Surviving Rage | Book 5
Page 33
She fell to the floor with a thump as consciousness left her.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
San Francisco Protective Zone, California
Day 4
Rushing into the house, Daniel’s mind was racing. Serafina’s words had triggered a memory of how a specific type of cipher was used. How that could be applied to this puzzle was starting to come together.
Serafina’s voice called out for him as he made his way towards the home’s office. “Honey, what are you talking about?”
“Let me just review something first, make sure I’m remembering it correctly,” he said in response. Entering the office, he strode across the room and grabbed the book he needed as Serafina stepped into the doorway.
“It’s in here,” he said, holding up the heavy CISSP study guide.
Serafina frowned. “I thought that was for computers.”
Daniel nodded as he flipped through the book’s index. “It is, but it talks about the history of cryptography.” He ran his finger down the page until he found what he was looking for, then quickly flipped through the book’s pages. Skimming the contents of the page, then turned it to look at the next one. After a moment, he smiled, then looked up at his wife.
“Bam!” he exclaimed, jamming his forefinger onto a spot on the page.
Looking up at her, he explained. “Back in the days of the Spartans - the actual warriors - used a system where they wrote messages on a long strip of papyrus that was wrapped around a staff. So they wrote across it, then unraveled it. The message was then sent to its intended recipient with an agreed upon staff size. If it was wrapped around the same size staff, it could be read. Anyone else trying to read it would be completely lost.”
Serafina’s eyes widened. “So we’ve just got to figure out how to align the text in columns.”
“Exactly, and I think they already told us. Remember that one number I couldn’t decipher? Ninety-five?”
“Wow, you remember?”
“Of course. It was driving me crazy.” Looking back at the desk, he opened the top drawer and rummaged around in it. “Damn. No ruler.” He glanced at the book in his hand and shrugged. Putting it under his arm, he grabbed another book and a pen. “Come on. Let’s draw out some graph paper. It all makes sense.”
A few minutes later, they’d drawn out full page grids on six pieces of paper. “I’m gonna start with this fucker,” Daniel said, grabbing the page that ended with the question mark.
Serafina shook her head. “And how are you going to write it out?”
“I think one of the digits is the number of columns. The second is the column you’re supposed to read.” He looked at the long list of letters and numbers. “I guess I’ll try using nine as the number of columns.”
Working slowly and methodically, he checked and verified each character as he transcribed it into a box on the grid.
Eventually,
V 0 F Y 3 N D Q Z S Z X 5 V G L Z 3 8 I J M E 3 Y R 1 E O 1 H H B S 0 L W K L B 1 K 4 1 Y A G Y M S M U F N L H U K F G 3 T G M E 2 D 2 X A L 3 T 2 H 1 U H J N B O U M T S U N 5 Z
Z 9 V W M G P I T T P G E C 6 4 T J J O N D 6 S W Z J W 3 6 Q A T L I N O 0 C B R Z C B P
Q K G Z M 2 1 J 2 A 1 1 8 Y B Y A R
Became:
V0FY3NDQZ
SZX5VGLZ3
8IJME3YR1
EO1HHBS0L
WKLB1K41Y
AGYMSMUFN
LHUKFG3TG
ME2D2XAL3
T2H1UHJNB
OUMTSUN5Z
Z9VWMGPIT
TPGEC64TJ
JOND6SWZJ
W36QATLIN
O0CBRZCBP
QKGZM21J2
A118YBYAR
Swallowing heavily, Daniel sat back and said, “God damn.”
“Let me see,” Serafina said, reaching for the paper.
Daniel passed it to her. “Fifth row,” he said, as he rose from his chair. “I need a glass of water.”
Serafina looked at the column.”Three vehicles, what’s SF?”
“Special Forces,” Daniel answered.
Serafina nodded. “Two Marines, six Army. What is this?”
Daniel finished drinking from the glass and set it aside. “It’s the group that headed to Oklahoma City. Some bastard is telling another bastard how the group is made up.”
“What for?”
“Can’t be anything good,” Daniel said, moving back to the table. “Let’s figure out each one and put them in chronological order.”
Serafina nodded, before grabbing one of the blank grids and a sheet with digits.
Twenty minutes later, the two of them had finished the effort. As expected, each grid displayed a message. After retrieving a highlighter from the office, the two of them took turns highlighting the pertinent columns. Next, Daniel grabbed the cell phone and opened the text message app. “Okay, the one that starts with ninety-two, which translates to ‘x’ was first.”
“Okay,” Serafina replied, looking for the applicable sheet. “Wait, there’s two that start that way.”
“Really? Okay, it ends in seventy-four.”
“Got it.”
They set out each page in order. When they were done, Daniel grabbed a blank sheet of paper and wrote down each deciphered message, reciting each out loud as he did.
5 S T O 4 0 E 5 D A Y S
“Five South to Forty East, Five Days.”
Q V E H Q S P E C F O R N U M
“Not totally sure on this one, but maybe: ‘question vehicles, question special forces number.’”
“Makes sense,” Serafina said, nodding.
