Freedom (TM) d-2

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Freedom (TM) d-2 Page 21

by Daniel Suarez


  Strickland stood up. “Gentlemen.”

  That’s when he noticed their gun barrels were smoking. The odor of cordite wafted over him.

  One of them raised a gauntleted hand and motioned for the outliers to walk around the edges of the desk—approaching Strickland from two different directions.

  “Whoa, what’s going on?”

  The voice came over a radio speaker. “Nothing, sir. Please put these on.” He reached forward, extending a pair of expensive-lo oking eyeglasses.

  “Hold … what?”

  The two soldiers on either side grabbed him roughly by the arms. Their grip was crushing—almost supernaturally strong.

  Again came the radio voice from that inscrutable mirrored faceplate in front of him. “I said, put these on.”

  “Okay. For chrissake. What’s going on?” The twin guards relaxed their grip enough for him to take the glasses—heavy things—and put them on.

  As he did so, the view in front of him suddenly changed to reveal a sixth person in the room—a ghostly apparition that was kneeling next to Strickland’s lone patient among the rows of beds. He could hear it whispering.

  “Oh my god …”

  As Strickland spoke, the apparition turned and stood. It then walked calmly and methodically toward him. It was unaccountably the translucent apparition of … apparently of an SS officer with full trench coat, monocle, and peaked hat.

  Strickland tried to back up, he was so startled, but the guards held him fast.

  The ghostly Nazi came right up to Strickland’s terrified face. “Now ve can see each other. Do you know of me, mein Herr?”

  “Do I know of you? I don’t even know what you are!”

  “It was a yes or no qvestion. And yet it vas seemingly beyont you.” The ghostly Nazi turned to the real-world soldiers. “Place ze cap on him.”

  Strickland struggled as one of the men approached with what looked like a water polo helmet. Wires led from it to a controller. They began to strap it to his head.

  “Hold it! I’ll tell you what you want! You don’t have to do this!”

  The Nazi pulled out a long black cigarette filter and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag. “It tastes so much better at zis resolution.” He turned to Strickland and gestured at his headwear. “Ze cap on your head uses near infrared to measure blood acktifity in your brain. In short—it tells me if you’re lying.”

  “I just work here. I was taking care of him.” Strickland could already see a real-life, human medical team moving over to his patient—half a dozen men and women holding IVs and wheeling a stretcher.

  The SS officer laughed a unique, wicked laugh. “I haf no idea vat you’re saying … but it sounds terrified.” Then he focused his spectral gaze on Strickland. “Ver you ze one who injured mein Freund?”

  “No! I swear it!”

  The Nazi paused a moment and then nodded—before asking, “Do you know ver I can find ze perpetrators?”

  “No.”

  He spoke more insistently. “Do you know ver I can find zem!”

  “No! I don’t know!”

  There was a pause. The Nazi nodded again. “Vill zey be coming back to zis place?”

  Strickland waited as long as he dared—then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Gut, gut, mein Herr! Ve are just about finished here.” He walked right up to Strickland, blowing virtual smoke in his face—causing Strickland to cough out of instinct. “Tell me … vould you haf enjoyed harming mein Freund—if you had ze chance?”

  Strickland just stared. His mouth was suddenly dry as he looked into the ghostly eyes only inches from his own. They were insanely real—as was the gleam in them when the Nazi smiled.

  “Zat’s vat I thought… .” He turned to the soldiers. “Secure him, gentlemen….”

  A soldier pulled the cap off his head.

  “Hold it! Hold it!” Strickland looked to the faceplate of the soldier to his right, then to his left. “It’s wrong! The machine is wrong!”

  The soldiers grabbed his wrists and slammed his hands against the wall with incredible force. They seemed to have artificial musculature in their suits that he was helpless to resist.

  They placed steel restraints over his wrists and then tapped the wall looking for studs—finally using a power tool to bolt the restraints in place. They repeated the process for his struggling feet.

  “No! Stop!”

  Meanwhile, the spectral Nazi just stood observing, smoking his cigarette on its long filter.

