by Tom Grace
Maya nodded. “The birth of Terrafuma Energy. All your years of research, your life’s work, have led to this moment. A moment that will change the world.”
He leaned forward and studied the cover of the contract. It bore the logo of a company that would exist as soon as he and Maya added their signatures to these documents. While the paperwork before them was thick with legal boilerplate, the essence of the agreement was simple. For his part, Ross would invest Terrafuma with his intellectual property—a permanent license on the revolutionary technologies that he created. Maya would provide the considerable financial resources required to establish this new private company. They were equal shareholders in this venture, a dream they both had nurtured over the long years of research and development.
“There are only two things I can think of that I was more excited to sign,” Ross said. “My wedding license, and my first driver’s license.”
“Only one was worth more,” Maya opined.
Ross removed the cap from one of the pens and flipped to the tabbed signature page. Slowly, he guided the pen through the loops and curves of his name. Maya then added her signature to consummate the deal.
They completed the remaining copies quickly and Maya returned all but Ross’s copy to her locked drawer.
“So, now it’s official,” Maya declared as she returned to the sofa. “You are the first billionaire of the new year. On behalf of those of us who have created something worthy of earning three significant commas of net worth, I welcome you to the club.”
Ross shook his head and smiled. “Thank you.”
“Now before we can celebrate, we must attend to Terrafuma’s first client.”
Maya tapped a few keystrokes into a handheld remote to activate a secure teleconferencing program. A moment later, a flat-screen wall monitor glowed with a view into a room half a world away. Looking back at them was an Asian man with a round face and graying black hair. It was Chen Yung-Chin, leader of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress—a position of power second only to the Chinese presidency.
“Good day, Chairman Chen,” Maya said with a polite nod of her head.
“And to you, Ms. Randell,” Chen replied.
“It is my great pleasure to at last introduce to you my associate, Ross Egan.”
“I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance,” Chen said. “We share a similar background in electrical engineering. Speaking as one engineer to another, your work is most revolutionary.”
“Thank you,” Ross replied.
“I trust that your review team was satisfied with our demonstration at the Dongjiao Power Plant?” Maya asked.
“Indeed. Their only disappointment was in not seeing how your innovation was accomplished.”
“Will respect for our intellectual property be an issue?” Egan asked.
“It will not,” Chen vowed. “Separate installations will be provided as defined in the contract. All activity within those installations will be the sole responsibility of Terrafuma Energy.”
“And the payment terms we proposed?” Maya asked.
“Most unusual,” Chen replied, his eyes narrowing, “but what you offer is also most unusual. China’s investment in US Treasuries has lost considerable value due to actions taken by your President and his most significant supporter. Paying Terrafuma in Treasuries is agreeable assuming that you can meet the timeline.”
“Our project team is ready to scale up the work at Dongjiao as soon as the contracts are signed,” Maya said. “From there, they will move on to your other power generation facilities.”
“Then I suggest you make arrangements for that work to commence as soon as possible. I will sign the contracts upon the conclusion of this call,” Chen promised. “The first transfer will be made into Terrafuma’s account at the open of business tomorrow.”
“And the other matter we discussed?” Maya asked.
“Ah, the favor,” Chen said, smiling conspiratorially. “Consider our warming interest in joining the President’s New York Climate Exchange an act of gratitude from the People’s Republic of China.”
“We look forward to the fruits of those discussions,” Maya said with a polite nod of her head.
“Until we speak again.” Chen returned the nod, and then terminated the call.
Ross turned to Maya. “That went well.”
“And the President will be thrilled with the prospect of China joining his climate exchange. A diplomatic and environmental coup—it’s the kind of accomplishment that may help him win the election.”
“It’ll certainly do something to his chances in the fall,” Ross agreed.
“Yes, but first we must help him through the primaries. Four years ago, Governor Lynn lost her party’s nomination by the slimmest of margins, and there are many who now regret their decision to back the President. She presents a formidable challenge for the nomination.”
“And serious contenders draw the big money.”
“They do indeed,” Maya said. “And as my dissatisfaction with the President is known in certain circles, the governor and I have an area of common interest.”
“When do you meet?” Ross asked.
“In a few days. And instead of a campaign contribution, I’ll make Governor Lynn and her husband an offer she can’t refuse.”
CHAPTER TEN
PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
JANUARY 2
The Rose Bowl Stadium echoed with the roar of more than eighty-seven thousand football fans. John Sarcobosco strained to hear the count amid the din, his body tense in a deep three-point stance, coiled like a spring awaiting release.
“Blue 48, Blue 48—Mustang, Mustang!” Cincinnati quarterback Al Kresta called out from the shotgun. “Hut!”
The center to Sarcobosco’s left snapped the ball back and the offensive lineman lunged forward. He was immediately met by his counterpart on Florida’s defensive line, a two-time All American slotted to go in the upper rounds of the next NFL draft. The parabolic microphones on the sidelines easily caught the crash of helmets and shoulder pads, transmitting the bone-jarring sound to millions of television sets around the country.
