by Siegel, Alex
"We've checked them three times."
"It's something to do, and we should also eat. We may have to skip meals tomorrow."
Blake nodded. They walked off together.
* * *
Tungsten parked in front of a small office building, and all the members of the team got out.
Andrew examined the building. Colored cement blocks stacked in interesting patterns formed the walls, and the natural colors reminded him of a sand painting. A small, plain sign read, "SocialTech, Inc." The landscaping was primarily rocks, cacti, and hardy little trees. The building had large windows, but reflective foil turned them into one-way mirrors. Andrew didn't see any special security aside from a surveillance camera over the front door.
"We're not sure what's going on in there," Tungsten said, "so be careful. Stick together."
The three sorcerers nodded.
Tonya was holding the Raven now. She was obviously reluctant to give the idol back to Andrew, and he hadn't pressed the issue. He knew he was on thin ice. The last thing he needed was an adversarial relationship with her.
The team went inside. A small reception area had brightly colored plastic furniture which reminded Andrew of jelly beans. The lights were aimed in odd, random directions. A desk had a spot for a receptionist, but the chair was empty.
"Hello?" Tungsten said. "Is anybody home?"
Andrew had seen plenty of cars in the parking lot, so somebody was in the building.
A red-haired girl burst through a door and entered the lobby. "Oh, hi!" she said. "Sorry. I was talking to somebody. Can I help you?"
"Certainly," Tonya said. "You can start by describing what kind of business you do here. Your website mentioned social media, but it was vague about the details."
"I'm not really the right person to ask," the girl said.
"You don't know?"
"I just answer the phone."
"Oh," Tonya said. "Can we talk to somebody who is better informed?"
"Who are you?"
"Potential customers. We need help managing our social media, and we have a big budget."
The girl furrowed her brow. "Let me get somebody." She left the room.
Andrew looked at the art on the walls while he waited. Posters showed generic images of social interaction such as children holding hands and honeybees in a hive. They were cheaply printed.
The receptionist returned with a man. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and sandals. Words on the T-shirt read, "Somebody is following me."
"Hi," he said with a fake smile. "I'm Prescott. Can I help you?"
"Sure," Tonya said. "We might be customers, but first, we need to know more about your business. What do you do here exactly?"
"Social media engineering."
"That can mean different things."
"Maybe you should tell me your needs first," Prescott said, "and then I'll tell you whether we can fulfill them."
Andrew was getting impatient with the evasive answers. He looked at the Raven in Tonya's hand. He had to wait for guidance from her before he used any sorcery.
"It's a sensitive matter," Tonya said. "Mr. Panetta recommended you to us."
That name produced an immediate reaction in Prescott. He swallowed nervously and checked the door.
"Let's find a private conference room," he said.
He led the team into the main part of the office. The open interior was full of cubicles, and Andrew could see all the way to the far side of the building. Men and women working at computers occupied every cubicle. The workers had elaborate monitor configurations which included as many as six screens. Everybody was focused on their jobs. Ventilation fans were the only sound, and the quiet was creepy.
The group went to a conference room with glass walls. Andrew felt like a fish in a tank.
After everybody took a seat, Prescott said, "We have specialty services for friends of Mr. Panetta. We can influence public opinion or create a reputation for a reasonable fee."
"With social media?"
"We're the secret masters of social media. We turn the knobs that control what's trending."
"What about rumors?" Tonya said eagerly. "Can you spread them?"
"Of course. We worked on the mayoral election in San Francisco last fall and swung the polls by thirty points."
"The loser was accused of raping his niece."
Prescott smiled. "The best thing about the internet is how quickly a juicy story can go viral. Our experts at SocialTech can make that happen every time. We guarantee a million clicks or your money back."
Andrew realized they had stumbled across the source of the rumors about the Vault. SocialTech had all the expertise and technology required for such a sophisticated job. He looked at Charley, and she nodded slightly. She had obviously reached the same conclusion.
"How does the process work exactly?" Tonya said. "Is it just a lot of posts and tweets?"
Prescott frowned. "Let's talk about your needs instead."
Andrew sensed Tonya drawing power from the seam in her hand. "No," she said. "Talk about SocialTech. How does it work?"
"It's a lot more than posts and tweets. We use hacked accounts to create false messages. We modify internet traffic while it's still in the backbone. We have moles in major media outlets. We wash all data through Chinese and Russian systems to hide our trail. Nobody is more effective at secretly manipulating public opinion than us."
"Are you in charge here?"
"That would be Mr. Meyer," Prescott said. "I'm his assistant."
"Take us to him." Sorcery gave her words an extra boost.
"Follow me."
They left the conference room and walked through the office again. Andrew looked at the people working in the cubicles. Their faces showed no emotion and their eyelids drooped, but the typing never stopped.
Meyer's office was even more impressive than Weasel's back in Washington. Meyer had twenty-four large monitors suspended by fishing line to create a continuous curved surface. The computers were hidden away making the room quiet. Meyer was sitting on a chair with more control levers than could possibly be useful.
Meyer himself was less imposing. His black hair desperately needed washing and trimming. He was wearing a gray jogging suit with a coffee stain on the front.
