Kill Switch

by Jonathan Maberry

ISLAMIC STATE OF IRAQ AND ASH-SHAM

  MOBILE CAMP #7

  SEPTEMBER 9, 9:34 P.M. LOCAL TIME

  The Mullah sat in his tent and ate chicken and lentils while the men around him argued. This was a difficult meeting. An important one, because these men had brought old hatreds with them to the Mullah’s tent. These were men who had sworn death threats against others seated nearby. No one had been allowed to bring a weapon with them. Only the Mullah’s men had guns. Each of the others had ten hand-picked men outside, seated on the ground under palm trees. They had been instructed to read the same key passages of the Koran and to talk only among themselves. They were told that it would be a great sin against God to break the temporary truce the Mullah had called for. The men obeyed, but they glared their hatred at the others who sat only yards away.

  Inside the tent, the Mullah listened to representatives of the Taliban and al-Qaeda. There were Sunnis here seated next to Shiites. There were leaders whose tribal conflicts were numbered in centuries. It was a gathering many of these men and all the rest of the world said was impossible, even unthinkable.

  The Mullah had greeted them all as brothers. Seating was arranged by lottery, with no one receiving favored placement. Even the Mullah had drawn a colored stone from a bowl to receive his place.

  When he was done eating, the Mullah set aside his food, washed his hands and face. Then he led them all in a carefully chosen prayer, one that had been selected because it did not play into any sectarian ideology but simply worshiped God. When this was done, he asked permission from the group to turn on his laptop computer. They agreed, though some were very cautious and uncertain.

  Akbar brought the machine and placed it on a small table beside the Mullah. The old man turned it on and brought up a news update from Houston, Texas. It showed the mountains of rubble of what had once been a hotel a few weeks ago. Towers of work lights had been erected and crews of emergency personnel were picking through the debris while the voice of a reporter said that there were still forty-seven people missing and presumed dead. Rescue workers had found parts of another thirty-two. All of the other dead had long since been removed.

  “You see this?” asked the Mullah. “Do you see how much damage has been done to our enemy?”

  The others nodded. Many of them eyed him with suspicion or anticipation. The Mullah smiled and placed his hand over the screen.

  “I did this,” he said.

  There was a moment of dead silence.

  Then everyone began yelling. Shouts of praise, harsh denials, accusations, and even threats. The Mullah let it all wash over him. Finally it was his calm lack of response that quieted the tent. They fell silent one by one, and he nodded to each man as they did so.

  “Of course you do not believe me,” he said, still smiling. “Why would you? Anyone can point to an event and say, ‘I did that.’ We have in the past, each in our several groups. It is a tool of fear and confusion, and they are both arrows in our quiver.”

  No comments, merely silence and a few nods.

  “I do not ask that you believe an old man when he makes what appears to be a wild claim. I would never insult you in such a way, my brothers. It would be unseemly.”

  A few more nods, but the men seemed to be ready for a trick.

  “It is out of my respect for each of you and for all of us in our beliefs that I do not ask for trust but instead offer proof.”

  One of the men spoke up at last, a Taliban warlord who had fought at times with and against the Americans and whose father had died fighting the Russians. He said, “What proof is this?”

  “Before I show you, my brother, I want to explain why we have not openly declared the attack on Houston to be part of our jihad.” The Mullah gazed around, fixing each man in turn with a serious, penetrating look. “Some of you are here because you are already part of our new caliphate. Others, I believe, have come because you heard the rumors. Speculations in the world media and whispers from the mouths of our own people. You have heard of the Mullah of the Black Tent. You know that I have, because of the grace and guidance of God, directed our forces toward making greater gains and also helped them evade reprisals from our enemies.”

  A few nods, some reluctant.

  “And some of you are here because you want to know if, in fact, the army of the caliphate has done this great thing.” He nodded, his smile never fading. “Now you are here and you watch an old man eat chicken and show you pretty pictures on a computer. You hear an old fool make claims and you wonder—Is this a trap? Is this a joke? Is this worth the risks you took when coming here?”

  “Of course we wonder those things,” said the warlord. “We are not starry-eyed children. We are men who are fighting a war, and as such we do not have time to waste on fantasies and false claims.”

  That caused a sudden buzz of argument, but the Mullah raised his hand to call for peace. It fell, slowly and awkwardly.

  “There is a saying that one picture is worth a thousand words,” said the Mullah. “So, let me show you something beautiful.”

  He tapped a few keys on the laptop and the image of Houston vanished to be replaced by a military base. The image wobbled but it was clear.

  “This is Fort Rucker army base in Dale County, Alabama. That is in the southern part of the United States. It is home to the First Aviation Brigade under the command of Brigadier General Michael Lundy. Between military personnel, civilian employees, and families, there are five thousand people on the base. The United States Army Aviation Center of Excellence is located there. Many of the their military policies and procedures that are used against our people are developed there. This is a crucial place. A key target, but one that is unapproachable. This image is from a pigeon drone, but before you ask, the drone is not armed with explosives. It is there to give us a bird’s-eye view, if you will pardon the small joke.”

  No one smiled.