The Cincinnati line held off the Gator blitz. From inside the pocket, Kresta drilled a pass onto the numbers of his favorite receiver of the day. Tomeo hauled his catch in with both arms and sped for a seam through the Florida secondary. In the short field—on third and goal from the eight—the Gator cornerback and safety weren’t giving Tomeo much room, closing on him in an instant.
As the two defenders slammed into Tomeo, the receiver felt arms tightening around his chest and waist. Like hitting a brick wall, Tomeo’s forward motion stopped abruptly, the defenders’ momentum plowing him down onto the field. The safety tried to wedge his hand into the cradle of Tomeo’s forearms, attempting to dislodge the football and cause a fumble.
Both hands on the ball! Tomeo imagined his coach shouting—the running back’s mantra drilled into him over years of practice.
Tomeo would not fumble—not today and not now. The impact of his shoulders hitting the ground jarred him. What air remained in his lungs shot out in a blast, but he held on to the football.
The whistle blew. The play was over. From beneath a pile of bodies, Tomeo lifted his head and saw the grass around his face was green. The white line he had tried to cross was barely an arm’s length away.
The two Gators pulled themselves up. Sarcobosco eclipsed the sun and held out a friendly hand.
“Took a hell of a shot there, bro,” Sarcobosco said. “Ready for another go?”
With one hand still on the ball and the other wrapped around Sarcobosco’s meaty forearm, Tomeo pulled himself upright.
“Job ain’t done, Little John. Job ain’t done.”
Tomeo handed the ball to the linesman, who spotted it inside the one-yard line.
Fifteen seconds remained to play in the first major college bowl game of the new year. The score: Florida 24, Cincinnati 20. Cincinnati had to score a touchdown to win; a fie
ld goal wasn’t enough. They had one last shot, fourth down with barely a yard of field between them and a victory. All they had to do was find a way past the stifling defense of the undefeated Gators. The Gator nation chafed that they wouldn’t be playing a week later in the BCS game, though no one could argue that the schedules played by the top two teams were any easier.
As his teammates moved into the huddle, Kresta scanned his team’s sideline. The offensive coach and several assistants were all gesturing frantically, a coded language of hand signals indicating the final play of the game. All but one of the signalers was a decoy, and quarter-by-quarter his team changed who sent in the plays. The noise generated by the largely hostile crowd doubled in intensity.
Thirteen seconds.
“Rip, Tight, 36-under, T-Bird, Charger,” Kresta sounded clearly to his brothers in arms, looking at each squarely as he spoke. The car names were his team’s playbook code. “On two! On two! Nobody jumps offsides! Go!”
The offensive line formed off the center, each of the large, muscular men crouching down into a deep low stance. Cincinnati set eight men up front, with Kresta immediately behind the center and a pair of running backs lined up in back of him.
The Gator side of the line of scrimmage was just as formidable, a wall of men intent on defending a thin strip of land with every last ounce of their strength. The game would end in a display of blood and guts, smash-mouth football.
Ten seconds.
“Hut!” Kresta shouted.
The Gators’ left-side defensive end surged forward, the only one of the sixteen men on the line to flinch. The linesmen blew their whistles and tossed penalty flags.
The clock stopped with nine seconds to play and both teams stood up.
“Offsides. Number eighty-two on the defense,” the head referee announced to the stadium and television audience. “Half the distance to the goal. Repeat fourth down.”
The one-hundred-yard-long field had been reduced to little more than the length of the football. The penalized defensive end’s head hung low; he knew he’d just made his teammates job that much harder. A signal from the sideline traded the player out.
Both sides parted as the linesman reset the ball and the referee whistled for play to resume. No huddle. Both sides quickly moved into position. Kresta scanned the defense and noted a slightly different look with the replacement player.
“Corvette!” Kresta shouted, telling his teammates to run a mirror image of the previous play. “Corvette!”
Sarcobosco planted his tree-trunk thighs and crouched low, his back as level as a cornerstone.
“You’re going home with nothing,” the All-American defensive tackle growled.
Though slightly larger than he, Sarcobosco noted that the tackle’s hind side was set low. He lowered his head and locked his eyes on the goal line.
“Hut!” Kresta shouted.
“I’m gonna stuff you like a turkey,” the tackle boasted.
“Hut!”
Sarcobosco surged forward, driving his shoulder down and under his opponent’s pads and into the man’s chest. The battle to move the line between the two sides became a simple matter of leverage. Sarcobosco had the upper hand, driving forward and up, pressing the tackle back on his heels. As the tackle stumbled over the foot of a teammate, Sarcobosco took full advantage of the misstep.
Sarcobosco’s head was still down, shoulder planted squarely in the tackle’s numbers, when he saw the goal line below. He’d driven the line forward.
Kresta fed the ball to Jakes, the halfback, who slipped along Sarcobosco’s right hip and surged toward the goal line. A pair of linebackers rushed in to fill the gap and swarm the ball carrier.
As the whistle blew, a pile of bodies lay atop the goal line. Sarcobosco pulled himself up to his full six-four and looked down at the tackle he’d pancaked. The man was flat on his back like a stranded turtle.
