Crash Alive (The Haylie Black Series Book 1)

by Christopher Kerns

  Scrolling each forum, Haylie’s brain slowly began to creep back to normal activity levels. She saw nothing new about the Raven puzzle from any of her sources or the public wires. I guess no news is good news.

  She tabbed over to her outgoing chat messages, checking the collection of pings to Caesar that remained cold and unanswered.

  I just want him to be all right.

  As the world flew by below, Haylie tried her best to relax. The view wasn’t much tonight, the white spider webs of a few illuminated small towns and highways littered the curves of the earth. The lights from inside the cabin reflected back across the glass, and Haylie caught herself staring at her own reflection for a few moments. Write some code, analyze some data … just do something that will put you back to sleep.

  She searched her desktop for inspiration, seeing a folder she had created just a few hours earlier labeled “car_data.” Hmm … I forgot about this.

  When she had found herself stuck on the audio puzzle back in the car, she hadn’t just quit and started searching pop culture websites or message boards. She had done what she always did when she hit a brick wall: challenged herself to solve a different problem to clear her head.

  Once someone obtains—or in this case, is given—access to a wireless network, they can do all sorts of things. Haylie had decided to see if she could intercept all network traffic going to and from Walter’s phone. Most of the information flowing over the network would be encrypted, but reading it wasn’t really the point. She just wanted to see if she could get to the data, and she had done exactly that with a few lines of Python code. Now, all the text logs from Walter’s incoming and outgoing communication from back in the car were sitting in a folder on her desktop, staring her back in the face.

  Checking around the cabin to make sure all was clear, she loaded the data dump into her favorite packet analyzer tool. Let’s see if there’s anything good in here. Her mouth stretched into a deep yawn as she filtered the data down to show only outgoing transmissions, checking the log for any interesting web traffic.

  She squinted at the HTTP results to see an unfamiliar messaging host; it was labeled ‘Rubicon’ and was responsible for a majority of Walter’s traffic in the log. Doing a quick Internet search, Haylie saw reports of a new Brux chat application still in development with the same code name. Interesting. As she dove back into the logs, she realized that this early prototype didn’t have encryption enabled; meaning that all text from every message should be right here in the data.

  Gently placing her laptop on the table in front of her, Haylie shifted her weight to turn and face the brothers, still curled up and sleeping in opposite corners of the jet. As she slid from one side of the captain’s chair to the other, she felt something wedged into her back pocket. My souvenir from the Grove’s archives. She reached back to slip the papers out of her pocket, gently unfolding the pages to keep the crinkling paper quiet.

  As she sifted the papers, she could feel a stark difference in weight and texture; the top two were older—much thinner, brittle and slick to the touch—and the second two pieces could have been fresh off a modern printer. She flipped the first of the newer pages and began to read.

  Petition to Address the Leadership of the Bilderberg Group

  Presented by: Benjamin and Walter Sterling, Bohemian Grove, Iron Ring camp

  Our brothers in Bohemia, the Sterlings, prepared and delivered a petition to meet with the Bilderberg Group’s inner leadership. Arguments included:

  *Benjamin and Walter reminded the group that their service to the Bohemians over the past few years have been crucial to our organization’s recruiting efforts. Their father, Andrew Sterling, also had a long and distinguished record with the Bohemian Club.

  *The Sterlings’ access to capital and resources across banking, software, satellite technology, and other industries would prove to be useful for the success of The Project.

  The members in attendance heard all arguments and voted not to allow further meetings with the architects of The Project at this time.

  Yours in Bohemia,

  Brother Colorado

  Haylie’s face grew red as she re-read the document again and again, double and triple-checking each word to make sure the lack of sleep and altitude weren’t causing her to hallucinate.

  Walter and Benjamin are members of the Bohemian Club? That doesn’t make any sense….

  Her hands turned to fists as she stared down to the table, realizing that she was crunching the paper under the pressure between her trembling fingers.

  They’ve been lying this whole time? Making a fool of me? And what the hell is The Project?

  Looking back to her laptop, she opened Walter’s chat logs and began to read. Combining the incoming and outgoing data streams, she sorted by timestamp to piece together the conversation between the brothers.

  Walter:> need to keep her moving on the puzzle steps. clocks ticking.

  Benjamin:> when do we cut her loose? we don’t want her to know too much. as soon as we get to the leadership, she’s gone.

  Walter:> soon. but you need to stop being an ass, get her back on our side. make it seem legit. we need her to keep solving.

  Benjamin:> I know. Will do.

  Walter:> We should have just gone in the Grove and found the clue ourselves. We totally could have found it.

  Benjamin:> And then what? We’d have to crack the next code.

  As she read each message, Haylie felt the rage building inside of her. Scrolling, her pulse quickened as she continued through their conversation.

  Walter:> should never have paid Caesar to solve this thing without staying with him. babysitting this chick is a pain, but at least she won’t get away from us like he did.

  Benjamin:> lesson learned. we’ll get it right this time.

  Her eyes shot daggers over at Walter, who lay unknowing, curled into a ball in the leather chair. He turned softly, pulling his blanket over his shoulder.

