Stealth Retribution

by Vikki Kestell

  “Yes, I know: motion-sensing alarms and cameras. IR sensors unseen by the naked eye. I know about them all because the nanomites and I are quite close. You might say that we share . . . a symbiotic relationship. I carry them and they bring their technological faculties with us.”

  I did not want to get into the gnarly issues surrounding my deeper attachment to the nanomites. I sure didn’t want to muddy my message by telling the President that the mites and I were fused at the molecular level, that I was now an amalgamation of human organism and nanotechnology.

  I glossed over the details. “In this, um, symbiotic relationship, the nanomites and I function together. For example, given their tiny size and vast computational abilities, we can hack any firewall, access any network, and identify and spoof any security measures—such as White House alarms, motion sensors, and cameras. And those abilities are in addition to the physical weapons we possess.”

  “I see.” But I could see that he was troubled.

  “Mr. President, Vice President Harmon wants the nanomites; therefore, he wants me and he wants Dr. Bickel. He thinks he can extract the nanomites from me and reverse engineer them. His intention is to create a nanomite army to hack and surveil every enemy nation and to protect America by the same means.

  “Of course, that means circumventing all those pesky Constitutional rights—but anything for the safety and security of our nation, right? And besides, who would know? Within a network, the nanomites cannot be traced and they cannot be stopped.

  “Harmon knows you won’t go along with the covert abolishment of the Bill of Rights, so he has made a strategic decision: For the ‘good of the nation,’ you have to go. He will take the reins of power in your stead and see this utopian society emerge.”

  Maddie Jackson gasped; I was glad the President was holding her hand.

  “Sir, Harmon has been very careful up till now. He didn’t want to move until he had the nanomites reengineered and had an army of them ready to support him. However, when Dr. Bickel escaped from Cushing and made known to the world that he is still very much alive, Harmon realized how near his illegal actions are to being exposed. His hand has been forced and he . . . he intends to assassinate you. Soon.”

  Neither the President nor the First Lady responded, and the room sank into a dark, somber mood. The clock on their living-room wall ticked on, the time in D.C. approaching 1 a.m.

  I was surprised that Maddie Jackson spoke first. “Harmon. I never did trust that man—and I said as much during the campaign.”

  “As a Washington outsider, I needed someone as connected as Harmon, someone familiar with the bureaucracy and who knew the system. I might not have won the election without Harmon, but I also recognized the inherent risk he presented—being too comfortable with the embedded status-quo. And he’s ambitious. I just underestimated how ambitious.”

  He slowly shook his head. “I should have listened to you.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “Well, I didn’t, and there’s no sense beating me up about it now.”

  “Uh, Mr. President, it’s very late, and if you’re going to get any sleep at all, I should provide you with the details of Harmon’s plot—or at least the ones I am aware of.”

  “You’re right—not that I’ll be able to sleep after all this. But,” here he glanced at his wife, “why don’t you go on back to bed, Maddie? There’s no need for both of us to be sleep deprived tomorrow.”

  “What? Oh, no. No. You think I can sleep now? I don’t think so. I want to hear everything Miss Keyes has to say.”

  I watched and listened to them batting words back and forth in frank and open exchange, and I smiled. Theirs seemed a solid, comfortable marriage, and I liked them both.

  My ever-hungry stomach complained. “Well, since we’re all going to be up for a while, is anyone else hungry? I could sure use a few more of those amazing cookies—oh, wow! I-I totally forgot, Mr. President.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “I forgot to apologize to you. I knew you would be out late tonight, and I got hungry, so I may have, um, sort of, uh, raided your kitchen this afternoon. I’m sorry.”

  The President dropped his face onto his hand and chuckled. “You know, Miss Keyes, if I had still harbored any reservations about your intentions, your apology would have erased the last of them. I’ve never known a malicious actor to be remorseful for looting their target’s pantry.”

