At home, Josie stared at her husband while he stared at the ATM receipt.
“Holy shit,” he said finally, but she didn’t buy the act.
“You’re not surprised.”
“Of course I’m surprised.”
She’d always been good at reading people, but as a journalist, she’d honed that skill. With all the interviews she’d conducted over the years, she’d developed a nose for insincerity.
“No, you’re not. Tell me why.”
He closed his eyes for a beat as if trying to muster the patience to talk to an irrational child—a mannerism she’d not noticed from him before. “I’m not surprised because these sorts of things happen all the time.”
“Wait, what?” she said, eyeing him with an incredulous stare. “What sort of things happen all the time? Because I can assure you that this is the first and only time that I’ve checked my bank balance and had fourteen million dollars in the account—the only fucking time, Michael. So please, tell me, what ‘sorts of things’ are you referring to?”
“Accounting errors,” he said. “I don’t care what the ATM says; it’s not our money, Josie. I hope you aren’t harboring some fantasy they’re going to let us keep it.”
He made a good point. It certainly wasn’t their money, yet she had the documentation to prove that their account was $14 million richer.
“Don’t worry,” he said, patting her on the forehead—another new and condescending behavior. “I’m sure everything will sort itself out by tomorrow, and we can go back to being poor.”
“So you’re saying your plan is to do nothing?”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“Don’t you want to know why fourteen million dollars suddenly showed up in our savings account? Don’t you want to know how it got there and where it came from?” she said, putting her hands on her hips.
“Nope.”
For the first time in a long time, Josie Pitcher was at a loss for words. Her husband’s response to this situation was so antithetical to hers that she could neither comprehend nor relate to it. Solving mysteries like this was the reason why she had pursued a career in investigative journalism. Curiosity was a pillar of her being—the pilot light in her soul. Apparently her husband’s pilot light was out. Or maybe it had never been lit. Or better yet, she thought, basking in the glow of epiphany, maybe this is a fundamental difference between journalists and soldiers. In Michael’s mind, this was an accounting error—an error that would quickly be remedied by the culpable institution. It didn’t matter what kind of accounting error, nor did it matter where the money came from. The millions of dollars that had magically appeared in their joint savings account wasn’t their money. Period. They wouldn’t be allowed to keep it, so why ask why? Soldiers weren’t supposed to ask why; they weren’t supposed to question. Soldiers were supposed to accept their orders as truth in fact.
Soldiers were supposed to march.
But the flutter in her stomach wouldn’t go away because, despite his soldier’s training, the old Michael, the Michael from before the deployment, wouldn’t have behaved this way. The old Michael, her Michael, would have cracked open two beers and had her toasting their millionaire status—even if the windfall was illegitimate, fleeting, and entirely nonsensical. Where was that Michael? The one with a zest for life and a sense of humor as broad as his shoulders.
“Look, babe,” he said at last, “I know you probably think this is some big conspiracy that you need to expose, but the truth is, this is nothing but a glitch with the ATM. I’m sure if you call the bank, they’ll tell you the same thing.”
“Oh, I can do one better than that,” she said, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him toward her Honda Civic. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Go where?” he asked, resisting her.
“To the bank. We’re going to sit down with the branch manager and get to the bottom of this right now.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he asked.
“No,” she said. Then, gesturing emphatically at the car, she added, “Get in.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting opposite Fred Wilfrey, the manager of Northern Credit Union’s Watertown branch. While the manager perused a three-page computer printout recently delivered by his assistant, Josie fought to keep her fidgeting to a minimum. The waiting was torture—pure, unadulterated torture. Becoming an instant millionaire was a tantalizing charade . . . wasn’t it?
It was a glitch.
No one would transfer fourteen million dollars into our account unless . . . What if a rich relative died and gifted the money to one of us in a will? No, that’s completely absurd. Nobody on Mom’s or Dad’s side of the family is rich. Maybe someone on Michael’s side is rich? A long-lost uncle, perhaps? A favorite grandmother who secretly won the lottery and never told a soul? Don’t be ridiculous. It has to be a glitch.
Finally the manager looked up and said, “From everything I see here, there is no accounting error or computer glitch associated with your account. The funds in your savings account are legitimate. They were received today via wire transfer from an account at Charles Schwab Corporation’s brokerage firm.”
“Can you tell who the account belongs to?” Michael asked, talking for the first time since they’d arrived.
The branch manager looked down at the paper in his hand. “The signatory for the originating account is listed as one Mr. Jeremy Wayne.”
Mouth agape, Josie turned to Michael, but his steely gaze was fixed on Wilfrey, as if the man had just revealed top-secret information.
“May I have a copy of the wire transfer paperwork?” Michael asked.
Wilfrey collated the pages in a tidy stack and handed them across the table. “Of course. Take this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilfrey. You’ve been very helpful,” Michael said, abruptly standing.
“My pleasure,” said the branch manager. “And let me offer my personal gratitude for banking with Northern. If there is anything we can do to assist you with broadening your portfolio of holdings here at the bank, please don’t hesitate to ask for me by name.”