Daniel wrote down the next one.
3 V E H 1 S F 2 U S M C 6 A R M Y
“This is the first one we figured out: ‘three vehicles, one special forces, two Marines, six Army. This response to the previous text basically confirms that we decrypted it correctly.”
“Yep.”
1 P I L 1 A H 6 4 2 H V 1 0 M E N
He shook his head. “This one is hard. The ‘ten men’ is easy, but one pill?”
“I agree,” Serafina said, shaking her head.
“Dammit. There’s something there, I know it.”
Turning away, Serafina let her eyes wander as her mind worked. On the other side of the living room was a picture of a U.S. Navy Blue Angels F-18 flying over the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Pilot?” she asked.
“Yes!” he replied. “So then this…” he pointed at the next five characters. “Oh, shit…”
“What is it?”
Daniel looked up at her. “An A H Sixty Four is an Apache attack helicopter.”
“Crap.”
“Exactly, and since the AH1 doesn’t hold many people, this probably translates to ‘two Humvees,’” Daniel replied. He pointed to each line in order. “Someone provided info about the route the team is taking, the other person asked questions about the team’s composition, got answers, then asked for men, two Humvees, an attack helicopter, and someone to fly it.”
Serafina’s face paled. “They’re going to take Isabella.”
Daniel nodded again. Grabbing all of the papers on the desk, he put them in a stack and folded them.
“Come on,” he said, moving to the door, where he’d left his shoes. Reaching down, he began pulling them onto his feet.
“Where are we going?”
“We need to tell General Armstead about this.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
San Francisco Protective Zone, California
Day 5
“Excellent job adjusting to the reduction in forces, Colonel,” General Armstead said, nodding as he looked at the approved watch rotation on the big screen television. Looking over at Lieutenant Colonel Juarez, he said, “You know you don’t have to run this by me, right, Mike? I trust you.”
“I know, Sir,” the man replied, smiling. “I just wanted to let you know that while I hated losing Nicholson and the rest of his crew, we’re able to adjust. I’m glad they’re able to help.”
“How’s Sergeant Willis, Colonel?” Major Kincaid asked.
Juarez nodded slowly. “Doing okay. The doctor was able to save the arm. Now he’s going through physical therapy. Given time, he’ll have full range of motion again.”
“And return to full duty?” Kincaid asked.
Juarez shook his head. “No,” he said, looking at the table. “I mean, given the circumstances, I’m sure we can find something for him to do that he can handle, and it could be a while before we’re in position to start sending people home for not being 100% mission ready, but ultimately, no, he won’t be going out on any more missions. His, uh, Army career is effectively over.”
General Armstead exhaled loudly. “Not like we can send him to the VA, either.”
“No, Sir.”
The room went quiet.
Major Kincaid spoke up first. “Well, for now, and for the foreseeable future, I think we can keep him busy, and as long as he’s here, he’s safe right? That means he’s being taken care of.”
“Great point, Major,” the General replied, clenching his massive fist on his desk. “We can only do what we can do.”
“Yes,” the Lieutenant Colonel said, nodding. “And we will take care of him.” After a moment, he rose from his chair. “Okay, General, I really just came up to show you the watch rotation. Is there anything you need from me?”
The General stared straight ahead as he considered the man’s question. After a few seconds, he said, “Nope. Nothing, Colonel. I appreciate you stopping by.”
“Great, Sir.” Miguel replied, smiling. “I’ll let you get back to your work. Thanks for your time.”
“Thank you,” Armstead answered, nodding.
Lieutenant Colonel Juarez stepped back, pushed in his chair, then walked out of the room briskly and businesslike.
Once out of the room, the smile on Juarez’s face disappeared. Today was the day, and he was anxious to know how things were going. Walking briskly to the end of the hallway, he bypassed the elevator and opened the door to the stairs, knowing that if anyone saw, they’d think nothing of it. Over the weeks that he’d been here, supporting the Protective Zone’s military force, he’d carefully, methodically made it common knowledge that he preferred to take the stairs in order to ‘get an extra bit of exercise and keep his heart strong.’ It was all a ruse, and one that he’d created for a purpose.
Entering the stairwell, he trotted down the first few steps while he listened for the door to close.
Attention to detail.
Keep up appearances.
Hearing the loud clanking sound of the door closing, he paused to listen for the sound of anyone else in the stairwell. Hearing none, he turned and headed back up the stairs, passing the fourth floor and heading for the small landing above where the door to the roof stood. Reaching the landing, he ignored the door to the roof and moved to the door next to it. Grabbing hold of the handle, he paused again, listening for the presence of people below. Just as he felt satisfied that no one was there and was ready to open the door, he heard the sound of a door opening two or three levels below where he stood. Freezing, he held his breath as he listened.
Inane chatter accompanied the sounds of feet descending the stairs, loud enough that he felt comfortable exhaling as he waited for the people to move on. Seconds later, he heard the sound of another door opening, followed by the sounds of the voices disappearing into the hallway. He waited yet again, a shorter period this time, then carefully turned the door’s handle, opened the door just far enough for him to slip through, moved into the darkened space beyond, and closed the door behind him. Once the door was firmly closed, he slid to his right, using his memory to reach for a switch on the wall, which he flipped upward.
