by David Berko
…
Desmond walked the streets feeling completely safe. He cast a bored glance at the moving walkway, choosing the hard sidewalk and his two legs for locomotion instead. He opted for the old fashioned way of getting around because often when he slowed the rat race down a bit, he would be shocked by what he missed.
His aimless walking would take him from a consortium he attended earlier in the evening to pass by storefronts with flashy displays. One advertisement for biotechnology caught his stare. He slowed to face the window and the picture of a man and woman holding hands, with a robot child in between the two. They looked like a family. How could it be, though? Many times he would wrestle with the ethics of creating artificially intelligent things. That was going too far, he thought. He shivered in the warm, almost moist air.
Turning away from the sight, he deliberately walked hunched over. His quarter of a million dollar ride waited for him a block ahead, but he would never reach it. A rather unfamiliar sound reached his ears and before he knew it his feet left the pavement and he felt a very powerful grip sling him like a sack of potatoes into an idling nondescript, paneled van. It sped away from the curb so fast it nearly hit an oncoming motorist who didn’t expect such reckless driving on the streets of Austin just before the stroke of midnight.
Desmond lost all sense of equilibrium and the bumpy ride made him nauseas.
“Are there sick bags in this thing?” he joked. He couldn’t see anything because a burlap sack was thrown over his head.
What he got in response was the cool wet touch of a needle to the arm and then he was out cold. Was this their idea of bringing in a new recruit? Desmond had remembered his infrequent correspondence with an anonymous emailer.
The messages—were they all linking to this? What brought this picture together? He wouldn’t know until he woke up from the land of the dead.
--
“One-alpha-niner-niner-three-two, you are go for runway two,” the controller instructed Damion’s Leer jet.
Its fuselage shimmered in the sunlight as it taxied for takeoff. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect to fly in: puffy cumulus clouds and a radiant sun were up overhead. The billionaire settled into his chair in the extremely roomy luxury jet. He didn’t mind flying at all. He didn’t even mind flying commercial in first class every now and then. But nothing could beat his own supersonic private ride. Only the rich had them. And in the increasingly dog-eat-dog world…there were fewer and fewer of the quote on quote wealthy out there. They were either gobbled up by the middle class or buried asunder by ridiculous progressive tax codes that were anti-trust, anti- capitalism, anti-free market.
Once the plane gained altitude, it leveled off and went into super cruise at twice the speed of sound. The in-flight whine of the engines wasn’t at all bad; however, it was a plane after all, not one of those sedans that were quieter than a mausoleum. The man relaxed and even ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought to him.
The flight attendant who looked to be in her early thirties shot him a quizzical glance when he made the request and asked, “Drinking, sir?”
Damion was slightly peeved at the chaffed remark. “Make that two bottles.” He looked up at her, ready for a challenge.
She only nodded and silently slipped off to do as he requested.
He licked his lips and smiled. It didn’t matter to him who he was going to meet. He needed the accouterments and he needed them now. Life was too short not to be pampered. How he saw it, the world wasn’t getting any better, so live life to the fullest for tomorrow we die--not too far off from what the writer of 1 Corinthians 15:32 penned. Any conservative Bible-thumping pansy would have to let him pass or get trampled. That’s how he operated.
A little chime sounded about halfway to the destination which was odd, most odd. “Intriguing,” Damion murmured to himself.
A TV came to life in the room and a talking face addressed the man in the cabin. “Damion! So good to see you’re on your way.”
The man with a ten figure dollar sign looming large above his forehead dressed to the nines in a tweed coat and cardigan. He warily looked up at the screen and flashed his polished white smile. “Alexander, my God, how long has it been?”
“Too long, friend. Look, you couldn’t have come any sooner. Things are getting pretty—” he looked a little lost in thought, but only for a second, “unstable.”
“Oh?”
“The enemy has penetrated our mainframe. It’s a worm I hear, using keylogger, phishing malware to steal information.”
Damion looked nonplussed. “That’s interesting,” he said while fingering a button on his jacket.
“That’s not all that’s interesting.” “Don’t tell me…”
“We believe there’s a mole.”
This, however, didn’t surprise Damion. He could smell blood in the water. It had to be a turncoat deep in the inner circle. His worst fears—confirmed. “President Toporvsky, sir, do we have a plan?”
“A plan of action? Certainly. I’ve got teams working on it twenty-four seven. But malware is the least of our concerns I’m afraid.”
“How’s that?”
The president sat down and rubbed his jaw. “We believe--from some reliable Intel of course—that cyber terrorism is only the tip of the iceberg for these guys. They’re a bunch of nationals…firebrands. It’s only a matter of time before they go through with what they set out to do all along….”
Damion was tracking all the way and he didn’t like it. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. He hated being involved with anything of immense consequence. But then again, he did get the EPA to stand down and make way for the age of nuclear-reactor-driven vehicles ranging from the minivan to the Jetson's inspired flying car.
The man in the air managed to put on a thin smile. He pulled a lighter from his breast pocket and lit a cigar that was on a table within arm’s reach.
