BrainWeb

by Douglas E. Richards

  Stare at the bald guy until I tell you to stop, he instructed, knowing this would help him locate the man in the crowd.

  Hall borrowed the feed from Chavez’s eyes, getting a good enough sense of the bald man’s appearance and location that he could search nearby minds, looking for someone whose self-image was a match. He found who he was looking for in seconds, Jay Coleman, and read the man’s cell phone number from his mind.

  Hall continued to check the television feed in the corner of his visual field, un-muting periodically. Hakim was still holding the gun to Scarlet Johansson’s head, but his demeanor had changed, as though he was done playing with his food.

  The terrorist made a show of looking at a digital countdown on the screen, which he had ordered the director to place there, and shook his head in mock regret. “Your President Cochran can still save you,” he said, words heard by an audience that had now grown to over a billion people worldwide. “But he is down to his last three minutes. I wish I could hold out hope, but he is too selfish. Too arrogant. He and your government have committed endless crimes against the Muslim people, they have—”

  Hall muted his internal television feed once more and took several additional deep breaths. It was now or never. This innocent actress was almost out of time.

  Jay Coleman, he texted to the bald man as fast as he could think the words. I’m with the US military. Not entirely true, but in this case, not entirely false either. Your ATM code is 568923. Your mother’s maiden name is Benford. I hope this is enough to convince you of my legitimacy. Your life depends on you following my instructions.

  Hall didn’t need to see the return text to know he had gotten the attention of Coleman. He read from Coleman’s mind that he was prepared to consider his instructions, but this all depended on what they were.

  Hall made sure that all of the terrorists were facing either Johansson or the audience and ordered Engineering Sergeant Doherty to trigger the release of the door locks, and for all twelve men to quietly file through them and wait in the wings for a full assault, on his command. They knew how to assign targets between themselves, so Hall left this part up to the professionals. He followed about ten yards behind them, juggling minds and feeds like a circus performer.

  The digital clock on the screen now indicated the alluring star had only thirty-two seconds to live. But the very countdown Hakim was using to maximize the drama was ideal for Hall’s needs, helping him set perfect timing.

  He texted Coleman. When the clock gets to eight seconds, duck down low. Instantly. Your life will depend on this. But it’s critical you wait until the exact moment the countdown reaches eight.

  Hall didn’t waste time reading Coleman’s mind to see if he would comply. He either would or wouldn’t. But they were out of time.

  Marshal Chavez. Take out the target when the countdown reaches seven. The bald guy should be ducking on eight. If not, shoot right through him, because if you fail to bring down the terrorist, we all die.

  Understood.

  The clock continued counting down. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen . . .

  Hall sent a message to his strike team. “You’ll be hearing rapid-fire gunshots coming from the audience in just a few seconds,” he broadcast through their ear-pieces. “This should occur when the digital clock on the monitor reaches seven.”

  Fifteen. Fourteen . . .

  “This will be one of the marshals taking out the terrorist ringer. The instant you hear gunfire you’re go for a full assault. I repeat, breach immediately at the sound of gunfire.”

  Eleven. Ten. Nine . . .

  Eight!

  Jay Coleman jackknifed his head below his knees.

  Seven!

  Ronaldo Chavez sent three bullets in quick succession screaming through what would have been Coleman’s neck and into the brain of the man seated in front of him. The terrorist ringer lurched from the impact and was dead before his mind even registered the sound of the shots.

  Hakim was moments away from putting a bullet into Johansson’s head, as promised, but he and his six comrades jumped at the sound of gunfire. Before they could react, the twelve-man commando team flowed onto the stage behind them with the military equivalent of balletic grace, their weapons set on semi-automatic.

  The seven terrorists never had a chance, mowed down like weeds before they could even think of triggering a detonation, each torn into dozens of pieces by the hellish firepower ripping into them.

  Johansson screamed and rolled to the stage, her scream drowned out by the sound of automatic weapons. Her arm was grazed during the assault and she was bleeding, but considering the situation the strike had been absolutely surgical. The team had performed brilliantly, taking out Hakim and his comrades with no loss of innocent life, including Johansson’s.

  One of the commandos drew the sobbing, shrieking actress into his arms to comfort her as the audience erupted into pandemonium. Some launched themselves from their seats. Many others shut their eyes tight, sure that the ringers in the audience would trigger an explosion that would rip them to their constituent atoms, and braced for oblivion.

  Nick Hall stumbled to the main podium while his team checked to be absolutely certain each terrorist was dead.

  “Sit down!” screamed Hall at the top of his lungs into the microphone, words that rocked the theater as they thundered from the speakers. His exhausted, besieged brain was screaming for relief, but he needed to hold on for a few seconds longer.

  “It’s over. You’re all safe. No ringers. No explosion coming. Remain calm and we’ll clear the theater row by row.”

  Everyone looked at each other in dismay. Could it be? Most had resigned themselves to a certain death. Who was this man? This savior?

  The hubbub began to subside as the crowd retook their seats with stunned looks, still not fully able to believe this was real.