  His wife laughed. “Quite right. And we accept your apology, Miss Keyes. You’re welcome to whatever is there. Shall we make coffee and a snack before we continue? I didn’t eat much at dinner. Too preoccupied over conversation with the Ambassador’s wife.”

  “Ditto, with the Ambassador,” the President answered.

  I started to relax. Perhaps things were going to be okay. “Thank you. By the way, those cookies are the best ever.”

  “Coconut Dream cookies. They are Robert’s favorites.”

  We were quiet as we went into the hall, down to the dining room, and into the tiny kitchen. Like regular people do, we pulled a variety of foodstuffs from the refrigerator and, under Maddie Jackson’s direction, made decaf coffee, reheated a creamy asparagus soup, assembled sandwiches, and set the dining table for three.

  It felt like my stomach was eating itself from the inside out before we sat down. As it issued a particularly loud gurgle, the Jacksons laughed at me.

  I blushed. “I’m so sorry. My metabolism is faster than a normal person’s so I get hungry. Often.”

  Maddie Jackson smiled. “Well, eat up, my dear. You look positively . . . lean. Healthy, yes, but you could use a little more meat on your bones.”

  It wasn’t a mean observation; it was a kind, grandmotherly word coming from her. It was something Aunt Lucy might have said. Sweet and caring.

  I grinned and dug in. Between bites, I explained, “I’ve . . . slimmed down the last several weeks. The nanomites revved up my metabolism and increased my stamina, which means I can run or work out for hours without fatigue. Training with them has made me strong and fit. But I also eat twice what I used to.”

  Her astounded response was, “You get to eat anything and everything you want and still stay trim? That sounds like every woman’s dream come true. Here: Have another sandwich, Gemma. And eat all the cookies you like—Robert doesn’t need them; trust me.”

  The President snorted, then spooned soup into his mouth and addressed his wife. “You know, this has got to be the strangest day of my presidency—don’t you think so, dear? I wonder how our encounter with Miss Keyes will go down in the history books.”

  His amused remark snapped me back to reality. “Sir, you can’t tell anyone about me. Not anyone. Um, all this—me, the nanomites, my invisibility and defeating White House security, and my other abilities?—all these things must stay between us. I am only safe as long as my anonymity lasts.”

  When his mouth turned down in skeptical, perhaps resistant lines, I added, “Six, maybe seven individuals in the world, other than the two of you, know who I am and what I can do. I came directly to you, Mr. President, not merely to warn you of the threat on your life and our nation’s security, but because I felt I could trust you to keep my secret.”

  He frowned. “I can understand your desire to remain anonymous, to stay in the shadows, but I have requirements, too. Since we have just met, I must confirm your identity and story through independent sources. If I can’t talk to anyone about you, how can I vet you? And by the way, you haven’t yet presented a single detail or piece of evidence to back up your assertion that Harmon plans to assassinate me—and those are very serious charges.”

  I thought for a moment, tried to look at the situation from his perspective. “Sir, when we finish eating, I will share what the nanomites have uncovered regarding Vice President Harmon. Regarding my character, would you take the word of an FBI agent?”

  “I might.”

  “There’s an agent in Albuquerque who is in my inner circle, so to speak. Then
there’s also Dr. Bickel.”

  “You know where Dr. Bickel is hiding?”

  “Yes, I do. He is safe—for the moment. Of course, Harmon has Cushing hunting him. The fewer who know where Dr. Bickel is, the safer he will be.”

  “Then let’s start with the FBI agent. What is his name?”

  “Special Agent Ross Gamble, sir.”

  The President glanced at his wife. “The best way to keep Gemma’s visit a secret is to keep my call to this agent off the books—and that presents a challenge.” He looked back at me. “All calls in and out of the White House switchboard are automatically logged and recorded. To conflate matters further, if I were to place a call at this time of night, the Secret Service would know that I’m awake—and that would raise a red flag.”

  “I have a cell phone with me.” I had my burner smart phone with me.