The president looked on with no particular interest or indifference. “When are you gonna realize that thing between your teeth will expedite your health decline?” the president said with a gruffness.
“Suddenly you have feelings for my health, eh? I’m touched. Listen, I don’t need your advice. But you need mine, remember?”
“You’re walking a fine line, Westover. I could have you shut down before your plane even lands. Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Mr. President, to our future and this great nation. Or what’s left of it anyway—” the billionaire said with cigar raised above his head, making a gesture.
“To freedom,” the president said reciprocating.
Damion looked at his watch and grimaced. They had been in the air for only an hour, but he felt like it had been three. Thoughts of Kara dominated the left side of the old brain. He lightly tapped the ashes from his cigar into the tray and then mashed it into a smoldering wad. Suddenly Damion was seized with a slight coughing fit, prompting the flight attendant to ask if he was alright. “Just a—”
The woman scrunched her forehead and popped her hip, shaking her head at him. “I’ll be right back," she said in a motherly tone.
“Another bottle of booze dear,” Damion called after her. She didn’t turn around, only shook her head.
“Oh, come on! You’re the worst, you know that? You don’t have to approve of me, you don’t even have to like me…but when I ask for something young lady...by gum I’m gonna get it.” He waited for her answer as he lit another one.
“Right away, sir,” she said through gritted teeth. “Thanks peach. You’re a real pleaser.”
--
Honolulu, Hawaii
Steve Bard, IT specialist and pro schmoozer made a pass of Sarah's desk. She was attractive not only to him, but to every other man on the floor. They all competed for her attention.
“Look what time it’s gettin’ to be,” Bard said in the softest voice he could lather.
She looked up from a pile of papers with olive eye
s, her mouth in an o-shape. Combing her bangs out of the way, she smiled for a millisecond. “Don’t even,” she said.
“Lunch? 12:30 at Stacy’s? That new restaurant within walking distance down Punchbowl…”
“M-mm. Nope. Uh-uh. Sorry bud,” she replied, emphatically shaking her head, causing her bangs to twirl every which way.
“Tomorrow then?” Steve said, his countenance falling by the second.
“Maybe.”
His heart skipped a beat. He nearly tripped over himself as he peeled away from her stare and launched for the stars. His emotions were as erratic as a fireworks display, so he made darn good and sure he stopped in at the men’s room for a good while to collect himself and wash his face.
He pulled at the door when it clearly was engineered to be pushed against. Another guy walking in his direction saw that and laughed.
“She said yes, didn’t she?” the new arrival to the men’s room said, chest puffed out.
That startled Steve a bit, but he knew better than to question. “Yeah, can you believe it?” his voice squeaked.
Jay looked at Steve and put an arch in his back, scrunching his eyes. “Haha, that little boy in you is really showing up today, isn’t it?” he said, his voice reaching its upper limits right along with Bard’s.
Steve laughed right along with his pal for the longest time. “I can’t remember the last time when I had a puberty moment like that. Goodness gracious.”
“Man, that’s what I came to talk to you about….”
“I’m not following,” Steve shook his head.
The other man turned on the water and looked in the mirror to contemplate. “There’s this woman,” he began.
Suddenly Steve was interested again. Where was this thing going he wanted to know.
“You sound, conflicted. Maybe I’m reading this wrong though.”
“No, no, no. It’s just—” he looked pitiful for a second, “--how do I say this?”
Steve shrugged and looked at the other guy like he was expecting to hear something real juicy.
“Jasmine in the corner office has always had my notice,” Jay’s voice trailed off into a faint region of his throat.
“Uh-huh…” Steve acknowledged. Trying to act as bored as possible.
“Listen, this is getting awkward. The reports? The metrics on cyber security for Q1? We’ve got a meeting on that. You’re presenting, correct?”
Steve was impressed. “Yup. Come ready and with questions. It’s gonna be a come on time, leave late sort of scenario. I’ve got you jackals for as long as I want,” he said smiling.
“Make it worth my time,” Jay snorted. He moved over to the paper towel dispenser and noticed it was out. “Paper’s out again,” he muttered.
Steve nodded. “Always.”
“Really?” Jay said shaking his hands at his sides to get all the droplets off.
“You should see our budget. It’s amazing we even have enough for a janitor let alone the towels.” He shrugged. “The sign on the door says this is a men's room.”
Jay chuckled and cracked his coworker on the shoulder, understanding his friend's remark perfectly.
“Indeed.”
--
Chapter 5
His eyelids flickered. He heard it.
Someone else nearby noticed Desmond coming to and immediately sedated the poor soul...again. The man with a ski mask on was disgusted at how fast the prisoner fought it.
His partner in crime looked sideways at the guy with the fresh syringe in hand. “How many CCs did you inject him with?”
“Enough to immobilize a cow, Skeeter.” He removed the plastic on the instrument of sweet dreams, giving it a good squeeze and letting it squirt in all directions for a millisecond. “Good night Desmond. Seeya in the desert.”