  “I repeat,” said Hall, “this is over. Teams of police and other authorities are on their way to help ensure an orderly exit. Remain calm, and we’ll have the doors unlocked momentarily.”

  And with that, Nick Hall slid to the floor, and his mind finally succumbed to a merciful unconsciousness.

  PART 2

  Politics

  “Politics, noun: [Poly ‘many’ + tics ‘blood-sucking parasites’]”

  —Larry Hardiman

  “We hang the petty thieves. The master thieves we appoint to public office.”

  —Aesop

  “Any American who is prepared to run for president should automatically, by definition, be disqualified from ever doing so.”

  —Gore Vidal

  13

  The Tina Berger Solution

  Host: Tina Berger

  CNN

  TINA BERGER: Tonight, we continue with our marathon coverage of the barbaric terrorist act that took the lives of ninety-seven innocent people four days ago, including an entire orchestra and the beloved star of stage and screen, Hugh Jackman. A terror act that we all know could have been far, far worse.

  We’re back with our guests, Captain Tom Doubleday, a SEAL instructor for the past decade at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California, and General Cole Poole, past director of the Defense Intelligence Agency.

  Now, we’ve all seen the footage of the successful counter-terrorist attack at the Cosmopolitan Theater, most of us many times, but let’s take another look before we speak with our guests.

  [Pauses for video of the attack, shown from several camera angles, concluding when a masked, unarmed man at the microphone tells everyone to remain calm, collapses to the stage, and several minutes later is carried backstage by several commandos]

  For this segment, I’d like to ask my esteemed guests to shed some light on the mystery man at the microphone during the attack. Here is what we know. We know that twelve heroic soldiers, who have been dubbed the Oscar Angels, saved thousands of lives. And we’ll address a rumor momentarily that their actions probably saved hundreds of thousands more. We know that a thirteenth man, the
man who addressed the audience before collapsing, was also involved, but was not armed and was dressed in casual clothing. And we know that the military will not make any of these men available for the media, or release their identities.

  (frowning and shaking her head) Which is very much a shame, because a grateful nation and world are eager to shower them with the accolades and honors they deserve.

  (turning to her guests) So what about this Mystery Microphone Man? Let’s call him Triple M for short. Do we know anything? Can we guess anything? His ski mask not only hid his face, but distorted his voice, so we have very little to go on.

  But who was Triple M? What role did he play? Why did he collapse?

  Let me first turn to you, Captain Doubleday. What is your best guess?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: (shrugging uncomfortably) I only wish I had a guess. But I have to admit, I don’t have the slightest idea. The twelve men who actually carried out the op, these brave heroes, were obviously special forces. Four of them were Navy SEALs, and eight of them Green Berets.

  TINA BERGER: How do you know that?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: From the way they operated during the assault. How they moved. How they held their weapons. Their firing patterns. It’s subtle, but if you know what to look for, each group of special forces has minor variations in their training. Signature styles.

  TINA BERGER: And Triple M?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: That’s just it. He had no business being any part of this. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. He had no weapons and no gear. He held back while the others secured the theater.

  TINA BERGER: General?

  GENERAL POOLE: I agree with the captain. His presence makes no sense.

  TINA BERGER: (still facing the general) Okay, shifting gears for a moment, do you have any insight into how the terrorist plant in the audience, who was put down when the attack began, was identified?

  GENERAL POOLE: No. Those who know aren’t saying. What I can tell you is that I’m all but certain the man who put him down was a marshal, seeded into the audience as a precaution. He probably had a partner or two elsewhere in the crowd, and all would be armed.

  But how the terrorist sleeper was identified is just one of the many mysteries of this operation. The terrorist leader, Abdul Hakim, had said there were three sleepers in the crowd. So how were our forces so certain there was really only one? How did we learn of the warehouse and tunnel used by the terrorists? It’s clear we weren’t aware of these when the attack began. And even more exceptional, how did we manage to use these tunnels when the terrorists had booby trapped the warehouse and had left a rear-guard? How did we learn the new door codes the terrorists had programmed in?

  I honestly have no idea. But I can say without hesitation that it was the most brilliant piece of intelligence work I’ve ever witnessed. The operation was flawless.

  TINA BERGER: There are also reports that the man seated directly behind the fallen terrorist in the audience, Jay Coleman, was texted instructions to duck just before the shots were fired.

  GENERAL POOLE: Yes. Remarkable stuff. Hats off to the people behind the scenes. I was inside the belly of the beast for a long time, and thought I knew all of our capabilities. But they must have grown since I left. Thank God, because this was beyond impressive. Miraculous wouldn’t be too strong a word.

  TINA BERGER: (nodding sagely) Miraculous indeed.

  (turning to the captain) So back to Triple M, our Mystery Microphone Man. Could he have also been a special forces operative? One who just failed to suit up for some reason?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: (shaking his head in disgust) “Not a chance. He was a civilian. As green as it gets. He held back and stumbled around, a cross between a drunk and a deer in headlights. In the footage, he’s staring off into space like a zombie. In the middle of a gun battle. Then, when it’s all over, after the real heroes do the real work, he stumbles to the microphone to tell the world the attack was a success. Like a classic bureaucrat. Let others do the work and then step forward to take the credit.