Dazed, Josie floated out of the office, out of the lobby, and toward the driver’s side of her Civic. She felt intoxicated. They were millionaires. Millionaires! She fumbled with her keys to unlock the door, but before she could, a powerful hand grabbed her wrist.
“Understand, Josie,” Michael said, staring down at her, “that we can’t talk about this to anyone.”
“But the bank manager said it wasn’t an accounting error,” she said, taken aback. “It’s our money, Michael. We’re millionaires . . . for real.”
“We’re not millionaires,” he growled.
“And why not?”
“Because Jeremy Wayne was not a millionaire. It was not his money to transfer.”
“How do you know?” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Huh, how do you know he doesn’t come from a wealthy Tennessee family? People say Sam Walton used to wear grubby overalls and drive a beat-up pickup truck when he went out shopping. Nobody ever suspected he was a billionaire. Maybe it’s the same with Jeremy.”
“It’s not. Trust me. You need to let this go.”
She tried to shake her wrist free from his grip, but his fingers were like an iron clamp. “Ow, stop it, Michael,” she said, looking up at him.
The scowl on his face made him almost unrecognizable to her.
“Let go. You’re hurting me.”
He let go. She quickly climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. She debated driving off and leaving him standing there in the parking lot, but the loyal wife in her waited for him to climb into the passenger seat.
She started the engine, pulled out of the parking slip, and piloted her Civic onto the road.
“Where are you going?” he asked, staring at her.
“To the barracks . . . to talk to Jeremy.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really,” she said, her jaw set. “I’m goin
g to get to the bottom of this mystery—with or without your help.”
CHAPTER 29
1429 Local Time
Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility (SCIF)
The Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
Thank you, sir. May I have another?
That’s the mantra that was playing in Legend’s head while General Troy ripped him a new asshole in the SCIF. The list of Legend’s offenses and incompetencies was long, colorful, and not open for debate. This was because the General had an insurmountable ally on his side, one that Legend could not vanquish on his very best day—hindsight.
“Worst of all, the weapon could be anywhere. Anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard by now, and we have absolutely no means to find it. What do you have to say about that, Major?”
Thank you, sir. May I have another?
Legend almost slipped and actually said it but caught himself. Instead, he said, “Right now, General, the best we can do is hope that the half dozen analysts I’ve tasked to review satellite and street-camera footage can reconstruct what happened from the time the white van left WD to now.”
This was a pipe dream, and they all knew it, but it was the only pipe dream they had. It was possible that one of the satellites monitoring the homeland would have recorded the getaway. Possible, but unlikely. The General waved the comment away like it was a buzzing mosquito.
“That’s horse pucky and you know it,” Troy said and finally stopped pacing and took a seat at the table.
Neither of them said anything for a very long time.
Legend’s thoughts went to Beth, and he wondered how she was doing today. He’d called her early this morning to check in and tell her what had happened last night, but she’d not answered. He left her a voice mail and texted her, asking her to call him back, but so far his request had gone unbidden.
Finally it was General Troy who broke the silent armistice. “Truth be told, I can’t say I would have done things much different than you did,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You had it locked down in the BRIG for Christ’s sake. I can’t think of a more secure off-the-grid facility equipped with comms and monitoring equipment. How the hell could you have known that some little metal basketball could take control of both machines and human minds?”
Legend knew better than to start talking; agreeing with the General and bolstering the case for his own blamelessness was the worst possible thing he could do. Silent accord was the only respectable course of action.
“Best to put these mistakes behind us and move forward with a plan to find and recapture the weapon and our people.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Kane asked for assistance, I put you in charge of this damn operation because you’re one of the smartest young officers I’ve ever met,” Troy said, fixing his blue-gray eyes on Legend. “Now, show me how smart you are by telling me everything you’re thinking—everything you’ve held back because of politics, self-preservation instincts, and fear of retribution. Lay it all on the table, Major.”
Legend sat up a little straighter in his chair. This was the General Troy he’d come to admire and respect. This was the General Troy who had made him the head of Unit 231 and given him enough rope to hang himself. He’d tied the noose, and the orb had slipped it around his neck. Now he needed to cut the rope before the orb kicked the stool out from under him. He took a deep breath. He’d lay it all out for the General—every idea, fear, theory, and brainstorm he’d had.
“General, have you ever heard of something called zombie-ant fungus?” Legend asked.
The General flashed him an irritated look. “Is that some B-grade movie on the Syfy channel? I think I saw my son watching it right after Sharknado.”
“Good guess, sir, but no. Just bear with me while I tell you a short story. I promise there is a point to all of this.”
Legend filled Troy in on the conversation he’d had with Malcolm Madden on the drive from the airport. “What if the orb is like the zombie-ant fungus? What if this thing has the ability to take control of the people it comes in contact with and use them to carry out its agenda?”
