by Joe Nobody
“Because Washington, DC isn’t a state, the rules are a little fuzzy. Plus, there is precedent for exceptions being made during times of national emergency. For example, Bush allocated military resources to supplement the DC police after 9-11, and no one raised a big stink. After all, our law enforcement personnel had their hands full when the Twin Towers fell. Just like then, I think you’re in the clear since the local authorities are unable to guarantee they can keep the peace.”
Rubbing his chin, the commander-in-chief pondered the agent’s request. “Okay, bring in as much military presence as you need. One condition, however. I want the Supreme Court and Capitol Hill fully protected. Allocate the forces equally. Everyone needs to be secured; I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to turn this great democracy into a dictatorship.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pivoting to rejoin his advisors, the chief executive almost crashed headfirst into a frantic aide hurrying down the hall. “It’s sent another message, sir,” the breathless admin advised, handing Turner a single sheet of paper.
A grimace darkened the president’s face as he read Gravity Well’s communication. “What the hell?” he muttered, turning to show the chief of staff the message.
“What is an Army unit doing in Seattle?” Turner growled. “That goes against my direct orders! Somebody, please tell me what is going on!”
With his deputy in tow, the president stormed into the Situation Room, his face red with rage. He was like a missile, homing in on General Honeycutt. With a stabbing finger, he barked, “Why is there an Army unit in play here, General?”
“I’m not certain, Mr. President,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs replied. “We’re looking into it, sir, but my guess is that either your order didn’t filter down through all the channels in time, or there is no military unit in play. This could all be some sort of psychological warfare… pure propaganda to incite the general population.”
“It’s working,” announced the Secretary of Homeland Security. “Our people embedded inside the mall protest are reporting in. They’re seeing an increase in the crowd’s agitation level after Gravity Well’s most recent message. Social media activity is off the charts, most of it negative.”
“The governor of California just announced that his state is seceding from the union, sir,” added a frantic staffer. “He’s asking that Gravity Well return electrical power to the new, Independent Republic of California, claiming that they are no longer associated with the United States of America.”
Before the president could react, an aide monitoring a bank of screens along the far wall delivered another blow. “Sir, the mayor of Philadelphia is reporting that all of the city’s water pumps are failing. He claims that the backup generators have exhausted the fuel supply, and he is advising citizens to secure other sources of water.”
Staggered by the barrage of events, Turner headed for his seat on unsteady legs. “Someone get the president some water,” the chief of staff ordered, seeing his boss’ pale skin.
At the far end of the table, AG Sawyer observed the developing situation with fascination, his mind still locked on Gravity Well’s message. Why General Honeycutt, you old Army mule, he thought. Your people figured out where all this is coming from as well. ‘Orders didn’t filter down,’ my ass. You want this thing for yourself.
As Griffin and Kit waited for Sawyer to call them back, a frantic voice called from down the street. “Marshal Storm! Marshal Storm!” Sutherland shouted hysterically as he jogged toward their position.
Holding up his hands to slow the JASON down, Griff answered, “Hold on, hold on. What’s wrong?”
“That message,” Sutherland panted. “That last message… it wasn’t from a computer. It wasn’t generated by any sort of program or artificial intelligence. It came from a human being.”
“What are you saying?” Kit responded, her eyes again flashing to the nearby warehouse.
“That message contained grammatical errors. A computer wouldn’t have made those mistakes, especially one with Gravity Well’s level of sophistication. A human is still in the loop… is still in the driver’s seat.”
“You think that someone is behind the curtain, directing all this activity? That this modernized ‘Wizard of Oz’ is inside the warehouse?” Griffin asked.
“I doubt it,” Sutherland replied. “The puppeteer could be anywhere with an internet connection.”
“The colonel is on his way back over here,” Jerry interrupted.
Griffin nodded and stepped toward the officer, Kit hot on his heels. When they were still a few feet apart, the marshal said, “I bet you had the same result that I did. I’m waiting on a call back from Washington. Let me guess; the Joint Chiefs are with the president?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was told,” Lopez replied. “Now what?”
“To be honest, Colonel, I’m not sure what to do. You and I have been given orders, and both our asses could be in the soup if we violate them. On the other hand, having a massive firefight right here and now doesn’t seem like a promising career path for either of us,” Griff sighed.
“No offense, Marshal Storm, but it wouldn’t be much of a fight. We’ve got you a little outgunned,” Lopez chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at the dozen armored vehicles idling in the street.
“That’s no shit, sir,” Griff grinned. Then nodding toward the screech of sirens in the distance, he added, “At least for a bit. Reinforcements have been called in. But I have to ask you, how comfortable are you with all this, Colonel?”
The Army commander didn’t seem all that worried about Griff’s cavalry. What clearly did concern him was Gravity Well’s last message, and he said as much. “Even if you weren’t here, Marshal, I would now hesitate to enter that structure. I’m trained to win force-on-force engagements, to take territory and hold it, and to deny or destroy the enemy’s assets. Whatever is inside that building is a whole new ballgame, and my men and I are not qualified or equipped to take down a threat like it. I don’t want to be the man who goes down in history as having single-handedly destroyed the United States of America.”
