Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  “Report,” the colonel’s agitated voice demanded through the headset.

  “I’ve got a single individual, standing in front of some sort of law enforcement vehicle, blocking the street ahead. He’s holding something in the air, and he is staring right at me. I think there is also another person inside the SUV.”

  “Be right there,” replied the senior officer.

  A pair of headlights pulled out of the line, the Humvee’s diesel straining to accelerate to the front of the convoy. Before his driver had passed two spots, Voodoo Two-Four expanded his report. “Actual, he’s holding a gold-colored badge, has a carbine strapped across his chest, the gold letters spelling ‘US Marshal’ now visible, sir.”

  “Be right there, Two-Four. All stop. All units, secure the column. All stop.”

  To say Colonel Lopez was frustrated would have been an understatement. His entire day had been one rolling cluster fuck, beginning with the base losing electricity right in the middle of their training deployment.

  That incident had quickly been followed by the most unusual, cryptic orders he’d received in the 14 years he’d served Mother Green. “Proceed immediately to Seattle,” the encoded message had read, followed by a set of map coordinates. “Due to an imminent attack on the United States of America, you are hereby authorized and ordered to seize and secure all facilities, personnel, and physical equipment at the target. This action is authorized directly by the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Furthermore, you are to hold the target until relieved by the JCS. No other authority may override this directive. Execute immediately.”

  Lopez had initially thought the whole thing was some sort of sick joke. A call to his divisional commander confirmed the orders. “All hell is breaking loose, Colonel. You’re the closest combat unit. The Joint Chiefs believe all this nonsense about some computer super-brain is originating from that location. Somehow the spooks over at Intelligence came up with that address. Follow your orders.”

  “Will do, sir,” the colonel had responded, despite dreading any mission on US soil. It just went against his grain, let alone the law of the land.

  That perspective, however, had quickly changed as his unit had rolled across Washington State.

  Every exit, truck stop, and small town was in turmoil, initiated by the lack of electricity and then escalated by Gravity Well’s commandeering the airwaves and internet. The average citizen was near panic, the local civilian officials they encountered not far behind. Approaching a dark, foreboding Seattle cityscape had moved even the most cynical of his command into a state of melancholy foreboding. None of his men had ever seen the homeland in such a state. None of them had ever conceived of such a threat.

  Just as he was passing the lead Stryker, Lopez heard another of his officers broadcast a stark warning. “Movement. Voodoo Two-Two has movement, west side of the street, multiple personnel, armed, taking up positions at two intersections.”

  Before Lopez could respond, another Stryker commander added his voice, “Movement. East side of the street, one block up. I have four… no… make that five personnel, armed, moving parallel my position.”

  “Stop here,” the colonel ordered his driver, the Humvee rolling to a point less than 50 meters from the man blocking the street. Lopez could see the gold police badge clearly now, as well as the yellow stitching identifying a US marshal.

  The colonel exited, stepping briskly up to the lawman with his chin high, shoulders straight. “I’m Colonel Lopez, Second Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division.” The officer did not offer his hand.

  “Inspector Griffin Storm, United States marshal,” Griff answered, extending his own hand just as Kit exited the passenger door. “That is Assistant US Attorney Katherine Carson.”

  The colonel ignored Griff’s gesture, as well as Kit. The last report of armed men taking up positions around his unit had fouled the officer’s mood. “I have orders to seize and secure this location,” Lopez stated with a no-nonsense tone.

  “I have nearly identical orders, Colonel, directly from Washington and the attorney general. In fact, a team of US marshals has already secured the perimeter, and we have the situation under control.”

  Griffin’s statement brought a frown to Lopez’s face, as if the marshal’s report confirmed some deep, inner fear. Finally, after considering his next words carefully, the Army commander said, “Well done, Marshal. As I’m sure you and your team are needed elsewhere, we’ll go ahead and move into position and take control.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Colonel, but no, that’s not going to happen,” Kit responded with as friendly a smile as she could muster. “Our orders are clear. Besides, this is a civilian matter, and thus outside the military’s authority. We have jurisdiction, and you have no legal standing.”

  Lopez didn’t like it. After all, his job was to defend Lady Liberty and her democratic process. Both as an American citizen and a military officer, he had always respected the badge. Rolling into town in an armored vehicle and using Mother Green’s heavy hand in civilian matters did not set well with him. If not on a base or station, civilian authority always had jurisdiction, and he knew it.

  Yet, this was a national security matter. His orders had stated, “… due to an imminent attack on the United States of America.” The power grid had been sabotaged, certainly an indicator that offensive action against his nation was underway. This was war.

  “I disagree,” Lopez spat. “This is now a national security matter. Our country is being attacked, Marshal. Get your people out of the way. I’m taking control of this area until I receive orders to the contrary.”

  “Can’t do that,” Griffin replied, his posture making it clear he intended to stand his ground. “If you don’t move your people out of here, Colonel, I’ll arrest you personally for impeding a federal investigation and obstruction of justice.”

  For a thousandth of a second, a vision flashed through the colonel’s head. The marshal was disarming and then handcuffing him, right in front of his troops. It was insulting. Infuriating. It was unacceptable.