As the words flowed from his lips, Legend realized that this was the first time he’d fully articulated this theory. It had been cooking in his mind, solidifying and rising like a soufflé in the oven, but he’d not taken it out fully baked until this moment. The implications were more worrisome than he’d contemplated before. A mental image of Harris standing behind the orb after proudly delivering Malcolm and Cyril to his new master popped into Legend’s mind. What about Beth? And Patrick Dixon? Were they too under the orb’s influence? If so, what were their instructions?
“So you’re saying you think this object is using some variant of the zombie fungus to infect and control our people?” the General asked.
“Not exactly,” Legend replied. “Instead of a biological parasite, I think what we’ve discovered is a technological one. Before he was kidnapped, Dr. Madden was testing a theory that the orb could be using a technique called transcranial magnetic stimulation to influence and induce electrical activity in the brain. I started researching the topic, and TMS is real. It’s being widely experimented with as a psychiatric therapy for depression and other disorders. At Duke University, a scientist has used TMS in animal experiments. He used rats in Brazil to send control signals to rats in the US via internet connection. The US rats’ behavior was overwritten and controlled by the rats in Brazil.”
“But can this work on people?” Troy asked.
“I watched a video of a researcher at Washington University thinking about moving his hand, and then another dude sitting in a chair in a different building across campus had his hand start moving. This stuff is real, General, and it appears we’ve even helped fund the research. Duke has a DARPA grant . . . but the thing to keep in mind is that the types of movements and control scientists are capable of performing is limited. The science is still in its infancy. For TMS to work, the subjects have to wear complicated headgear in a lab and be hooked up with brain-monitoring equipment. What the orb accomplished by generating and manipulating magnetic fields in the vicinity around it is, well, simply unprecedented. The energy and processing power required to execute something like that is decades away.”
“Decades away for our scientists,” Troy said. “But maybe we need to consider the possibility this object has an extraterrestrial origin. Let’s say you want to take over a planet with an indigenous population of biological, sentient creatures. Let’s say you have some parameters for your objective: number one, you don’t want to risk even a single alien life by engaging in a military conflict; number two, you don’t want to decimate the indigenous fauna and flora; number three, you’d love to have cheap, convenient, capable slave labor. So you make one of these little probes, you drop it off on the planet surface, and you wait for it to be found. When it is, you zombify every sentient creature that crosses paths with it to begin executing a preprogrammed takeover plan.”
Legend stared at the General. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d been percolating far-out theories. “So, to summarize our two hypotheses, either this object is a technological parasite programmed to hijack control of human brains, or it’s an alien probe bent on world domination. Either way, sir, I think your categorization of this thing as a weapon is spot on.”
“We have to treat it as a hostile threat, and we have to prosecute it accordingly,” General Troy said, then paused to blow air through his teeth. “I have no choice but to brief the Joint Chiefs and the President on this . . . They’re going to think I’ve lost my mind. What sort of evidence do we have? Please tell me that video of the rats running around in a circle is not the only footage you have.”
“The orb blacked out the facility and the cameras during both events. We’ve got nothing definitive to work with, sir. I’m sorry.”
“How am I supposed to validate this insane story to the President without proof? The orb has disappeared, and scientists
who can vouch for this shit are MIA with it. Who else has been in contact with this thing?”
“Major Fischer and Patrick Dixon from USAMRIID and a Sergeant Pitcher and Corporal Wayne from the Tenth Mountain, who discovered the orb originally.”
“We need to get recorded witness statements from them, and I want you and Major Fischer to come with me to the White House to brief the President,” Troy grumbled.
“Yes, sir, but there’s something else you should know.”
Troy raised an eyebrow at Legend. “Go on, Major. Spit it out?”
Legend told the General about the grand mal seizures and prolonged postictal states he’d witnessed. Then he mentioned that he’d not been able to reach Major Fischer all morning.
Troy’s face turned red, and he jumped to his feet. “I’ve changed my mind. Round them all up. Anyone who’s been in direct contact with the orb should be confined until we get a handle on what’s going on. I want hourly status reports. You have five hours, Major. Make it happen!”
CHAPTER 30
1517 Local Time
Fort Drum
New York
Josie stood next to Michael in the hallway of the enlisted barracks at Fort Drum. From the moment they’d passed the security checkpoint at the main gate, her husband had transformed. His shoulders looked broader, his jaw squarer, his back straighter—as if that were even possible. He moved with swift purpose, and his eyes were guarded behind a cynical squint that reminded her of Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western.
Maybe this was him responding to her trying to take charge. Maybe this was him gearing up to prove her wrong. Either way, it didn’t matter. They were here, together, about to confront Jeremy Wayne about the mysterious $14 million he’d seemingly gifted them.
Michael knocked on the door to Jeremy Wayne’s room, his knuckles making a crisp tat, tat, tat sound.
There was no answer.
Josie held her breath, but still she didn’t hear anyone stirring in the room on the other side of the door.
He knocked again, harder this time. Rap, rap, rap. “Bug,” he called. “It’s Pitcher.”
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