“How about we join forces?” Kit offered.
“Huh?” Lopez frowned. “I’m not sure how that would….”
“We could agree to hold this location together. A joint task force, if you get my drift… at least until our superiors call us back and issue a clarification of our orders,” Griffin suggested.
“Beats blood running through the streets,” Kit added.
The colonel considered the offer, his shoulders finally shrugging in agreement. “Okay, but only until I hear from the Pentagon.”
“Fair enough,” Griffin agreed, extending his hand to seal the deal. “Now, we were just discussing that last message from Gravity Well. We have an expert along, and he was relaying something I think is important.”
Kit motioned for the JASON to join the powwow, introducing the new arrival as Professor Sutherland.
“You believe that the computer’s last message wasn’t from a computer at all?” Storm asked.
“That’s correct. I’m absolutely positive that someone is feeding Gravity Well the text that it is disseminating,” the old man repeated.
“Any clue who might be behind this?” Lopez asked.
“We think it might be a local man by the name of William Foster,” Griffin offered. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him; he has more money than God, and he is the founder of the world’s largest software company.”
Frowning, the military officer shook his head. “I’ve heard the name… I think… but I don’t really keep up on that sort of thing. Sorry, but I’ve been a little busy with two wars the last 10 years or so.”
Sutherland flipped around his tablet computer and showed Lopez an image of William, as if it might help his memory.
“Let me see that,” Lopez said, reaching for the JASON’s display. “I just saw that guy… about twenty miles up the road. I stopped an
d talked to him, wanting to check and see if the route here was clear.”
Kit and Griffin exchanged a hopeful glance. “He was driving? He was in a car?”
“Yeah, and one hell of a car at that. It was a spotless Porsche 911 Turbo, slate grey. I’ve lusted after one of those for years, but it’s not the sort of thing a man can afford on a colonel’s salary.”
“Was he traveling alone?” the marshal asked, his heart rate now increasing.
“Yeah, I’m sure he was by himself. That’s not a very big car.”
“He’s heading for Canada,” Kit concluded.
“He won’t get far,” Sutherland interjected, pointing at the news feed on his tablet. “The Canadians have closed the border. Too many Americans trying to escape.”
Griffin was already reaching for the microphone strapped to his shoulder, “Get those birds spinning up. I need two teams in the air, ASAP,” the marshal ordered.
“What’s going on?” Jerry shouted, jogging toward the gathering.
Marshal Storm explained the situation quickly, sparking another idea. “I’ll put out an APB on Foster’s Porsche,” Jerry added.
“I would suggest that you not approach him,” Sutherland interjected. “If he’s controlling Gravity Well, he might get desperate and order it to take some sort of extreme action.”
“Oh, that’s great,” Griffin barked. “Just great! We’re trying to apprehend a man with his finger on the doomsday button. Wonderful.”
“Do you really think he can message the US population’s computers and mobile devices from his car?” Kit asked, trying to digest it all.
“No, probably not,” the JASON replied. “My guess is that he’s accessing some source of Wi-Fi. Probably a public portal, one that typically has a lot of users.”
“We can include a ‘Do not approach,’ order with the APB,” Jerry nodded. “At least we would have hundreds of police eyes looking for him.”
“What if he’s monitoring police communications? What if he knows we’re on his trail?” Kit asked.
“He’s not going to do anything else right now,” Griffin said. “He won’t destroy the power grid, and he’s not going to permanently shut down communications. That’s a bluff.”
“How do you know that?” Sutherland asked.
“Because he needs to get his message out. All along, we’ve been asking ourselves why someone was meddling with the courts and manipulating the media. Kit and I must have posed the question, ‘To what end? What is the motive?’ a dozen times during this entire episode. I don’t think he’ll pull the trigger, at least not on anything that causes permanent damage.”
Lopez whistled, “That’s a mighty big assumption you’re making, Marshal. If you’re wrong….”
William’s attention was divided, the stress inside the Porsche as intense as the technology titan had ever experienced.
Between concentrating on Gravity Well’s interface with his laptop and minding the growing mob of injured and law enforcement at the hospital, he was beginning to regret having chosen the location to expedite his agenda.
Drawn like moths to the facility’s lights, he spotted droves of civilians streaming from all directions. Some were obviously wounded, either bleeding outright, limping, or covered with some sort of bloody bandage. The majority, however, appeared to be okay – at least physically.
With all entrances still blocked by the authorities, groups of 15-25 people began mulling and wandering around the parking lot. William could sense the setting was a powder keg, the body language and facial expressions a dangerous concoction of terror and anger.
Twice, someone had tapped on the Porsche’s window, an unfamiliar face peering in and asking if William were a doctor. “No,” he replied. “I’m waiting for my sister. She’s a nurse.”
A grey-haired lady took offense at William’s response, pointing her bony finger at the “Doctors Only” sign. “The police will ticket you for parking here, young man,” she warned.
For the most part, the meandering throng ignored the Porsche, as did the cops. Obviously too busy to worry about reserved parking spaces, William had noted at least a dozen more officers arriving to reinforce the entrances. The burgeoning ranks of those who sought admission threatened to overwhelm those who were working to maintain order. It was only a matter of time before the situation degraded into violence and chaos. He could sense it just simmering under the surface, and for a moment, he wondered if the rest of the country were in the same place.