The man known as Skeeter had shifty eyes and a twitch just below his left eye that would set any sane person over the edge if they stared at it for too long. He looked out the window and then exhaled. “What did boss say about, you know? What we get for this?”
“We split it fifty-fifty,” the other guy said evenly with little emotion. “Ten grand—no less, no more.”
Skeeter licked his lips and swore. “Love this job. Love it.”
“Shutup. We’re nearly there. Remember, exactly as we planned. No room for screwing around on this one.”
“Whatever, Clark.”
The van showed up to a remote airstrip five minutes behind schedule, but nothing to come to blows over. A crew was already there waiting with guns at the hip.
The sun was blinding. Skeeter was first to get out. He yanked open the sliding door.
“Get his feet,” Clark barked.
“I’m on it, I’m on it,” the other man whined.
They both wasted no time to get the body over to their connecting flight.
Four men stood by the stairs to board the plane. The two on the corners looked ex-military with scars to prove it. The one on the right of the middle two looked out of place, but he was definitely not a misfit either. He looked the part with grungy, goth-styled clothing and a do-rag. The Mexican flashed a golden smile at the trio that was approaching.
The man on the left of the foursome stepped out from the rest. He looked like he was ready to do battle with twenty strongmen. His shoulders were huge and his neck bigger than a bull’s. His name was Tommy and his reputation wasn’t limited to the local-yokels. He had a colorful service record. But where most of his fame came from was the inglorious Second Civil War. A former secret service agent for American presidents, he knew how to protect important people. Today’s cargo wasn’t a president, but it might as well have been. Scorpion was bagging one of the most prestigious programmers in humanity. And it was almost too easy.
“Is our friend gonna be okay?” Tommy said with an eyebrow raised.
Skeeter dropped the feet, not thinking, and answered. “He’s in one piece.”
“Is that all?” Tommy croaked. Clearly he wasn’t impressed by a grunt dropping one of the most important VIPs he would ever escort.
“Never mind my partner,” Clark quickly covered for Skeeter. “We don’t wanna have any trouble here. You guys good?”
Tommy motioned for the two guards to grab Desmond. They did so with great efficiency. Tommy then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a wad of dirty money. “Count it. It’s all there. I don’t wanna see your sorry faces ever again, do we have an understanding?” he said without ever taking his eyes off the two newcomers.
Both men nodded miserably. They were quick to apologize and be suck-ups. Clark grabbed his partner around the waste and directed Skeeter back to the van.
Tommy watched them till the vehicle was out of sight before letting out a low whistle. The non-military thug appeared at his side in an instant.
“Yeah boss?” the minion said in a thick, Hispanic accent.
“Remind me never to do handoffs with idiots.”
“How did we (Scorpion) ever get involved with such low-life, no-nothin’s?”
“We’re better than that,” Tommy agreed with the man. “Let’s get on with it, partner.”
With that, the ex-drug lord followed his boss up and into the plane.
The dust kicked off the runway and the unlicensed plane the FAA had no record of went airborne with little effort.
A mile or so from the desert strip, a dune buggy full of tourists watched the takeoff as it happened. Husband and wife in the back with binoculars around their necks hefted them to get a closer look. They recognized it was an unauthorized, shadowy event, but knew nothing more: only enough to make them curious.
The man pointed out to his wife that the tail ID on the plane had been painted over. She looked at him with concern in her face, translating all that he had told her.
--
Anchorage, Alaska: 14:00 AKST
President Alexander Toporvsky looked all business in his eleven hundred dollar hand-made suit. He debated wearing his dress blues uniform from anothe
r life, but his advisor wouldn’t have any of it. He checked his wrist for time and knew Damion’s plane would be landing within the hour.
Alexander’s chief of staff came into the room very low- profile. “Mr. President, we have a fix on Firefly’s arrival. He’ll be rolling up in ten.”
“Thank you, Leonard. I will be in my study. Do bring him in as soon as he arrives.”
“Of course, sir,” Leonard said with a polite bow.
The room where the president spent much of his time was lit by firelight and big windows on the southern and western ends of the house. This room occupied the corner of the log cabin estate which stood on a hill, heavily guarded and fortified.
Another log crackled and split, sending a few sparks flying and issuing a hiss up the flue. Alexander stood and stared contemplatively at the smoldering ashes. He had a lot on his mind and a whole host of issues that were on his desk that needed to be attended to. It wasn’t like he could hand it off to a staffer or someone in his inner circle and feel rest assured the problems were in good hands. These days, no one could be trusted. That was something he learned the hard way.
Just then there was a knock on the oak door. It slowly opened and in the doorway appeared the athletic frame of a man history would never forget.
“Come in, come in Damion,” Alexander welcomed him. He moved over to the den area in front of the roaring fire and made himself comfortable in an easy chair. “Come, sit.”
The new face in the room thanked the president for his kindness and took up a chair across from the man in charge of the Free Republic of North America. Damion felt downright comfortable and very settled as he eased into an Italian leather arm chair. The cushion made the unmistakable low groan of luxury as Damion rested his weight on the furniture.