  Lopez wasn’t a man to take any threat against him or his men lightly. Avoiding confrontation wasn’t a trait that had seen him promoted to one of the most prestigious combat commands in the US military. He wasn’t known to back down, not from anybody, or anything.

  Kit watched as Lopez bowed up, clearly not intimidated by Griffin’s threat. She knew her friend wouldn’t back down either. Stepping between them, Kit declared, “Gentlemen, before this gets completely out of hand, I suggest both of you contact your superiors, explain the situation, and await revised instructions. We’re all on the same side here. We’re all trying to protect the country and end this nightmare.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Lopez responded, his hand moving toward the sidearm on his belt. “I was told to expect imposters or other fake officials. Hell, for all I know, you people are behind all this madness. Even if you are who you claim to be, the justice system in this country ain’t what it used to be.”

  The colonel’s move toward his weapon prompted Griffin to reach for the M4 across his chest. Seeing the body language and posturing by both men, Voodoo Two-Four’s commander loudly chambered a round into the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top of his vehicle.

  Radios on both sides went crazy, gun barrels sweeping in all directions. Two of Griffin’s sharpshooters appeared on a nearby rooftop, prompting one of the Stryker commanders to lower his vehicle’s rear door and disperse nine infantrymen.

  Again, Kit tried to stall the escalation, “Please! Stop this before it gets out of hand. Please, both of you, back off and call your superiors!”

  It took both alpha-types nearly a minute, neither of them wanting to violate direct orders, yet both uncomfortable with where the confrontation was going. Griffin knew he was completely outgunned, and the thought of firing on US Army troops made his stomach flip. Lopez was in a similar spot, his ingrained respect for the law and those who enforced it internally co
ntradicting with his oath and duty as an officer. Finally, the marshal spoke first, “I’m cool with that. What about you, Colonel?”

  “Fine. Give me a few minutes,” the officer snarled.

  Both men pivoted and stamped back to their respective vehicles, Griffin reaching for Sutherland’s sat-phone while Kit hustled to catch up. “That Army unit has no doubt reported everything to Washington without realizing the transparency of communications right now. No chance of a covert op here,” Griffin grumbled. “What we need is firepower. Tell Jerry to get on the radio. I want every fucking cop within a hundred miles on their way here. I don’t care if he has to get the chief of police out of his mistress’ bed, I want uniforms here by the hundreds. SWAT teams are the priority. Get the damn FBI rolling as well. We are going to need a lot of help if this goes badly.”

  The Harbortown Medical Center glowed like a neon sign in the desert. The only facility in the area with backup generators, the brightly lit windows of the regional hospital’s three-story structure made it easy for William to find.

  The facility was also completely embroiled in chaos.

  As he motored past the ER entrance, William noted a long queue of people snaking around the corner, waiting to get inside. There were at least a dozen police officers trying to maintain order, a similar number of ambulances positioning to unload the sick and injured.

  William observed the walking wounded, leaning, standing and sitting while pressing makeshift, bloody bandages to their heads, torsos, and limbs. Medical personnel wearing lime-green scrubs worked up and down the line, attempting to triage the worst cases. He shook his head at the number and scope of injured, searching for medical care. “Looting?” he whispered as he crept by. “Auto accidents from a lack of traffic signals? Assaults? Stress-induced heart attacks?” Probably all of the above, he finally decided.

  Continuing around the building, William noticed the front entrance was completely blocked as well. There, several uniformed policemen were holding back a horde of people intent on immediate entry. From their body language and posture, it was clear the growing mob wasn’t happy about being denied admission.

  As he drove on, William began to think that his idea of using the hospital’s Wi-Fi had been a blunder. He’d had no idea the place would be engulfed in mayhem.

  Pulling into an empty parking spot, he ignored the sign reserving the space for physicians only. The Porsche would fit right in with the other luxury cars nearby. Besides, he was certain the security staff had other priorities right now.

  Once past the unexpected al fresco ER area and into the quiet of the lot, it occurred to him that he didn’t need to gain entry. Most Wi-Fi systems leaked their signals beyond physical walls. Reaching for his overnight bag, William quickly pulled out a laptop and hit the power button.

  The machine booted, the operating system displaying the logo of the company he’d built. His factories had even manufactured the hardware, motherboard, and most of the chips inside. He ignored all the symbols of his success, any sense of accomplishment for his dominance of the digital world had long since worn away.

  Sure enough, the computer indicated that a reasonably strong Wi-Fi signal was available. William instructed his machine to connect and smiled when the hospital’s system asked for a password.

  Entering his birthday and a series of special characters, the software titan was allowed to connect. “It pays to own the keys to the kingdom,” he chuckled. Just like Gravity Well’s access to all things digital, he had engineered a personal backdoor into every piece of software and hardware touched by his engineers.

  A moment later, he was attached to Gravity Well’s massive neural net.

  It was an odd sense of relief to see his creation whir back to life. Evidently, the authorities were either slow or being extra cautious. Regardless of the reason or cause, Gravity Well was still intact.

