Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  America’s allies would soon collapse as well. European financial markets would crash, as would many in the Pacific Rim. Without Big Brother’s military might to back them up, several regional “friends” would find themselves in China’s or Russia’s sights. Even those two global powers wouldn’t be able to survive the failure of the world’s largest economy, however. Within a year, a dozen hotspots around the globe would erupt into shooting wars. Israel and South Korea would be screwed, Japan not far behind. Germany would employ her economic might to consolidate the continent, resurrecting old fears and creating havoc. The downfall would be inevitable, not even Gravity Well’s aptitude able to reverse the final outcome.

  No, William needed to continue to steer his creation. It was essential that his steady hand remain at the rudder, maintaining the façade of an artificial intelligence that could keep Washington off balance, guessing. He was certain the Komitet needed only a few more hours… as long as he could keep the pressure on Washington’s bureaucracy. The other side would capitulate; they would have no choice.

  Returning to his laptop, William chuckled at his next task. “Time to reconnoiter the hospital. I need to look like a seasoned employee once I am allowed admittance. Now isn’t the time to appear lost or confused.”

  Opening his browser, he began his information gathering. In less than five minutes, he had acquired detailed maps, one obtained from the fire marshal’s office, another from the hospital’s own website. He had accessed the building’s alarm system, digital intercom hardware, and even the backup electrical grid.

  He paid special attention to the entrance that was less than a hundred yards from the lot where he was working. Once inside, his first critical test would be navigating the doctor’s lounge without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. The physicians had their own locker room, gym, lunchroom, and even a coffee bar. “Nice digs,” he whispered, studying what was essentially a recruiting brochure created by the facility’s administration to lure new talent.

  Turning off the Porsche’s idling engine, William quickly gathered his belongings. Entering the hospital was the right move. He would find a nice, cozy, quiet place to hide. It would buy him enough time to finish this phase of the plan. There was food, water, security, electricity, and Wi-Fi here. He’d gotten lucky that the state trooper had passed him on by. The next time, his good fortune might not hold out.

  Chapter 19

  “Got him!” Jerry announced, returning his cell phone to a jacket pocket. “Foster is less than 25 miles away, or at least a guy sitting in his Porsche is.”

  Kit and Griffin perked at the news, both eager for more details.

  “State law enforcement spotted his car sitting in a hospital parking lot,” the local marshal continued. “The engine was running, a single occupant behind the wheel. The vehicle is registered to one Mr. William Foster.”

  Jerry unfolded his map, spreading it on the hood of the nearest SUV. “The Harbortown Medical Complex is here,” the marshal explained, jabbing at the paper with his index finger. “I’ve actually spent a little time there before,” he explained, rubbing his bicep as he recalled a previous injury and the resulting emergency surgery. “It has quite an impressive footprint and is surrounded by several other buildings, including offices, labs, a surgical center and the typical support structure for a massive healthcare facility. The main hospital is situated in the center.”

  “That’s it?” Kit frowned. “That’s all we got?”

  “The officer couldn’t get any closer without potentially spooking the guy. The cruiser is parked at the lot’s nearest exit where the trooper can keep an eye on Foster at a distance. If the vehicle moves, he will follow the Porsche as discreetly as possible and keep us posted.”

  The neurons in Carson’s brain were rapid-firing, as she analyzed the information given her. “Okay, but tell me,” she continued, her perplexed expression clear that she was working on the puzzle, “what is he doing there? Does he have a girlfriend who works at the hospital? Is he getting therapy for carpal tunnel? ‘Cause I bet he’s not there for the cafeteria cuisine.”

  “He’s using their Wi-Fi to control Gravity Well,” Sutherland offered. “Smart. Very smart.”

  Kit was now working her own computer, pulling up images and information. “The hospital is all over social media… they have electrical power, at least for now… accepting emergency admissions only… level one trauma unit still operational... police asking that people avoid the facility unless there is an emergency.”

  Kit glanced at Griffin, noting an immediate change in her friend’s demeanor. She’d seen it before.

  Gone was the controlled exterior of a man comfortable with his position in life. She had often described his presence as having “calm authority,” the marshal projecting a persona of discipline and of a man who knew his limits. “He’s an old soul,” she had once told a friend. “He has the wisdom and experience of an 80-year-old man inside. It’s like he knows what is coming, like he’s seen it all before.”

  The discovery of Foster’s location initiated a change in Griff that was unmistakable. The peaceful and stoic demeanor vanished. It was like she was looking at a completely different person.

  Griff’s weight had now shifted forward, resting on the balls of his feet. The marshal’s shoulders were combat-ready, almost as if they were craving a brawl. His eyes narrowed in concentration, his head moving in quick, snappy motions as if all his senses had become hyperactive. The hunter had emerged. He smelled prey, was closing in on the kill.

  “Okay,” Griffin began. “I want Kit, Sutherland, and three marshals in a Blackhawk with me. Jerry, you stay here and keep things under control. There’s no telling who is going to come looking to take control of that warehouse. Work with Colonel Lopez, and don’t let anyone near the place.”

  “And if the AG calls?” Jerry asked.