  The soldiers finally stood. “Done, sir!”

  “Gut. Leave us.”

  The soldiers exchanged looks and left in a hurry. As they did, a deep rumbling noise came to Strickland’s ears. It was like a slow, rolling thunder. Through the wide infirmary doorway came a hellish-looking motorcycle covered in blades and mystical sigils and glyphs. Another one followed it.

  “Oh my god …”

  They pulled up alongside the apparition and slammed down hydraulic kickstands. Both of them extended fiendish sword arms with a ring of steel.

  “No!”

  The Nazi removed his trench coat and hung it on the extended blade of a nearby bike. Then he rolled up his sleeves. He moved toward Strickland along with the second motorcycle. “I do so enjoy my vork… .”

  Part Three

  July

  Gold:$4.189USD/oz.

  Unleaded Gasoline:$18.87USD/gallon

  Unemployment:32.3%

  USD/Darknet Credit:202.4

  Chapter 23: // Ultimatum

  Realtime.com/news

  Violence Spreads as Dollar Slides—Marauding gangs of heavily armed immigrant workers are terrorizing entire counties in Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, and Oklahoma, prompting calls for martial law in several Midwestern states and causing locals to take up arms in self-defense. With hyperinflation and never-before-seen gas prices invalidating the economies of entire communities, officials fear civil order has begun to break down.

  With the U.S. military thinly stretched overseas, private security firms have contracted with several Midwestern municipalities to restore order and suppress looting.

  The heads of America’s intelligence services sat around a circular boardroom table in Building OPS-2B of National Security Agency headquarters. Now outnumbering them at the table was a wide array of private intelligence and military analysts, led by familiar executives from Computer Systems Corporation (CSC), its subsidiaries—EndoCorp and Korr Military Solutions—and the lobbying firm, Byers, Carroll, and Marquist (BCM).

  The atmosphere was tense. On a bank of flat-screen televisions behind them, a dozen news channels were silently chronicling the meltdown of the American economy in animated graphics. But the real headlines were reserved for the fate of the U.S. dollar. All the graphs were heading down at a precipitous angle.

  Their host opened the meeting.

  NSA: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re facing a grave situation. As we sit here, the United States government has lost control of portions of its communications and air defense assets. At the same time, civil disorder is spreading throughout the Midwest, and the dollar is plummeting on foreign markets. I’m hearing calls for martial law coming from lobbyists on Capitol Hill. More worrisome is the talk I’ve heard about implementing Army Regulation 500-3.”

  BCM: “It’s being brought up with good reason.”

  NSA: “What reason?”

  CSC: “Army Regulation 500-3 was intended to preserve civil order in the event government communications are severed due to nuclear attack, natural disaster—”

  BCM: “Or technological emergency. I think the Daemon qualifies.”

  CSC: “Make no mistake: this is a full-scale attack by the Daemon. Its forces are launching a violent revolution. Regulation 500-3 is called for. Civilian leadership is unable to maintain secure communications.”

  NSA: “What I want to know is why our systems degraded so suddenly and completely.”

  EndoCorp: “The Daemon is conducting a broad denial of service attack a
gainst government domains and communications. It’s also undermining the confidence of capital markets. It’s part of Sobol’s overall strategy.”

  DARPA: “Bullshit.”

  All eyes turned to him.

  EndoCorp: “Excuse me?”

  DARPA: “You heard me.”

  BCM: “There’s no reason to abandon decorum, gentlemen.”

  NSA (holding up his hands to calm the situation): “However, my colleague’s succinct critique stands: we may have outsourced a large portion of our raw intelligence-gathering capability to private industry, but we’re not completely blind. There’s no indication that the systems operated under contract for us have been compromised.”

  CSC: “That’s ridiculous. We can show you the proof.”

  NSA: “I’m not interested in your digital proof. We’re monitoring network and electromagnetic activity in real time. There’s no evidence our national defense assets have been degraded.”