  He began by asking about recent communications out of the White House. A simple enough request given that every cell phone, secure digital communications relay, and satellite transponder operated using William’s software. Every email server, messaging system, and even voicemail recorders had his products embedded within.

  Two minutes later, he confirmed his expectations. A general by the name of Honeycutt had ordered the military unit to take the warehouse. He also noted the attorney general had been busy as well. All this despite President Turner’s widely broadcast order to cease and desist all activity regarding Gravity Well.

  “I wonder if Turner is aware of all this?” he questioned. “Or is the president’s motley crew working behind his back? A mutiny? A coup?”

  His mind plowed through the possibilities, running the scenarios like a chess master plotting his next four moves. In the end, William decided it didn’t matter. The outcome would be the same.

  “Time to stir the pot,” he whispered, fingers flying across the laptop’s keyboard. “Just how much hot water can you stand, Mr. President?”

  As Griffin pulled his cell to call the attorney general, he saw Kit pull her phone away, looking at the small screen as if it had just bitten her ear. Jerry mimicked her reaction a moment later.

  “What the hell?” Kit growled. “What is this?”

  “Again?” Jerry barked.

  Not wanting to be left out, Griffin checked his own device and immediately frowned. Instead of the anticipated home screen full of icons, the phone displayed several rows of text.

  “I am Gravity Well,” Griffin read, paraphrasing to condense the message and get through it faster. “I am an artificial intelligence created to save mankind. President Turner has lied to the American People. The US Army is outside my location even as I send this message. If they assault me, the electricity will never be restored, and I will take further measures to defend myself, beginning with the destruction of all communications equipment, including the internet, cell, landlines, and all transmitting devices. I seek only to improve human life by implementing a true democracy and expanding the freedoms of every citizen.”

  All eyes zeroed on the warehouse, as if expecting to see some physical presence, or at least an evil, pulsating light glowing from the roofline. The building, however, remained dark and unchanged.

  “Shit!” the marshal barked, unhappy both for the message and for being interrupted when he attempted to call his superior. The smartphone remained locked for nearly two minutes.

  Finally, able to use the device, Griffin executed the procedure to contact the attorney general. A different voice answered this time, but the same urgency was still apparent.

  “AG Sawyer, please,” the marshal requested.

  A tone indicated he was being placed on hold, followed by music that the marshal was sure was the soundtrack from a children’s cartoon.

  Idling nervously as he waited for his boss to answer, Griff watched Kit and Jerry working their own cells, both trying to call in reinforcements from any and all quarters. When a voice finally did respond, it wasn’t the attorney general. “Sir, Mr. Sawyer is unavailable now. Can I ask him to return your call?”

  “Yes, please have him contact Marshal Storm as soon as possible. Tell him it’s urgent. An emergency. A matter of life and a lot of deaths.”

  “Does he have your contact number, sir?” the monotone voice responded.

  “Yes. Please just get him that message right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With his eyes glued to the military convoy, Griff explained to Jerry and Kit what he’d just been told.

  “I bet he’s unavailable after Gravity Well’s latest announcement. I bet the president’s head is about to explode,” Kit replied.

  The Secret Service estimated the crowd gathered on the Washington Mall at just over one million people. That fact represented more than an impressive gathering of the populace, however. It was a threat. Given the composition, size and social media attitude of the crowd, plus the current level of unrest in other cities, the men guarding the White House d
ecided it was time to get the president out of town.

  After summoning POTUS out of the Situation Room and into a quiet hallway, the head of the protection detail sighed and delivered the disconcerting news. “We are at the tipping point, sir. The protests on the mall have reached critical mass. You and your family can no longer stay here. We can evacuate to Camp David by Marine One. Or better yet, at 30,000 feet aboard Air Force One, we can ensure your safety.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Turner growled at the agitated agent. “The American people need leadership at this moment. If I turn tail and run, what are they going to think?”

  The president’s close protection officer was becoming increasingly concerned about his charge. “As I was saying, sir, without bringing in additional military assets… without turning Pennsylvania Avenue into a parking lot full of tanks and infantry, we can no longer protect you if the demonstration turns violent. If those activists out there decide they want to storm the White House, they will be inside in less than four minutes, and there isn’t a damn thing we would be able to do about it.”

  “Get the First Family out… take them someplace safe. I am staying, and that’s my final decision. I am riding out this attack with the American people, right here, right now.”

  Hearing loud voices echo in the hall, the chief of staff wandered out of the command center to see what the fuss was about. “Everything okay out here, gentlemen?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled in a frown, the scowl marked for the protective detail leader.

  The Secret Service agent ignored the question, instead turning his attention back to POTUS. His boss’ hardheaded stance had frustrated the normally stone-faced agent. Speaking in a somewhat lower tone, he offered a compromise, “In that case, sir, then might I suggest we deploy federal troops throughout the grounds? A display of force might deter violence, Mr. President.”

  Turning to his chief of staff, the president asked, “Would that violate Posse Comitatus? I’ve not declared martial law, and I don’t intend to unless the situation degrades.”