  “The Service monitors and controls cellular service in and out of the White House; they know where every call originates and where every call goes. An unknown cell phone signal originating from the Residence? Agents would be up here, guns drawn, in under thirty seconds.”

  “The nanomites and I can mask the call, sir. The Secret Service won’t be any the wiser.”

  He blinked, shot a look at his wife, and muttered, “Hmm. Well, then.”

  We finished eating, tidied up the dining room and kitchen, and returned to their living room. There I pulled out my phone and called Gamble while the nanomites took care of the security issues.

  “What time is it in New Mexico?” the President asked.

  “Two hours earlier than here, so near midnight.”

  “And you’re certain your nanomites can fool the Secret Service?”

  “They are on it, Mr. President.”

  The phone rang on the other end; after three rings, the call connected, and Gamble mumbled, “Gamble.”

  “Hey. It’s Gemma.”

  “Gemma? I just got to sleep and I’m running on fumes as it is. This had better be important.”

  “Yes; sorry to wake you, Gamble, but I have someone who would like you to vouch for me. I’m going to put you on speaker phone and I . . . I suggest you splash water on your face first—it’s important.”

  “What?” He got up; I heard him fumble with the covers. His feet hit the floor and moved away from his bed.

  I pushed the speaker button just as he grumbled, “Who, in the dead of night, wants to talk to me?”

  “Special Agent Gamble? This is Robert Jackson. Calling from the White House.”

  Dead silence.

  “Agent Gamble? Are you there?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m here. I beg your pardon. Ah, if you don’t mind, sir, may I just confirm with Miss Keyes that you are who you say you are?”

  Maddie Jackson grinned, and I stifled a snort-laugh. The President arched a brow at me.

  “Miss Keyes?”

  “Gamble, I am sitting with the President and First Lady right now. In their living room. In the Residence. You know. In the White House?”

  Gamble whispered, “Well, of course you are.”

  I giggled. “Don’t forget we’re on speaker phone, Gamble. Listen, I’ve apprised the President of a threat on his life.”

  “A what?” Gamble sputtered incoherently before he managed to grind out, “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me, Gemma, but we can talk about that later. What do you need from me?”

  “I haven’t provided any details of the plot against him yet, but I insisted that we keep my visit a secret—so Vice President Harmon doesn’t become aware that the President is on to him.”

  “The who? The Vice President?” Gamble muttered colorful expletives under his breath.

  I lowered my voice, too. “Yes. I know. We’ll talk about that later.” In my regular voice, I said, “Because I’ve asked the President to keep my identity a secret, he can’t verify me or my story through the usual channels. That’s why I’ve called you.”

  Gamble was awake and all business now. “Got it. Mr. President? I apologize for my unprofessional behavior. I can attest to Miss Keyes’ identity and character. May I respond to any specific questions you may have?”

  After Gamble had answered the President’s questions to his satisfaction, we hung up, and I was ready to outline Vice President Harmon’s plan to assassinate the leader of the free world.

  The nanomites had captured the audio of the phone call between Harmon and Cushing and had written those recordings to my cell phone. I hadn’t imagined they could do such a thing, but the more I lived with them, the less I figured was beyond their capabilities: If a task lived in the digital world, they could do it.

  I decided to begin with the call because I wanted President Jackson to hear Harmon’s intentions for himself. Robert Jackson needed to know how cold and deadly Harmon was. Jackson couldn’t afford to underestimate his adversary—that could prove deadly. To both of us.

  I started the audio and watched the President’s face as the recording of Harmon’s voice murmured,

  “I’ve determined that it would be best to move up my plans. I have a private breakfast scheduled with him the day after tomorrow. Two days later, the President will have an unexpected but fatal heart attack. I won’t be anywhere near him when it happens.”

  I paused the recording. “This was recorded yesterday. Can you understand why I had to come to you directly?”

  Jackson’s features turned to stone.

  I restarted the recording.

  Cushing: “Given that the President has no history of heart disease, won’t there be an exhaustive autopsy?”