  As the bird flew, its camera’s eyes showed men and women training, vehicles moving, a Chinook helicopter airlifting a large air-conditioner unit to the top of a building that was under construction.

  “The people on this base feel safe,” said the Mullah. “They have numbers, they have gates and guards, they have their training, and we have to accept that their training is second to none. They have advanced technology and they have so many weapons and resources. We are like peasants throwing stones.” He shook his head. “But what if we could reach out and, as if with the hand of God, switch off their lights, still their engines, drop their planes from the sky, silence their communications, darken their nights? What if the great thing that happened in Houston was no fluke? What if it was us? What if this is something we could do at any time? What if we held that power?”

  The warlord was the only person who seemed able to speak. “Are you saying that you could do that to a military base in their own country?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prove it,” challenged the warlord. “I will go back to my people and we will watch the news and we will see if you are a lying old fool or—”

  And on the screen all of the power at Fort Rucker went out. The big Chinook suddenly jerked as the rotors died. The machine fell like a dead bird. All across the base the lights went out, the vehicles rolled to slow stops, the people turned, and looked around, and yelled. Some of them screamed. The sound of the crashing Chinook rolled like thunder across the base.

  The gathered men cried out in surprise. Some of them leapt to their feet.

  The Mullah sat there, smiling.

  “And now we give them back a shred of hope,” said the Mullah. On the screen the lights came back on. The engines started up. Sirens began to wail, and only they were loud enough to drown out the screams. “And with hope comes doubt. It is the survivors of a catastrophe who are the victims, for they have seen the face of death and they know it can take them at any time. They will never be free of the memory and the fear for the rest of their lives.”

  The warlord wiped spit from his mouth with a trembling hand
. “This is how we will win this war. This is the sword of God.”

  But the Mullah shook his head. “No, my brother, this is the gun.”

  He reached over and tapped keys to change the image. Instead of a view of burning carnage it showed a pair of men dressed in white hazmat suits. They stood in a small, poorly equipped laboratory. As the gathered fighters watched, one of them used an oversized syringe to draw biological transport medium from a heavy vial and inject it into a small device. He repeated the process over and over again until he had emptied all of the metal vials and filled the receptacles on several dozen small but identical devices. Then he and the second man went down the line and closed the lids, forcing them down hard against the springs. As each lid closed a small magnetic lock clicked into place and a green safety light flicked on.

  The metal vials were each stamped with the international biohazard symbol.

  “And this, my friends,” said the Mullah softly, “is the bullet.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  THE PIER

  DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 9, 12:17 P.M.

  We sat in horrified silence, watching it all unfold on the screen.

  Church and Violin, Harry Bolt and me. The death toll at Rucker was small when compared to Houston, but incalculable when measured against the destroyed lives of each of those servicemen and women.

  “We interrupt our full team coverage of the tragedy at Fort Rucker,” said the reporter for the NBC affiliate. “I am told that we have received a statement from the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. We are going to play it live. Please be cautioned that we have not had an opportunity to preview this statement.”

  The anchor’s grim face was replaced by a good-quality video of a man in a black turban with dark eyes surrounded by wrinkled flesh. His nose and mouth were covered by a black scarf and the flag of ISIL was hung on the wall behind him.

  Church hit the Record button.

  “I speak to you now as the voice of jihad,” he said, speaking in perfect English. “I speak to you as a mujahedeen, a soldier of God. I speak to you as the voice of the new and eternal caliphate. I speak to you now to tell you that we will no longer accept interference with our culture, our people, our nations, and our faith. You may not have our oil. You may not rape our lands. You may not, with impunity, invade our countries and slaughter our people. That time has ended. God has reached out his mighty hand and drawn the curtain to cast you into darkness. You have seen this. You have cried out in that darkness and wondered why? How? Who?” He held up a finger and wagged it back and forth, the way a teacher might scold a naughty schoolboy. “A great darkness is coming. Ten of your cities will fall into hell. There is nothing you will be able to do to stop this because it is impossible to oppose the will of God. All that you can do is fall onto your knees and pray for forgiveness. You have declared war on the lands and the people and the one true faith. You and your children will pay for your sins. Darkness will fall. Darkness will fall.”

  The camera lingered on his eyes for several silent seconds, and it struck me that the man looked dazed, or stoned. Or something. As he’d spoken there was no flicker in those eyes. We could see his mouth move even beneath the scarf, but the eyes were like those of a mannequin. No expression, no flaring as he made his threats. No life.

  The video feed ended and the anchor came back and in contrast the gleam in his eyes was equal parts stark terror and dawning realization that this was possibly the biggest moment of his career.

  Church replayed the video.

  When it was over, Violin said, “The Mullah of the Black Tent. God. ISIL has owned the Houston and Rucker attacks. They’ve just declared open war on the United States.”

  “He mentioned the children,” I said, my voice thick, my head filled with hornets. “Jesus Christ, Church, he has the SX-56 and he’s going to use the Kill Switch to hit us with it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  HUMPHRIES-BELMONT ELECTRONICS SOLUTIONS

  THE ABSALOM FOGELMAN BUILDING

  6082 CENTER DRIVE

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 9, 1:16 P.M.