"Who are you?" he said as everybody entered the office.
Tungsten closed the door.
"Talk to us about Montaña de la Serpiente," Tonya said.
"What are you talking...?" Meyer said.
Her power surged before he could finish the sentence. Andrew admired how she handled mind-control. She didn't crush all resistance or tie her victims into psychological knots. She applied exactly enough pressure to prevent any kind of deception. She was firm yet gentle.
"He called himself Mr. Torvus," Meyer said, "but I don't think that was his real name. I met him only once. He paid me ten million dollars."
Tungsten whistled. "Nice work if you can get it."
"It was Panetta's money. Torvus had a list of rumors he wanted us to spread, all about that mountain. He warned us the FBI and the NSA would come looking, so I used my best tricks to hide my tracks."
"You did a good job," Tonya said. "If we hadn't cheated, we never would've found you."
Meyer raised his eyebrows. "You cheated?"
"Never mind. We're looking for Torvus. Do you know how to reach him?"
"No." Meyer shook his head. "I have no contact information."
Andrew didn't doubt Meyer was telling the truth. Tonya had him firmly in her grasp.
"There is some surveillance footage though," he added.
She perked up. "That might be useful."
He typed on one of his four keyboards. A video appeared on a computer monitor showing the SocialTech office from a high angle. Meyer and two other men were walking between the cubicles.
Andrew leaned in for a close look. One of the men was clearly Blake in a simple disguise. He had shaved his beard and had dyed his hair, but the shape of
his face remained the same. He was wearing a black silk suit.
The last man was very tall and skinny. Red splotches marked his face.
"Who is that?" Andrew pointed.
"Maybe a bodyguard," Tungsten said. "It would make sense for Blake to have protection."
Tonya had Meyer replay the video a few times, but Andrew gleaned nothing useful beyond confirmation Blake was involved.
"OK," Tonya said. "You're going to end the rumor campaign immediately. The world must stop talking about Montaña de la Serpiente." She backed up the command with a burst of sorcery.
Meyer nodded. "No problem."
"Is that all?" She turned to Andrew and Charley.
"I think so," Charley said. "He can't help us find Blake."
Andrew had an idea. "You mentioned a big construction project in the car."
"That's right," Tonya said. "An expensive one."
"Paid for by Panetta." Andrew looked at Meyer. "Use your hackers to get into Panetta's accounting systems. Find out where his money is going. Look for a huge construction project started within the last few months."
"You want me to hack Mr. Panetta?" Meyer said in a tone of dismay. "He'll kill me!"
Tonya drew more power from the Raven. "Don't worry about that. Just follow orders and put your best people on it. We want answers tonight, not tomorrow. Call this number when you get the information."
She took a wallet out of a small purse and a blue business card out of the wallet. She handed over the card.
Tungsten, Andrew, Charley, and Tonya left. They walked outside just in time to catch the last rays of a setting sun.
"That was good thinking, Andrew," Tonya said.
Andrew smiled. "Thanks." His stomach growled loudly.
She chuckled. "Sounds like dinner time. Let's eat."
* * *
General James Ross looked at the long convoy of Army vehicles. It had better be enough, he thought.
Ten M985 trucks were in the center. They were hauling armored trailers loaded with the precious contents of the Physical Containment Facility. Heavy machine gun emplacements were mounted on top of the trailers, and soldiers sat behind the guns. Lighter transport trucks carried food, water, spare ammunition, and other supplies in case the convoy needed to make an extended stop.
Twenty armored fighting vehicles were at the front of the convoy, and twenty more were at the back. The assortment included M1126 Infantry Carrier Vehicles, M113A3's, and LAV-25's. A total of two hundred soldiers were riding in the convoy. Lighter and more exotic vehicles acted as escort, such as motorcycles and buggies capable of driving over rough, sandy terrain.
The convoy included air support. Three MQ-9 Reapers were circling above. A squadron of AH-1 Super Cobras was on standby, but helicopters didn't have the endurance to stay with the convoy the entire time.
They were going to Yucca Mountain in Nevada. The United States government had spent billions trying to build a nuclear waste repository inside that mountain. The enormous project had been abandoned for years, but deep, secure tunnels remained. They would serve as the new Physical Containment Facility at least temporarily.
It would be a twelve-hour drive, and the convoy would make only very brief stops along the way. General Ross intended to arrive just before dawn.
It appeared all the vehicles were ready to go. Engines were running, and headlights were on.
He climbed aboard an M1130 Commander Vehicle. The thick armor on the eight-wheeled transport could stop most rounds. The passenger compartment contained six officers with enough computers to control every aspect of the convoy. The command staff was already at their stations and working.
Major Fernandez turned to Ross immediately. "Sir," the major said, "we have a problem."
He was a short, Hispanic man with a pencil-thin mustache. He was responsible for all external communications. That job was normally given to a lesser officer, but Ross wanted his top aides around him for this operation.
"Already?" Ross said. "We haven't even started moving."
Fernandez handed over a printout. It was a message from Army Installation Management Command, the organization responsible for building and maintaining all Army facilities and bases. The lieutenant general in charge of the entire Command had signed the message.