  “I would use my own judgment,” Griffin answered truthfully. “But… if it were me… the man would have to make one hell of a case for me to enter that building.”

  “Or start a barfight with the Army,” Jerry answered with a nod.

  Jerry and the marshals weren’t the only ones who heard the state trooper’s report.

  Sitting on the street outside of William’s mansion, Sebastian listened with interest as one of his contractors relayed what he’d just heard over the police airwaves.

  “Let’s go,” the arms dealer ordered after learning William’s reported location. “We will take him at the hospital.”

  The two rented delivery trucks pulled away, Sebastian informing the armed men in the cargo holds to prepare for action in a half an hour. Then, glancing at the driver, he smiled for the first time since landing in Seattle. “Sixty minutes, gentlemen. That’s all we need. We’ll wrap this operation up in less than an hour,” he promised. “After that, we’ll head to the harbor. Our freighter is waiting at Pier 22.”

  “Nice,” the brawny man behind the wheel grinned. “Neat and clean. But then again, I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you, ‘Grey Eyes.’”

  Normally, Sebastian wouldn’t have tolerated such an informal, familiar reference. Were it not for the fact that he had worked with the man beside him for over 25 years, a curt reprimand would have been issued for the first offense, a 9mm slug for the second.

  The driver was Cuban, a former commander of Castro’s most proficient death squad. When he had successfully eliminated all the dictator’s political enemies, he decided to take an early retirement. Abandoning Havana with little more than the clothes on his back, he boarded a freighter under the guise of darkness and said good-bye to his homeland. Rumor had it that the entrenched dictator didn’t want to leave any witnesses to his past atrocities. Thus, the need for emergency travel plans.

  He and a handful of his best men had worked for Sebastian on a number of occasions. More than just a dependable gun, the driver was known for his common sense and mental discipline under pressure. Just the t
emperament required by an arms dealer who wished to maintain a low profile.

  In fact, many believed the Cubans made perfect mercenaries. They were well-trained, ruthless, and without the moral garbage so often associated with warriors from western cultures.

  Castro had freely engaged his military in Africa and South America for decades, resulting in legions of battle-hardened warriors who had proven themselves capable and willing. Native to an impoverished nation and accustomed to harsh conditions, they were willing recruits. They were reputed to be a loyal bunch – if the money was delivered as promised.

  In addition to the Cubans, Sebastian had gathered a few additional contractors with a dozen phone calls. After taking off from Santa Domingo, he’d made a fast stop in Nassau, another in Miami, and finally, a quick turnaround in Fayetteville. All easy work for his Cessna Citation X, its near Mach cruising speed eating up the nautical miles quickly.

  Most of the men riding in the cargo area were former Special Forces for one country or another. All had served as private contractors in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other world hotspots. Sebastian had a Rolodex of such men, many of them having fallen on hard times since the end of America’s grand spending spree in Baghdad and downsized footprint in Kabul.

  Two of his best contacts had answered his call on the West Coast. Those he had taxed with renting the trucks and acquiring other equipment that might be vital for a simple snatch and grab. One such retained item was a digital police scanner.

  After landing outside Seattle, Sebastian had given his new team 30 minutes to acclimate, distribute gear, and load up. William’s mansion was their initial objective.

  When a search of the property had turned up empty, Sebastian was only mildly disappointed. He hadn’t really expected Mr. Foster to conveniently wait for him at his primary residence. Even a computer nerd had more street smarts than that.

  Still, the Seattle manor was on the way to the warehouse and worth a chance.

  Sebastian’s optimism evaporated quickly after Gravity Well’s last communication. A US Army unit outside of the warehouse’s location? That information had given Sebastian pause. It was one thing to take on a billionaire’s personal security team, quite another to start a firefight with a military unit.

  But the situation was far more complicated than that.

  When the scanner had informed him of US marshals requesting backup at the warehouse’s address, Sebastian had been confused. Why did the marshals need reinforcements if the Army was already there? Had some sort of civil war broken out? Didn’t the American left hand know what the right was doing?

  Thirty years of dealing weapons to the most violent, unpredictable people in the world had tainted Sebastian’s outlook. His mind immediately shifted to what it knew best – strife and the seizing of power.

  “Somebody in Washington wants Gravity Well for themselves, and I don’t think it’s the president,” he observed to the driver. “Besides, if they try to enter that warehouse without knowing the code, they will capture nothing but empty memory banks and erased storage.”

  Sebastian knew more than he should have. During his time of employ with the Komitet, he had used Gravity Well’s unbelievable capability to answer a few of his own questions – to poke around a bit.

  It had been child’s play to identify the members of the Komitet, as well as the location and setup of the hardware’s physical facility. The neural net had just as easily predicted who would win the World Cup, as well as the price of several internationally traded commodities. In four days alone, Sebastian had made a fortune in silver, aluminum and coffee, all at the expense of a London-based bookie who would no longer accept his calls.

  He was just about to order his small force to a staging area near the warehouse when the all-points bulletin had been issued. “The Americans aren’t so stupid after all,” he’d commented to the driver. “It seems that they know who holds the keys to their kingdom. Lucky for me, my team is already in the area.”

