of the SUVs and push it in.”

  The local marshal frowned for a second, his eyes now closely examining the heavy, metal “bull bars,” installed around the Chevy’s front grill. “Damn. Never thought of that. What a devious mind you have, Marshal Stor
m. Are you sure it will work?”

  “It’s a proven method and isn’t a new concept at all. In Iraq, we used the Humvees as battering rams. A lot of homes there had metal security gates leading to their courtyards. If we blew them open, the blast would warn an unfriendly reception committee of our arrival. Pushing them open was quiet, quick, and didn’t give away our position,” Griffin stated.

  Nodding, Jerry produced the keys. “Ready when you are.”

  Before either man could move, their radio earpieces came alive. “I have movement,” announced one of the snipers. “Several vehicles headed this way. They’re… oh shit… they are military units. Strykers and Humvees.”

  Exchanging ‘what the hell’ glances, Griffin and Jerry both started to transmit at the same instant. “How many?”

  “At least a dozen. I can see the vehicle commanders riding up top. Their belt-fed weapons are loaded,” the sharpshooter reported.

  “Shit!” Griffin growled, snatching the keys from Jerry’s hands. “Get the men ready. We have authority here. This warehouse is ours.”

  “How do you know they weren’t sent here to help us?” Jerry asked.

  “I don’t,” Griffin responded as he jumped behind the wheel. Then, turning to Kit, he said, “Please explain to Jerry about the misdirection and deception our Gravity Well friends have used in the past. For all we know, that Army unit has been told we’re the bad guys.”

  Ignoring his request, Kit was already moving to hop into the passenger seat. “We’ll tell him later. I’m going with you,” she stated.

  The marshal started to argue, then shrugged. He’d known the lady fed long enough to see it would be a pointless undertaking, and besides, they didn’t have the time. Jerking the big Chevy into gear, Griff was off, racing to intercept the military convoy before it got too close.

  Chapter 18

  “Voodoo Actual,” the commander of the lead Stryker transmitted, “this is Voodoo Two-Four… you better get up here, sir.”