  The anger grew as she read back through the logs, again and again. She could feel the heat flash across her cheeks as she planned the steps of what she had to do next.

  She should have known better. She had fallen into their trap; she had become their pawn.

  But that was all about to change.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Titanhurst - London

  March 9th, 12:12PM

  “Martin, please come in. I only have a few minutes. I trust your flight was comfortable?”

  Martin’s footsteps clicked across solid, dark hardwoods as he took in the room; it was an architectural marvel. A collection of stitched leather furniture sat on islands of crisscrossed wooden slats, all bordered by pathways of slate gray tile and stone. The patterns guided Martin’s eye around three different sitting areas and to the end of the room, where a battleship of a desk sat at the helm in firm command of the room. Dark wood wrapped around the walls and cabinets, highlighting the windows that only managed to show a dull glow of white behind their thick protective coverings. He could smell a mix of raw materials, epoxy, and sawdust fresh in the air.

  Prime Minister John Crowne sat at the center of his formal leather couch with his laptop angled on the table, rising to his feet as his guest entered. Martin had always enjoyed their time together; it was difficult not to. Crowne had always been the type that reminded him of the best of times, even if Martin couldn’t quite calculate whether the attitude was genuine or a means to an end. Either way, Martin tried his best to enjoy the attention without falling under its spell. It was difficult at times; Crowne was, after all, a politician.

  “Thank you, sir,” Martin said. “It’s great to see you. Headquarters looks wonderful. Built to last a lifetime.”

  “Well, hopefully for the next few decades, at least. We’ve a lot of planning to do, lots of planning. A lot of that will happen right here within this office. I wanted it to be modern and classic all at the same … oh, who am I kidding? Lucy designed it all. Don’t tell anyone, just between us friends
, okay Martin?” Crowne laughed out loud, grabbing Martin’s shoulder playfully. There was that charm again.

  “So listen, Martin, I just need a minute of your time. We’re running final checks of all systems, safeguards, supplies, and personnel for the core group that will remain online during The Project; this is obviously an important time. All leaders and their families are getting prepped for the big day. Things are moving fast, but I think we’re in top shape. In fact, I’ve received ‘go’ orders from all groups except for one: our technology leadership team. I’ve called you here to make sure we have our candidate for the lead position on board.”

  As Crowne gestured over to the couch, Martin gave a slight bow and took a seat.

  “You must mean Caesar Black,” Martin said. “He’s our man that made it past the Raven 2309 tests. He’s here at Titanhurst, staying in the apartment that would become his new residence. Assuming he accepts the position.”

  A confused expression shot across Crowne’s face as he stared down into Martin’s eyes. “Assuming? What do you mean, Martin, assuming? We’re at three days until we flip the switch here. He hasn’t signed on?”

  “I’ve introduced our point-of-view to him. He needs some time to think about it.”

  “What’s to decide? As of next week, he’ll either be one of the most important computer scientists in Earth’s history or he’ll be reduced to … a simple caveman. Doesn’t he know that? Did you explain that to him?”

  “Not in those terms, sir, no, but I’ve been pressing the upside of the opportunity. I believe he’ll come around, he just needs a bit more time with some of the core concepts I’ve presented. I’ve left all the research with him,” Martin replied, sinking back into the couch, still managing to keep his smile intact. “He seems quite sharp, I’m sure he’ll come around.”

  “I’m sure he’ll come around,” Crowne repeated. “I see.”

  Pacing the length of the hardwood floor, one solid heel after another, Crowne stopped after reaching the desk at the end of the room. It was massive in stature, as if it had been carved out of a solid block of wood. The desk rested inset into a slight divot in the floor, like it had been dropped off a cliff to land solidly in this very office with a single room-shaking thud.

  Only one item sat on the desk: a simple wooden box. It was just a bit larger than a cigar box, but lower in profile with intricate black, tan, and natural wood patterns curving up and down the routed edges. Crowne leaned over and cracked the lid.

  “I’ve tried my best not to get greedy,” Crowne said. “You and I, we know what’s going to happen in a few days. So it’s natural for there to be an urge, a temptation, to collect things. Once the power goes out, the looting will begin. We’ll lose many of our treasures forever, they’ll just disappear. Priceless paintings will end up in bonfires for warmth. Entire museums will be overrun with squatters and human waste. So why not save the things that we can, right?”

  His voice grew softer as he flipped the lid back onto the front of the desk. Craning his neck slightly, Martin made a subtle effort to see his way inside.

  Crowne continued. “But if we hoard the treasures—all the little things we want to keep close—it would set off warnings. Alarms. People would surely get suspicious that something was going on. We can’t have that.” Crowne nodded to himself as he continued to stare into the box. “So I was careful. But there was one thing that I wanted; one thing that I would hate to see lost to history.”

  Reaching in, Crowne retrieved a black and gray pistol from the center of the box. It was smaller than the handguns Martin was used to seeing in movies; it seemed like it would barely fit in a grown man’s hand. Crowne stood back up straight, curling the gun into his palm, flipping it over and watching the light dance across the dull surfaces of the handle and the sheen of the stock.

  “What is it?” Martin asked.