“Concentrate, William! Concentrate,” he chided himself. “You need to finish this and get on the road.” Executing a series of computer commands, his fingers danced across the keyboard. He paused only when the hospital’s Wi-Fi struggled, encumbered by the overwhelmingly high internet demand. The computer genius hesitated, waiting for the software to execute his orders. It was as if the page load indicator were waving a white flag, the program spinning its wheels rather than zipping down the information highway. William sighed, frustrated with the near dial-up speed of the hospital Wi-Fi. Still, the computer seemed to groan under the weight of his request.
He glanced outside to gauge the stability of the crowd. Finally checking his rearview mirror, movement drew William’s attention. A car approached him from behind, inching along at a snail’s pace. Seconds later, his blood pressure soared when the lights and emblem of a Washington State Trooper became visible.
“Just what are you doing back there?” William hissed, his hand drifting toward the Porsche’s gearshift. “Why are you creeping along so slowly, Officer?”
Now perpendicular to the Porsche, the cruiser idled directly beyond William’s license plate. The billionaire was trapped, pinned in on all sides. He couldn’t pull forward, a red Mercedes sedan blocking his exit. There was no way his Porsche could push the state trooper out of the way. For all his endless analysis, his elaborate schemes, his calculated safeguards and his multitude of contingency plans, he had to ask, “Is this how it ends? Some flatfoot stumbles upon me in a parking lot?” his trigger finger idling over his keyboard. “I have hostages,” he taunted, poised to engage the button that would lead to the destruction of the civilized world. “Walk away, Mr. Meter Maid. Best leave me alone.”
The patrol car did just that, continuing past the row of parked vehicles as if nothing were wrong. William exhaled instantly, trying to regroup and corral the fear surging through his core.
“Wait,” William whispered, “These guys are smarter than that. That cop saw me and is probably radioing for backup. He knows my location. I’m not out of the woods yet. Shit!” his mind shrieked.
Pivoting his gaze all around, William tried to relocate the cruising trooper. The officer was nowhere to be seen. “Either he is distracted by the burgeoning mob,” he mumbled, “or he is watching me from afar while he regroups.”
Almost immediately, his eyes zeroed in on a guy marching toward the Porsche, and for the second time in just a few seconds, William thought the gig was up. The approaching fellow carried a leather messenger bag, a jacket hanging from the crook of his arm. His hair was a mop, dark circles under swollen, red eyes. He was heading right at William, wearing the zombie-like expression of a thoroughly exhausted man.
Again, William’s overtaxed cardio system got a break. The stranger stopped at the Mercedes, fishing for his car keys while setting his jacket and case on the roof.
No sooner than the keys appeared in the gentleman’s palm, did the jingle of a cell phone cut through the air. Exasperated, the fellow’s hand dove for his pocket, producing the offending mobile with a jerk. “What?” he snapped after answering the call.
William watched as the man unlocked the Mercedes, his attention now on the phone at his ear. “I told you,” he snapped into the cell, “I’ve been on for three straight, fucking shifts. I’m making mistakes. I’m going to screw up and kill somebody. Besides that, my wife and kids are going nuts with worry. I must go home and sleep. I’ll be back.”
The gent then climbed into the sleek sedan, leaving his leather folio and jacket on the roof. William started to roll down his window, thinking to warn the guy. Then another idea popped into his head.
The German V8 roared to life, simultaneously waking its brights. Instantly, the Porsche’s cabin area was bathed in intense light causing William to shield his eyes and look away. The spicy red car backed out in a rush, the driver clearly irritated and determined to escape.
William watched as the forgotten case and coat slid over the rear window, flopped off the trunk lid, and tumbled in a heap on the pavement. He hopped out of the Porsche and retrieved the items a moment later.
“Dr. Phillipe Belienski,” William read, “Department of Anesthesia.”
Studying the badge further, William’s mind raced with the opportunities the plastic nametag afforded. After all, the harried physician’s appearance wasn’t all that much different from his own. “Caucasian, middle-aged, unruly hair, glasses. This might work.”
The lab coat could seal the deal, he mused, fingering the hospital’s logo embroidered over the breast pocket. “The cops are going to be too busy to closely check identification. I could get inside with this,” he decided.
For a moment, William considered bolting. After all, the Porsche was “Oh-my-God” fast and came equipped with a state of the art GPS system. He had just topped off the tank, so he could comfortably drive east into Idaho and identify a remote crossing into Canada. He had stuffed enough cash in his suitcase to hire a hunting guide who could escort him across the border if that became necessary.
He quickly realized there were so many holes in his plan that such a course would be pure folly.
First and foremost, he wouldn’t have access to Gravity Well. Most likely, the Army would try and breach the warehouse, and that would cause his creation to end its own life. Recreating his brainchild would time that he didn’t have. Meanwhile, the power grid would remain down, and the government wouldn’t be able to control the slide into anarchy. Within 10 days, the USA would cease to exist in its present form.
