by Dale Wiley
It infected everyone’s Facebook feed, taking up more and more space, and refused to be ignored. Then people started sharing on Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and all the different ways people choose to connect. It came from a thousand different variations of the same theme: Sabotage, SabotageFriend, YouSabotage, Sa-Bot.
Then the memes came. All the images associated with incessant and insipid quotes were modified: a smiling, friendly Jesus; Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka; a beautiful sunset. The types of backgrounds that carried friendly or funny messages passed back and forth. Will you be there? Will you find out from your new leaders? Will you learn the meaning of Sabotage?
All the memes, all the sites, directed the web traffic to one URL: www.sabotageus.com.
As promised, the clunky, unsettling clock image dissolved into a black background. The background stayed black for an uncomfortably long time—long enough to make this tense, uncomfortable moment seem that much more so. Finally, a grainy image flickered on the screen.
A man appeared. He had a mustache, oiled hair, and was wearing a 70s suit that would even make Burt Reynolds blush. He was outside in bright sunlight, affected slightly by the breeze. The colors were oversaturated like a bad send-up of old network TV. His message was faint, the volume turned down low. All of America leaned in toward the screen. They turned up their volume. They got closer and closer, trying to hear what this man said.
His words were platitudes, barely audible. He muttered something about “now is the time for all good men …” stuff you would test your typing skills with. America turned up the volume again.
“BAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”
America collectively had a heart attack. The sound was deafening. Half banshee scream, half heart-stopping yell. The screen now filled with a bloody, evil clown, blood dripping down his chin, screaming loudly into the computer screens across the country. This type of video was not a new concept. It was called a screamer, and there were such videos on the Internet which were meant to lure you in with benign content and low volume and then would be turned up to the highest level. But in this case, given the mass hysteria that the day had already generated, it had just sent thousands of Americans into near-cardiac arrest. The clown wasted no time, having only one message, which he delivered in a shrill, high-pitched, and indelible voice like a Saturday morning show gone awry:
Hello friends, I am Sabotage. My message is mercenary. I want your money. Your politicians won’t help, so I’ll let you do it for me. Please make sure Kenner Industries is at thirty-five by 5 pm tomorrow, Tokyo time, on the Nikkei Exchange, or lots and lots of good people will die.
Then the screen went to a ragged American flag, then an old-time static pattern, and that was it.
People returned to their websites to find new images: clowns, other evil images, burning rubble. A window opened on many screens of a child crying, first a whimper and then a full-blown forlorn howl. There were new memes for a suddenly scarier times. They substituted the clown for Willy Wonka. The clown walked the beach like a beachcomber. The clown now controlled their very lives it seemed. They delivered their simple message: double the stock price of a cruddy, outdated stock, or more people would die.
Twenty-Three
Though Tony waited as long as possible to do it, he finally delivered the message to Britt: she had escaped. He expected hysterics, almost wanted them, but that was not what he got.
Britt took the news with equanimity. He realized he was probably still dazed from the killings he had carried out that day: first Seth and now Muhammad. He had come to the understanding, a little late in the game for his liking, that he could order cold-blooded hits without a problem. But pulling the trigger himself? He didn’t know if he had the stomach to do it often. It was a funny thing to find out on this day, and it was clouding his judgment. All the killings, all because of him, were fine as long as they looked like a movie, something that someone else reported to him about, something he saw on the news. This morning with Seth was marginally okay; it was something about the way the body was positioned and that there was not much of a mess to deal with. He could probably shoot someone like that again. But pulling the trigger like he did in his office? He relived it all in his mind—hearing the report of the pistol, seeing a life explode, feeling the numbness and tingling in his hands after the blast, seeing Muhammad’s guards riddled with bullets—and then he realized it was making him hard and without Caitlin! Maybe there was an upside here.
As soon as he had processed the good news, he now had to hear that Caitlin escaped? He didn’t have a place to put that. His head was full. He needed a few minutes to conduct some of the most important parts of this entire masterwork, and his head was full of dying pansies and unfaithful women.