“First-round draft choice, my ass,” Sarcobosco said with a derisive snort.
The line judge who signaled the play dead ran up with one fist in the air, signaling no score. The Gator fans roared their approval. The head linesman made no ruling on the play.
“What do you got?” the head referee asked his two linesmen.
“The ball carrier didn’t break the plane,” the line judge replied.
“I didn’t have a clear view,” the head linesman offered.
“All right then.”
The head referee picked up the ball and set it on the three-inch line, then signaled a first down for Florida.
“What?” Sarcobosco roared. “I crossed the goal line with Jakes in my back pocket!”
“This is bullshit!” Jakes agreed, stripping off his helmet. “We’re being jobbed!”
“Still going home with nothing,” the Gator tackle taunted as he headed toward his sideline.
“And you’ll be lucky to go in the seventh round with those grass stains on your ass,” Sarcobosco countered.
“I scored, man. I know it,” Jakes groused.
“Damn straight.”
Two seconds.
As the Florida offense and Cincinnati defense ran onto the field for what would be the final play of the game to seal the Gator victory, the head referee felt the pager on his belt vibrate. The signal from the replay official in the press box was not unexpected. He switched on his microphone and stepped in front of the camera.
“Official time-out. The previous play is under review.”
The head referee then jogged over to the sideline and picked up the phone connecting him to the replay official.
“What do you see?”
“First angle … can’t tell,” the voice on the phone replied.
The jumbotrons at both ends of the stadium replayed the dramatic goal-line stand.
“Next angle … again, it could go either way. I need the overhead shot down the line. Okay, there’s the snap and … oh shit.”
“What?” the head referee asked.
“The feed cut out. My screen’s black.”
The crowd in the stadium gasped as the jumbotrons and electronic displays around the stadium all went blank.
“We lose power?”
“We still got lights in the press box, and the network is still broadcasting,” the replay official replied. “Just nothing on—what the hell?”
One by one, a series of white letters appeared on the stadium’s screens. They spelled out the message:
WHO IS I?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JANUARY 6
“If I may speak candidly, Mr. President,” the Director of Central Intelligence said, “we have no idea how these intrusions were executed. This isn’t just a single event, but a series of well-orchestrated, complex operations. We have to consider the very real possibility that the Chinese or the Russians are behind this.”
The President nodded pensively, but said nothing. He was seated in an exact replica of the Appalachian oak rocking chair favored by JFK. The DCI and the Director of the FBI sat on the adjacent couch. Levi Knopper, the White House Chief of Staff, sat in a chair opposite the directors.
“Is there any direct evidence implicating anyone?” Knopper asked.
“No,” the FBI Director replied. “And no one has claimed credit for these three cyber-attacks.”
“So what do we know?” the President asked pointedly.
“The first attack, during the recent State Dinner, was a simple, mass cell phone text to guests attending that event. The message was routed through several carriers simultaneously, with the message apparently originating outside of the United States.”
“Apparently?” Knopper interjected.
“The CIA and NSA ran down the international trail to a blind end,” the DCI replied. “The text messages could just have easily originated within the US, meaning the trail we followed was a ruse.”
“We are still trying to determine how these messages entered the system, and how the sender acquired the cell phone numbe
rs for your guests that evening. Even the White House didn’t have numbers for all of the attendees who received the message. It’s possible that three or more of the local cell towers were used to track guests entering the White House grounds and to strip their phone numbers.”
“What about Times Square?” the President asked.
“Completely different type of attack,” the FBI Director replied. “This wasn’t a blanket disruption of the city’s power grid, but a surgical disruption of power to specific buildings and signage. The police, fire stations, and hospitals closest to Times Square were unaffected by the attack. They tied into dozens of electrical and communications systems remotely and they covered their tracks very well. All of the servers identified as access points were rebooted at 12:01 a.m. and their memories wiped clean. A similar approach was used at the Rose Bowl, though that incursion was limited to the stadium’s jumbotron displays. The one thing these attacks have in common is a total lack of physical evidence.”
“Since the text incident at the White House went largely unreported,” the DCI added, “the more public attacks are being viewed largely as a publicity stunt.”
“A publicity stunt?” Knopper snapped. “For what, terrorists?”
“A movie,” the FBI Director replied. “At least that’s the buzz running all over the Internet. The domain name who-is-i.com is taken, along with several variations. No luck so far in tracking down the registered owners. No one at any of the major studios has heard of a movie with this tagline for a marketing campaign. A few offered that if this was done to promote a movie, it’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant until it lands the people responsible for it in jail,” Knopper countered.
“Given that no one has been hurt, no property has been damaged, and each attack has been benign in nature,” the FBI Director offered, “I doubt anyone would receive a prison sentence for this.”
“The courts will make that decision,” the President said. “What I’m concerned about is if the intent is not benign.”
“We are operating on that assumption until proven otherwise, Mr. President,” the DCI offered. “And regardless of the intent, we need to know how this was accomplished in order to prevent it from happening again.”