  BCM: “That’s a bold and reckless statement. You’re accusing trusted national security partners of gross negligence, Mr. Director.”

  NSA (pointing to the TV monitors): “This so-called domestic uprising related to the economy—Mexican drug gangs running loose, raping and pillaging in the countryside. Panicking the populace.”

  BCM: “This is what happens when economies collapse. Order needs to be restored before the chaos spreads. Private security forces are available and more palatable to the public than a government military force.”

  FBI: “These gangs—we’ve arrested heavily armed suspects all across the Midwest. They’ve murdered policemen and civil authorities—and more than a few of them have turned out to be professional mercenaries tied to defunct military regimes in Central America and Eastern Europe.”

  CIA: “Trained operators whose fingerprints we have on file.”

  BCM (raising an eyebrow): “Then you’ve worked with them before?”

  CIA: “My question is: who brought them here?”

  EndoCorp: “Most likely drug cartels, taking advantage of general lawlessness to make money.”

  CIA: “That defies logic.”

  NSA: “And what about money?” (Opens up a folder and tosses out reports like a blackjack dealer in Vegas.) “Financial houses controlled by your clients have been selling Treasury bills like crazy—you’re precipitating a run on the dollar.”

  BCM: “Our clients have a fiduciary responsibility to their investors, and quite frankly the monetary policies of the U.S. government haven’t—”

  DIA: “As if the U.S. government controls the creation of money! It seems the same private institutions entrusted with setting monetary policy were the ones who profited from debasing the dollar. No wonder the public is flocking to the Daemon network. The darknet credit is still worth a damn!”

  CSC: “That’s treasonous talk.”

  DIA: “Don’t lecture me about treason!”

  BCM: “Everybody calm down. Let’s stop throwing the T-word around. One man’s treason is another man’s patriotism.”

  FBI: “How do you figure that?”

  BCM: “The nation is under attack, and here we are arguing. We need to put our heads together.”

  NSA (glaring at him): “Yes. The United States is under attack. The question is by whom?”

  They all sat in bristling silence for several moments.

  BCM: “Certainly you don’t intend to stop us from defending our property? Or from maintaining public order?”

  FBI: “Who is behind the covert terror operations in the Midwest?”

  BCM: “Does it really matter?”

  DIA (looking to NSA director): “We need to declare a national emergency and mobilize whatever National Guard troops and equipment not already deployed overseas.”

  BCM: “You have a serious problem, gentlemen. Without immediate financial support, the U.S. dollar will collapse—precipitating the complete insolvency of the U.S. government. Picture Russia. Argentina.”

  NSA: “This is treason.”

  BCM: “A multinational corporation can’t commit treason. My clients have no obligation to America. Risk must be hedged.”

  NSA: “Get the treasury secretary on—”

  BCM: “Your government can create all the money it wants, but it will be worthless here and abroad. Without outside intervention the U.S. government will soon be a hollow shell.”

  There was silence for several moments.

  NSA: “What do they want?”

  BCM: “They need Army Regulation 500-3 amended to include private military contractors. And then they expect it to be invoked.”

  DIA: “You expect us to suspend the Constitution? Are you insane?”

  BCM: “You’re to stay out of the way while they deal with the Daemon. If you do so, global financial institutions will support the dollar—of course, there will need to be economic and social reforms put in place first to ensure a return to fiscal discipline.”

  The government half of the table looked like they were pondering violence.

  DIA: “Why are you doing this?”

  BCM: “My clients are simply defending their property—they own the genes being stolen by the Daemon’s operatives. They own the networks and software it has compromised. They own the global brands it has undermined. Representative government doesn’t have the will to defeat this threat.”

  DIA (to the NSA director): “Have him arrested!”

  The BCM representative gestured to the phone near the NSA director’s chair.

  BCM: “It’s your call. Try to arrest our people. Try to have the military interfere with our security operations. I think you’ll find that no one in your government has the stomach for it. We are not the enemy of America.”

  NSA: “I don’t know what you are. But some people in government still take seriously their oath to uphold the Constitution.”