  Harmon: “Yes, I’m counting on it. The autopsy will uncover an undiagnosed bacterial infection—a particularly vicious and aggressive strain of Staphylococcus aureus. It will appear as if the bacteria had infected the lining, muscles, and valves of the President’s heart weeks ago, possibly contracted during his visit to a V.A. hospital last month. Even if a particularly bright pathologist looks for it, he or she won’t find any trace of the chemical added to the virus cocktail that precipitated the heart attack.”

  Harmon added as an afterthought, “I shall owe my deep contact at USAMARIID a great favor.”

  “Jackson won’t have shown any symptoms prior to the attack?”

  “The lack of prior symptoms is mildly problematic; however, it will change nothing: The President will be dead and, regardless of the atypical progress of the disease, the evidence will point to an acute MI.”

  “How long after you are in office before you appoint me Secretary of the Air Force?” Cushing asked.

  “You have more than earned your reward, General. You’ll get your promotion as soon as decently possible after the funeral, but I’ll bring you up to D.C. right away in an advisory capacity. We must demonstrate due grief and mourning for the President’s passing and give the American people a few weeks to accept and settle into my presidency. I will begin making changes to the cabinet and other postings a month after I take the oath of office.”

  The recording went on, but its point was clear.

  Maddie Jackson slipped her hand back into her husband’s and gripped it. “What are we to do, Miss Keyes? Do you have proof other than this recording? Evidence we can turn over to the Secret Service?”

  “Precious few of the details can be verified without stirring up a hornet’s nest and possibly alerting Harmon, Mrs. Jackson. I hadn’t intended on staying . . . or helping. I just came to warn you. Figured once you were warned, you would know what to do.”

  Maddie Jackson turned to her husband, who was digesting not only the danger he was in but the political ramifications. “What are you thinking?

  “I’m thinking of the damage a scandal of this magnitude will create. No coup of this nature—from this high—has ever been attempted in America. It may destroy the credibility of my administration. Of our party.”

  “Robert, those issues cannot be your primary concern at the moment. You are having breakfast with Harmon tomorrow. You have to act now to prevent
an even greater political catastrophe: the assassination of a sitting president! You, my beloved husband!

  Maddie Jackson was no lily-livered woman. She saw things clearly.

  I liked her better and better.

  Jackson growled, “Harmon isn’t in this alone—he has accomplices. He has a co-conspirator embedded in the Army’s Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, for God’s sake! I can’t even be sure who in the Secret Service I could trust with this or what they might do. If they happened to accidentally tip off Harmon—or if someone we should not have trusted leaked it to him, he would simply wait for another opportunity.”

  Jackson rubbed his eyes. “What a mess. Just . . . just give me a few minutes to think, please.”

  Maddie Jackson sat back and lost herself in her own thoughts. I stepped out of the room and wandered down the hallway, praying in a soft whisper. “Jesus, you know all things, don’t you? Could you please point us in the right direction? Show us what to do? This is very serious, Lord Jesus—well, sorry; I guess you already know how serious it is—but we could really use your help. Like that verse says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and don’t depend on your own understanding,” or something along those lines. What’s the rest? “Commit your ways to the Lord and he will guide you?” President Jackson really needs you to guide him, Lord, so I am committing my ways to you—and I hope he will, too.”

  Gemma Keyes?

  “Yes, Nano?”

  Over the next few minutes I had some remarkable conversation with the nanomites. When we finished, I wondered if Jesus was able to direct them in answer to those who prayed to him.

  I wondered, because their ideas were that good.

  I’d been in the hall around twenty minutes when Maddie Jackson stepped out of the living room and whispered, “Miss Keyes?”

  The nanomites uncovered me when I was within a foot of her.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh! You . . . startled me.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s all right, but the President would like to speak to you, Miss Keyes.”

  I followed her into the living room and found the President standing, ready to act. “Miss Keyes? After you left, Mrs. Jackson and I did some praying together.”