  TINA BERGER: I understand what you mean, Captain Doubleday, but since his identity remains hidden, he really hasn’t gotten any credit. But regardless, he must have had some purpose.

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: None that I could tell. Maybe he was a psychiatrist, an expert on mob psychology and crowd control. In case things got unruly, with everyone trampling each other to get to the exits. But he didn’t say anything that would indicate to me he had any special knowledge. And even if he was a civilian expert, having someone like him along on an op like this is unprecedented.

  TINA BERGER: How so?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: Lives were on the line. Those of the assault team and many thousands of others. These are the best-trained men in the world. Tough, experienced. They’re well aware that the tiniest of mistakes can mean the difference between success and failure. You would never carry extra baggage in this situation. Especially not a civilian as obviously green as this man was.

  TINA BERGER: Even if you were ordered to?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: Not unless the order came with an overwhelmingly compelling rationale. Especially in a situation like this, where you have to take out all hostiles immediately, before one of them can trigger explosives. The timing has to be perfect, and there is no room for error. You have to control the kill zone.

  You don’t take a green civilian along on an op this critical, not having any idea how he’ll react under this kind of pressure. Best case, he’s a distraction. Worst case, he freezes up, or panics, or makes a wrong move, or sneezes at the wrong time, and the op is blown. The stakes were much too high to let this happen. If a member of the team isn’t helping you, he’s hurting you.

  TINA BERGER: So where does that put us?

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: Nowhere. The only way this could happen, in my mind, is if this guy served an absolutely vital function. But we’ve seen the footage. He did nothing. Unless the other twelve men were all mute and couldn’t work the microphone, he served no purpose at all. Believe me, Tina, if this seems strange to you, it seems even stranger to someone like me, who has spent years training men like these.

  TINA BERGER: Why do you think he collapsed afterward? He didn’t appear to have any injuries.

  CAPTAIN DOUBLEDAY: I think he passed out from shock and terror. The attack was deadly and the aftermath wasn’t pretty. Which underscores my point that he had never seen action before. He clearly had gone wobbly from the beginning.

  TINA BERGER: (nodding and turning to the general) General Poole, I’ve heard rumors that the actions of this team saved more lives than are apparent. Can you comment on this?

  GENERAL POOLE: I have no official word, so it’s just speculation. But I’m quite confident in my analysis. The terrorists must have been using a new type of explosive. One that was undetectable. This was the Academy Awards. Homeland Security is well aware this is a very attractive soft target, even with the anti-terror safeguards in the theater. So the Cosmopolitan would have been completely scanned for explosives, using electronic bloodhound devices, at least a dozen times. Including just before the doors opened.

  By capturing the theater intact, we gained access to this new explosive and can develop ways to detect it. If the theater had blown, so that we couldn’t get a sample, Islamic Jihad would have continued to use it for some time to come, with devastating results. Hundreds of thousands of additional lives could well have been lost in a very short time.

  TINA BERGER: (shaking her head in awe and appreciation) Even more reason to thank these brave heroes. (pausing) General, tell us more about how these electronic bloodhounds work, and how . . .

  14

  Alex Altschuler removed the large sunglasses he had worn to avoid being recognized and took Heather Zambrana, now his fiancée, into his arms. She gazed around the lavish master suite with her mouth hanging open, still not used to the effortless opulence that Altschuler’s billions made possible. The four-deck yacht, now named Eos, had been purchased just days earlier, th
rough a broker who had no idea that Altschuler would be the owner, and this was the first they had seen of it.

  He could have easily afforded a yacht even more magnificent than the Eos, but at six million dollars it was still part of a crowd of such yachts rather than one that would truly stand alone—and thus draw attention. The yacht slept up to ten guests in five staterooms, and had a main saloon—which was the equivalent of a living room—bar, formal and informal dining areas, sundecks, and more.

  But even though it was fun to see Heather dazzled by the fairytale life they could now lead, what had drawn him to her in the first place—when he was second-in-command of Theia Labs and she was a scientist there—was that wealth was very low on her list of priorities. She was on the geeky side, like him, and while attractive, was not an intimidating perfect specimen, which was also truer than he would have liked in his own case.

  Heather wouldn’t know how to put on airs or be materialistic if she had to. She loved science fiction and superheroes and quantum physics, and preferred comfortable clothes to designer gowns, and a total lack of adornment to using parts of her body to display the most glorious of diamonds. She would be far happier in a leaky rowboat talking passionately about the possible plot of the next Avengers movie than drinking the finest wine on the finest yacht with a group of pretentious assholes.

  Still, drinking the finest wine on the finest yacht, while talking passionately about the next Avengers movie, wasn’t a bad choice, either.

  A week had gone by since the attack on the Cosmopolitan, and a long-overdue meeting of their secret six-member cabal, which had self-assembled to oversee the implant technology and ESP, had been called. Four of the six members would attend the meeting on this very yacht, with the other two videoconferencing in.

  “What time is it, Alex?” asked Heather.