  The NSA director picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Chapter 24: // Green Desert

  Washington.com/politics

  NSA Director Removed Amid Bribery Scandal—In yet another case of government corruption, Lieutenant General Mark Richards was forced to step down early today amid charges that he accepted lavish gifts and favors in exchange for approving lucrative intelligence contracts—contracts that benefited foreign technology firms. He has so far refused to comment, his lawyer citing the pending criminal case… .

  Jon Ross moved through the crowd that had gathered around a soup kitchen. Grim-looking, recently middle-class refugees surged toward the queues. He could see the isolated D-Space call-outs of darknet members keeping order.

  “Form four lines! Four lines, please!”

  Ross stood up on the bumper of an abandoned car and gazed across a vast tent city, accumulated like so much plaque at the confluence of two interstate highways outside of Des Moines, Iowa. It was actually a mixed tent/car/RV city. He estimated several thousand makeshift campsites. There was music, the buzz of voices, dogs barking, and the shouts of children playing in the maze of humanity. The acrid smell of people cooking over magazine-and-newspaper fires filled the air.

  Ross searched for a path through the crowd and noticed a current of people flowing along a makeshift lane. He headed toward it, inching his way through a mass of people. He caught most of a conversation at the end of a soup kitchen line as he edged past… .

  “Where were you headed?”

  “We were trying to reach Ohio—my sister’s in Columbus—but the bastards privatized the interstate. The tolls are insane.”

  “We couldn’t afford gas. I’ve been trying to trade my truck for a motorcycle. You know anybody who has one?”

  “No, sorry… .”

  Ross reached the pathway and started passing individual camps—recent arrivals to homelessness. People with Infinitis and Lexus sedans. Furniture piled into the backs of expensive, crew-cab pickup trucks. A few people even had living room sets with sofas and matching chairs set up beneath tarps. Others used high-end camping gear meant for a trip to the lake. Still
others sat, looking dazed and lost, in well-appointed camping trailers and motor homes. An economic hurricane had passed through these people’s lives, and they were still in shock.

  Ross did see one burgeoning business rising out of the ashes of consumer culture. Several heavily armed men were standing atop a container truck as brokers at the open doorway haggled with refugees. A banner hanging along the side read: WE BUY WATCHES AND JEWELRY. Ross had seen them in every tent city—hustlers repatriating luxury items for sale back to Asian markets, where the real money was. High-value items worth their shipping weight.

  Meanwhile, the bulky stuff—the plasma-screen televisions and furniture—was all winding up in piles, sold cheap to be stripped of metals and fabrics, and wood. Already trash was accumulating into mounds—some of it burning.

  Ross finally reached the edge of a darknet medical clinic. A cluster of call-outs hovered there in D-Space. He did a quick search and suddenly his target flashed—a second-level Horticulturalist named Hank_19.

  In a few moments Ross approached a weathered but hardy-lo oking man in his forties wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a work shirt. He was lowering boxes off the back of a thirty-year-old stake bed truck into the waiting hands of clinic workers.

  Ross waved, and Hank_19 waved back.

  “You still headed to Greeley?”

  “Yeah, just as soon as we drop off these supplies.”

  “I appreciate the ride. Gas shortages have made traveling difficult.” Ross joined the crew off-loading and in a few minutes they had cleared the truck bed. Hank_19 wiped his brow and hopped off the tailgate. “Damn it’s hot.” He extended his calloused hand. “Henry Fossen. Call me Hank.”

  Ross shook his hand. “You don’t go in for darknet handles, I take it.”

  “My father gave me my name, and I intend to use it. I would’ve just selected the handle ‘Hank,’ but eighteen Hanks already beat me to it. You got a real name?”

  “Jon.”

  “All right, Jon no-last-name.” He looked up at Ross’s call-out. “I guess a twelfth-level Rogue’s gotta be secretive. What the hell’s a ‘Rogue’ do on the darknet, anyway?” He slammed the tailgate closed. “I thought rogues were bad guys.”

 

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