  The call came fifty-eight minutes after Mr. Priest left Dr. Kang’s office. During every second of those fifty-eight minutes Kang sat stock-still at his desk, his hands gripped like vises around the arms of his chair. He was too terrified to move despite the sodden stink in his trousers. The digital numbers on his desk clock had stubbornly refused to hurry through what felt like a thousand years of waiting.

  When the burner rang, Kang screamed.

  Very loud.

  There was no one in the outer office to hear the scream. Mr. Priest had—either by luck or design—chosen a day when Kang’s secretary was out sick.

  The ring was not particularly loud, but it shattered the silence in Kang’s office.

  Kang snatched it up and then froze again, caught in the horrible indecision of wanting to hear that his family was unharmed and dreading a message to the contrary.

  It rang again.

  And again.

  Then he began stabbing at the green button with numb and trembling fingers. Punched it on and then nearly ended the call. Finally he clumsied it to his ear.

  “Yes, yes … are they all right? Please?”

  “Dr. Kang,” said the smooth, familiar voice of Mr. Priest, “I appreciate your courtesy and cooperation. You are now free to do as you please. And rest assured, your family is safe.”

  “You motherfucker, I’ll—”

  “Shhh, Doctor. You’ve come up from the underworld, but don’t assume that you will ever be entirely in the upper world. Now is not the time to turn and look for Eurydice. She is as safe as anyone ever is in such a world as this.”

  The reference to the myth of Orpheus was not lost on Kang, even with so much stress burning its way through him. “Orpheus” was the code name for one of the major defense projects in the databanks he had allowed Mr. Priest to plunder. One of many.

  “You promised to leave them alone,” growled Kang. “You promised not to hurt them.”

  “And I haven’t,” said Mr. Priest. “Good-bye, Dr. Kang. It has been a genuine pleasure.”

  The line went dead.

  For a terrible moment Kang did not know whom to call first. His wife or the security office.

  He called his wife. She answered on the second ring. Kang almost screamed. He told her to get the kids and get out of the house, to come here to the lab, to do it right away.

  Kang hung up before she could ask any questions. Then he called his control officer at the Department of Defense.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  THE PIER

  DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 9, 1:26 P.M.

  Harcourt Bolton came hurrying into the conference room.

  “Christ!” he yelled. “Did you see it? Did you see that damn thing?”

  “We saw it,” I said.

  “I’ve been on the phone with the president,” he gasped, breathless from running from his office. “I assured POTUS that we have local teams inbound. Jerry Spencer and his forensics people are on their way, too.”

  Church gave him a long, appraising look, but his only response was a small nod.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked, standing up. “Echo is ready to rock.”

  Bolton looked embarrassed and didn’t meet my eyes. “Captain Ledger … Joe … I think I’d rather have you here for, um, tactical support.”

  It was awkward and clumsy. He did not come right out and say that he did not have confidence in me or in Echo Team, but it was right there burning in the air.

  “If you saw the whole thing, Bolton, then you have to know they have the smallpox bioweapon. We need to move on this.”

  “We are,” said Bolton, and he leaned a little too hard on the word “we.”

  “What he’s trying to tell you, Captain,” Church said quietl
y, “is that this is still not our case.”

  “Bullshit,” I snarled. “You’re using our people. My people. That makes it my case.”

  “Look, Joe,” said Bolton, “I’m sorry, but the president was very clear on this. I can use DMS resources, and I’m happy to do so, but the Central Intelligence has operational control.”

  “Then use me as a liaison.”

  “I … can’t…,” said Bolton. He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but after Gateway, POTUS doesn’t want you in play on anything this sensitive.”

  I slapped his hand away. “This is bullshit and you know it. You’re treating Gateway like it was a failure. We shut down a bioweapons program that had gone off the rails and killed the whole staff. We kept it from getting off the leash. And now we’ve proven that Gateway is tied to Majestic. And that they were developing a psychic spy program that Central Intelligence said wouldn’t work. We’ve proven that there are Closers in the field trying to locate more Majestic materials. We’re close to locating the sequencing code to the machine that controls the Kill Switch technology.” I pointed to the screen, where they were rerunning the message from the Mullah of the Black Tent. “Maybe that master code sequence could allow us to stop this shit. Did you think of that? We’re closing in on it. Us, the D-fucking-MS. Not the C-fucking-IA. We’re already doing our jobs, Harcourt. What have you and your Agency boys done that’s worth a shit? Nothing. How can you bench us now?”

  Bolton’s face slowly transformed from a look of embarrassed concern to a scowl of red-hot anger. He got up in my face, stepping toward me. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Captain Ledger? I’ve been trying to be civil with you and the rest of the screwups around here, but quite frankly my patience is wearing thin. I’ve run interference for you and you want to throw it in my face? You are every bit as arrogant and pigheaded as everyone says. You think you’re a superhero, don’t you, Ledger? You think you’re the new face of government service, the top of the game, but you know what? You’re a thug who gets lucky sometimes. That’s it. You got too many people inside your head and none of them have any real chance of solving this thing. So, take it from someone who actually knows what he’s doing and stand down.”