The message read, "Intelligence reports destination is compromised. Do not proceed with current plan. An alternative location has been selected for temporary Physical Containment Facility. Go to Titan II Missile Silo Complex south-east of Tucson. See attached map and directions. Run silent as before."
A satellite image showed an intercontinental ballistic missile complex located in arid, mountainous terrain. During the Cold War, many silos had been built, but nearly all were abandoned now. The fall of the Soviet Union had eliminated the need for the extremely expensive program. The military had built the silos to withstand a nuclear attack, and they were far from any population centers. The silos made good places to store dangerous, secret materials.
Ross reread the message to make sure he understood.
"You authenticated the order?" he said.
"It was properly coded, sir," Fernandez said.
"Then we're changing the plan. How far is Tucson?"
"Just four and a half hours."
Ross smiled. "Closer than Yucca Mountain. We may get to bed before dawn after all."
* * *
Blake looked at his own face in a cracked, dusty mirror. The Titan II complex had just one bathroom, and he was using it to apply makeup. He smeared brown, greasy gunk across his skin with the tip of his finger. The coating had to be smooth and cover every bit of skin even around the eyes. He took his time.
When he was done, he stepped back to check himself. He looked like he was twenty years younger and African-American. He was wearing the combat uniform of an Army sergeant. The digital camouflage pattern employed desert yellows, browns, white, and black. He picked up an M16 rifle and slung it over his shoulder.
Blake turned to Phillip. "How do I look?"
"Like an old, fat man pretending to be a soldier," the boy said.
He was wearing black body armor fitted for his small size, and a black helmet protected his invaluable brain. Two revolvers were in holsters on his hips. They were just .38 specials, but his thin arms couldn't handle anything bigger.
"When this is over," Blake said, "I may have to adjust your attitude. I don't appreciate your tone."
"Sorry." Phillip swallowed. "The disguise should work well enough."
Blake checked his watch. "Let's make sure everybody is in position. It's almost show time. I wish we had a better audience considering the cost of this production. Somehow, I don't think General Ross and his men will appreciate the care and creativity that went into it."
"Very true. Other sorcerers might though. Maybe we should start keeping a journal."
"That would be deeply ironic. Let's go."
* * *
Andrew had never been to the real Eiffel Tower in Paris. He had never even been outside the United States. He wondered how the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas stacked up against the real thing.
He, Charley, Tonya, and Tungsten were dining in the Eiffel Tower Restaurant. It had a magnificent elevated view of the famous Strip, and his window seat allowed him to see the crowds of tourists below. Even though it was getting late, a river of humanity flowed along the sidewalks. The bright lights of mega-casinos surrounded the tower, making Andrew think about electricity bills. It seemed everything in Las Vegas was big, loud, and excessive. He was enjoying the experience but expected it would wear him out before long.
The restaurant itself was less pleasing. It was a fancy French place which served food like foie gras, venison, and caviar. He wasn't that adventurous. The prices made him feel guilty about the BPI picking up the tab. He had ordered roasted chicken just so he knew what he was getting, but the dish included something called "Jus de Poulet." He had no idea what it was.
Charley's beauty distracted him from hi
s view of the Strip. She was wearing a red cashmere sweater belted snugly around her waist. Ruby earrings sparkled in the soft light.
"It would help if we knew what was in the Vault," she said. "Then we would understand the threat better."
"There are portable seams, of course," Tonya said.
She had also dressed up a bit for the fancy meal. Her black shirt had tiny crystals worked into the fabric which glittered like stars. She had a crystal bracelet on her right wrist, and Andrew knew it was purely decoration, but it was the sort of thing a storybook sorcerer would wear.
"How many?" Andrew said.
"A dozen, maybe," Tonya said. "I think most of the material is in the form of written documents. There are tons of journals, notes, recordings, and reports about sorcery."
"Including my grandfather's journals."
"Yes."
Andrew understood why Blake was so interested in the Vault. It was a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge. The portable seams were almost an afterthought. Andrew certainly wouldn't mind taking a tour of the place.
He squelched that thought. It was dangerous. The Raven was sitting on the table, and its energy filled the air. Charley or Tonya could easily take a peek into his mind.
Andrew decided to change the topic. "How do you think Blake will attack the convoy?" he said.
"That's going to be a tough job," Tungsten said. "I'm sure the Army is guarding the convoy like it's carrying the gold in Fort Knox."
He was wearing his standard blue business suit. His huge chest and shoulders stretched the jacket. His Mohawk didn't fit the clean-cut image of a federal agent, and Andrew wondered if Tungsten ever got any grief from the BPI because of it.
"He could use Panetta's men as an assault force," Andrew said.
Tungsten shook his head. "They're amateurs. They wouldn't stand a chance against heavily armed professional soldiers. Blake will have to use mind-control to get past the security."
"That's not so easy, either," Tonya said. "The Army is expecting that sort of attack, and they must have procedures for preventing it. Blake's range is also limited because he's using a small seam. As long as the convoy moves fast and doesn't let anybody get close, they're pretty safe."
He grunted.
"What are we supposed to do now?" Charley said. "I feel so useless just sitting here."