  “Well, it’s a pistol, Martin,” Crowne said, deadpan.

  “Yes sir, but….”

  “I’m kidding. It’s a Walther PPK. I had it retrieved from the basements of the British Museum. It had never been put on display … never been officially entered into the system at all, in fact. Spending all this time sitting in the basement, tucked in behind the Head Curator’s personal collection. It’s been stored in the back corner of some rusty safe; hidden away from the world for the last few decades.”

  Flipping the gun’s grip out of his hand and holding the relic by its barrel, Crowne extended the firearm in Martin’s direction, gesturing for him to approach. Martin rose slowly, straightening the fabric on his suit pants with his palms, and walked carefully towards the Prime Minister. Martin slowly took the weapon with both hands and held it with care.

  “But, why is it special?” Martin asked.

  “It’s the pistol Adolf Hitler used to kill himself.”

  Martin’s face froze as he stared into the dark metal. His right leg began to flex and tremble as he concentrated to try and appear calm. Martin extended the pistol back to the Prime Minister and took a heavy breath. Crowne snatched it back, flipping the pistol comfortably into his palm.

  “After they found him with Eva Braun in the bunker,” Crowne said, “they burned the bodies. But a few of our guys got in there for intelligence. One of them, a nervous wreck of a Staff Sergeant, slipped the pistol under his helmet when no one was paying attention. Still had brains and blood all over it, ended up dripping down the back of his neck and making quite a mess. He made it all the way back to London with the thing—smuggled in suitcases, lunch boxes, that sort of nonsense—before finally having a panic attack and handing it over to his commanding officer. Isn’t it something?”

  “It is, sir,” Martin replied, his eyes still locked on the pistol.

  “Don’t worry, Martin. I know what you’re thinking. Hitler was a madman, no one’s debating that. I didn’t want the pistol as some sick tribute to him, that’s not the point. We’re not doing what he did. His goals were not our goals.” Crowne tossed the pistol back into the box from a few feet away. The gun landed with a loud thud, causing Martin to jump on impact.

  “I wanted the pistol to remind us of what we’re up against. If we succeed, we’ll be heroes. We’ll have saved the human race. Technology and society will advance at rates like we’ve never seen before. Nature will heal itself and welcome us back into her arms. We’ll be responsible for that next phase of humanity. We’ll be the booster rocket for all generations to come. That’s how we’ll be remembered if we do this the right way.”

  Closing the top of the box, Crowne placed his palms firmly on the desk, leaning in across the table top and directly at Martin. “But if we fail, we’ll look like the others. We’ll be madmen in the eyes of history, even though we know that’s not the case. They’ll twist our thinking into their agendas; they’ll rewrite our purpose.”

  Martin swallowed a dry gulp down his throat.

  “We can’t lose at this, Martin. We only have three days to get it right. Everything has to be perfect; we need all of the logistics around The Project to be ready to go. Technology is the key for our success, you know that. Technology will be the manner in which we soar or we fail.”

  Crowne’s tone grew with anger as he crossed his arms firmly and stood tall. “The group needs a leader, and we need Caesar to be that leader. We need him on board, and we needed him to start yesterday. You have to do better.”

  His voice fell to a whisper. “Now, given what we’re up against, I think we can both agree that ‘I’m sure he’ll come around’ isn’t good enough right now. Don’t you think?”

  Martin stepped back, exhaling and nodding. His pocket buzzed and he retrieved his phone, checking the fresh message.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll get him on board. I’m going to give our new friend Caesar something he can’t resist,” Martin said, regaining his composure. “I’m going to give him another puzzle to solve.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Titanhurst - London

  March 9th, 2:37PM
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br />   The flowing gold and burgundy pattern of the hallway carpet began to cast a wicked optical illusion; in small doses, the ovals and surrounding ridges would have been fine, but the never-ending length of the hall mixed with Martin’s rapid pace was causing Caesar’s head to spin.

  He reached out against the hard plaster wall, running his hand across the wainscoting for a moment, trying his best to right himself. He focused his eyes on the box-beamed wooden ceiling to grasp back a sense of direction.

  “I’m not sure where you’re taking me,” Caesar said as he steadied his gait. “But I thought I was pretty clear. I’m not planning to help you.”

  Martin, walking a few steps ahead, simply looked back and flashed a smile towards Caesar.

  “Yes, yes. I understood. You were quite clear,” Martin responded, continuing his fast-paced march down the hallway. “I just want to show you something before you go. It won’t take but a minute.”

  “Besides, your plan will never work,” Caesar said. “People will never follow a single power across the globe, especially one that isn’t elected.”

  Caesar lost sight of Martin momentarily as he turned a corner and sped down the connecting hall, picking up a slight jog to keep up with the pace.

  “It won’t be long now; we’re almost there,” Martin said, checking his phone with one eye as he kept his momentum.

  Martin stopped at a door at the end of the hall and slapped his keycard up against a flat white security panel. “Here we are.” There was a quick buzz-click-buzz and Martin pulled at the door, allowing Caesar to enter in front of him.

  Taking a careful step across the threshold, Caesar craned his neck around the corner to check the room before fully committing. What he saw inside looked very familiar.