  Sebastian knew about the football as well, but he didn’t mention the backup copy of Gravity Well’s essence to his people. He could only trust these men so far, and he wouldn’t put it beyond their intellect to realize what a powerful tool the computer system had become.

  They will know soon enough, he grinned as the truck raced for Harbortown Medical Complex.

  A thought then occurred to the Komitet’s former henchman. Quickly opening his laptop, Sebastian typed a three-sentence email. “Meet me at the Harbortown Medical Complex. Immediately,” it read, followed by a brief description of the trucks. The Fuse might be helpful given the circumstances.

  Not wanting to risk the state trooper’s return with several law enforcement sharpshooters, William exited the Porsche and headed for the “Staff Only,” private entrance.

  He first encountered an unguarded, locked, metal door with a keycard reader mounted on the frame. Holding his breath, he swiped the recovered badge and exhaled when the distinctive click broke the silence.

  He entered a long, poorly lit hall, a single uniformed guard sitting behind a plain desk at the far end. The man was playing with his cell phone.

  Steadying himself, William squared his shoulders, adjusted his backpack, squeezed the football tightly, and began the short journey. A quick nod at the guard, another swipe of his card, and he was inside the hospital. Several deep breaths later, his heart began to slow.

  The light was brighter here, the walls painted a tranquil color of grey. He spotted lockers, a card table, and a doorway marked, “Men’s Showers,” right next to its twin for the ladies. He could smell coffee, and for a moment, considered pouring himself a cup.

  He continued, recalling the diagram of the facility he’d found online. The basement area contained the building’s heating and air conditioning, storage, and facility maintenance. Just like his high school, the janitor’s workplace was below ground. “Probably right next to the boiler,” he grinned.

  Pushing through a swinging, double door, William entered a whole new world. Here, people were walking, pushing carts, and studying documents. The din included stressed voices, as well as serious, hushed conversations. An intercom paged Doctor So-and-so, announced codes, and advised that Harbortown was a non-smoking facility. As he journeyed further into the bowels of the building, the noise level continued to increase.

  Nurses and aides in multi-colored scrubs rushed here and there, often having to circumvent family members and coworkers travelling in the opposite direction. He noticed a patient being pushed on a cart, another rolling along in a wheelchair. Someone was mopping the floor right next to two doctors discussing a skull fracture. It was a busy place, the air charged by the life and death events occurring inside.

  Finally, he reached a stairway. Throwing a quick glance left and right, just to make sure he wasn’t garnering unwanted attention, William slipped through the door.

  The stairwell was a quiet sanctuary, offering relief for his frayed nerves. He stepped down, his footfalls on the metal steps sounding like gunshots in a tight space.

  He approached another door, this one painted machine-grey and of substantially more girth. “Authorized Personnel Only,” the red and white sign declared. He tried the handle, only to find it locked. There was no card reader.

  “Shit,” William barked, glancing back at the staircase with dread. Every second he was exposed increased the odds of someone figuring out he didn’t belong here. While the chaos of the main floor had allowed him to get this far, there was no guarantee that his luck would hold.

  Hungry, tired, scared, and frustrated, William took a seat on the bottom step. “This is no different than a hostile business meeting, a national television interview, or fighting off the government’s anti-trust attorneys. You can do this. You’re smart, successful. And let’s not forget that you always win. Get it together, man. The stakes have never been higher.”

  Sebastian’s trucks arrived at a chaotic scene, at least three thousand people gathered
in Harbortown’s parking lot. Some complained of the normal aches and pains that filled the ER, the area’s viruses and bacteria unaffected by the events occurring on humanity’s larger stage. Another smaller segment suffered from physical injury, either due to the spike in automobile accidents or from activities associated with looting and social unrest.

  Most, however, were simply scared or curious. There really wasn’t anything else to do – anywhere else to go. Without electrical power, the options for the average citizen were limited.

  “The police are agitated and panicky,” Sebastian observed from the edge of the parking lot. He could see the officers manning the barricaded front door through his binoculars, and it was clear they were on edge.

  “Given the size of that crowd, I’m surprised the building hasn’t been stormed yet,” noted the Cuban. “Seattle must be as full of pacifists as they say.”

  “No one is hungry yet or going through opioid withdrawal. Maslow’s basic needs aren’t in play. Plus, there are no flat-screen televisions, cigarettes, or liquor inside.”

  “Maybe they’ll rush the doors when they need to recharge their cell phones,” the driver chuckled.

  Sebastian didn’t think the comment was funny. “Mobile devices are the lifelines keeping people connected for the moment. When they lose their charge, or the towers go down, you’ll see social agitation begin to escalate. Right now, these folks are recharging their smartphones using automobiles. When the gasoline is gone, tempers will definitely flare for a variety of reasons.”

  Uninterested in his boss’ social dissection, the Cuban returned to the obvious issue. “So, how do we locate the target?”

  “We find his car first. The police report stated he was sitting in his Porsche. This will be simple if he is still there. If not, then we’ll have to enter and search the building. That will be far, far, more complex.”

  Pulling on the truck’s gearshift, the Cuban circled the outer ring of the parking lot, searching for the slate-grey German machine.