When the lights came on, they did so only in the back half of the thirty foot-long space. On either side of the room, large mechanical HVAC systems lined the walls, leaving only six or so feet in the middle of the space for a person to walk.
While the space seemed relatively mundane and unassuming, its discovery had been a windfall for Juarez. In the far left corner of the room, on the backside of one of the large ventilation ducts, some enterprising worker, driven by supreme laziness, had set up a small area where he (or she, who knew? But yeah, probably a he) had set up a small lounging area for goofing off and/or napping. An old, worn chair sat near a battered wooden bookshelf that held a few old copies of Lowrider magazine (yeah, it was probably a ‘he’). Atop the bookshelf was a neatly folded blanket that was newish and looked borderline out of place near the overused chair and bookshelf, were it not for the fact that it completely made sense.
Old chair with duct tape covering torn leather and a missing wheel? Fine. Still comfortable.
Bookshelf with sagging shelves and splintered edges? No worries, it still serves its purpose.
Old milk crate turned upside to act as a footrest? Well… Secure some foam atop it with duct tape? Now we’re talking.
But a blanket that’s going to be on you, keeping you warm and comfortable as you doze off? That has to be good to go.
No two ways about it.
Important stuff.
Stepping into the small lounge area, Juarez reached behind the bookshelf and pulled out a laptop. Sitting in the chair, he balanced the laptop on his lap and pressed the power button. As he waited for it to boot up, he shifted around in the chair so he could reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet.
Opening it, he withdrew an old, tattered photograph. Keeping one hand on the laptop, he used the other hand to stuff his wallet in his breast pocket, then used that same hand to unfold the photo. The picture was that of him on the day of his graduation from West Point. His parents bracketed him in the photo, each of them positively beaming with pride.
They were good people.
And they were dead.
Two years, five months, and thirteen days later (he knew the exact time because it was the night before his twenty-fifth birthday), they’d been shot and killed for the measly amount of money they had with them at the time, killed by someone posing as an Uber driver.
A ride he’d set up for them.
Arranged for them so that they could get to the airport and take the flights he’d purchased, ones that would bring them to North Carolina to spend his birthday with him.
They’d never used the service before, so they were unaware of some of the basic checks required (verifying the license plate, confirming the name of the driver, etc.) before getting into the man’s SUV. Prior to that fateful night, his adopted father had tried to suggest that the two of them could take a cab, but Miguel had insisted, touting the fact that he’d accumulated enough credits for their trips to and from the airport to be free (thanks to the fact that he was steadfast in his use of the service whenever he went out drinking with his fellow Army officers, which was a lot).
So they relented.
And waited outside on the curb in front of their apartment building in the cold, disregarding his promise to let them know when the driver was almost there.
They got into the SUV without a second thought and were summarily driven to Cleveland’s old industrial area a few miles away and, according to the autopsy and police report, killed after his father, whose pride was three times larger than his stature, fought back against the armed gunman.
His father had been shot three times in the chest, and bled out on the pavement of the parking lot behind an old auto parts manufacturing plant.
His mother had only been shot once, one that left, a perfect dot in the middle of her forehead.
The police had been unable to tell him much about the man who murdered his parents, other than the fact that he was Black, which they’d been able to determine through traffic camera footage and from the two stray hairs found on Fernando Juarez’s clothes. Unfortunately, the plates on the vehicle had been stolen,
as had the SUV itself, and the DNA extracted from the hair samples wasn’t found in any law enforcement database.
Just a faceless, amorphous, anonymous Black man.
The killer could be any one of the nearly twenty million Black men in the country. He could have walked by Miguel on the street a dozen times in the past, and might even do so a dozen times in the future.
The difference now was that Miguel would notice him.
And pay attention.
Though his face never betrayed his feelings, he viewed them all (including the women and children) as parasites. They were a drain on society, unwilling to support themselves and really only successful when government ‘equality’ initiatives literally handed them a free pass. He had no doubt that General Armstead had achieved his rank because of these programs, either.
Which was why they had to be eliminated.
And the reason he’d sought out Steve Sommer. When he’d heard the tall Black doctor telling the doctors about the man who’d shot down their plane, tracked it down, and attacked them, he’d been impressed at the man’s determination. When he heard the part about the man’s constant barrage of racist slurs, he realized the man’s actions weren’t anything random.
The man had a plan and a motive worth getting behind.
Seeing the laptop’s login screen awaiting his input, he smiled. ‘Now, let’s see how things are going,’ he thought, clicking the icon on the screen to establish a VPN. Opening his secure mail server, he double clicked on the newest email received from Colonel Walters.
Judas,
Doctors in house, being moved to the laboratory for full-time work. Just need girl and other doctor ASAP. Request you pass on rapid execution of extraction and delivery.
Once your work there is done, get here ASAP. You deserve to be part of this.
Safe travels.
Your friend,
S.W.