It once again reminded him that brains sometimes did beat brawn. She was worth more than any of his stupid men, even the best of them. He needed to find her. She was now the only real obstacle to pulling this off. The tough part was done. Much as he wanted to do otherwise, he would have one of the few goons he had left handle her. He wanted to see her face if he could, but that was secondary. She needed to be silenced. She had too many connections, including one which troubled him greatly.
For now, he was too blindsided. He had no rage for Tony. It was his own fault, really. He knew that. He needed Tony, at least for the time being, and wouldn’t let any more emotion swallow him. Britt felt like this day, his masterstroke, was being swallowed up by his feelings. He thought he overcame having those.
“Do you know where she went?” he finally asked the thin voice on the other line.
“Not a clue, boss.” Tony was cautious.
“She’ll go somewhere big and non-descript. She’ll wait there, and I’ll bet she’ll try to call Miller. She’ll find out he’s gone and then try to call common friends with the FBI and the like. She’ll be worried about the airports shutting down. She won’t go there.”
“Where does she have cards?”
“I know she has one at the Wynn and the Bellagio. I don’t think she’ll go somewhere that nice. You know, the places where they know you. Try Treasure Island, or Bally’s, or Harrah’s.”
“I don’t have anyone at Bally’s.”
“Then start with the other two. She is the biggest threat left. Take her down, then head to Lake Tahoe.”
“Will you be there?”
“No,” Britt said. “Not tonight. I’m heading east. I’ll meet up with you tomorrow night.”
Britt wasn’t going to meet up tomorrow night. The place was packed with explosives. Tony would be toast as soon as he keyed in the entry, like all of Britt’s former houses.
Britt looked in the mirror. He looked ashen as he told his driver, “Take me to the airstrip.”
He had an hour until the biggest fireworks yet. There would be no air traffic after that.
Twenty-Four
The traffic on the Sabotage site was out of control. It surpassed Google and YouTube combined in the moments after the attack. A nation raised on Die Hard and thriller novels now saw their part to play—amateur detectives.
The site had the video that had scared the entire nation. It also had an embedded Twitter feed that scrolled its own results, #sabotage, with all of those who now worshipped it and hated it. These were mixed with the news reports of the dozens of people who were thrown into cardiac arrest by the crazy nature of the video. Within minutes, strange people made Sabotage tribute sites on Twitter and Blogger. These were receiving traffic, too. It was all too predictable in this era of digital sycophancy. Those who were appalled were much greater in number, but they didn’t make websites. They just counted their children and locked their doors on this scariest of days. They were still numb to all that had happened but interested in what lay ahead.
The main Sabotage site was simple but eye-catching. The clown was featured, a baby wailed, and messages popped up and disappeared: Your President Won’t Help; You Stand in the Way; Do What Your Leaders Won’t, and this Will Be Over; and various other a
nti-motivational lines. Its main feature though was a box in the middle of the home page with a spot for a password.
As you scrolled over the box, the clown appeared and screamed at the user, “Guess the password! Get it right, save a life! Get it wrong, get a virus.” The last words were said in the sing-song of a child, and the clown wrung his hands in mock sadness.
Within the next ten minutes, the virus counter in the bottom right hand of the page kept score. Initially, it counted dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of people, all sure they could crack the code and heedless of what their actions were doing. If they entered the wrong password, they were immediately forwarded to a new page where the clown danced and cavorted. It was funny and well-made but infuriating. While it downloaded, a virus infected the user’s computer. It immediately began sending messages, first innocuous and then vile. Images of child pornography popped up on tens of thousands of computers which had previously been squeaky clean. The only way to stop them was to turn off the device. Some figured this out immediately, others were bombarded with truly depraved pictures of children and animals and things they would never forget. They filled their friends’ e-mails with the same illicit filth. If their friends clicked one of those links contained within, they fell victim as well.
People had to disconnect to end the chaos. In a period of less than half an hour, the counter read 565,000. Those people were now off-line, but their passwords and personal information weren’t.
The people who hadn’t tried to be heroes saw a new image emerge at the center of the Sabotage site. The clown walked to the middle of the screen and unfurled a sign that read,
NO WINNERS. ONLY LOSERS. AND THANKS FOR REMAINING TO WATCH THE NUMBERS SPIN. YOUR COMPUTER GOT IT WORSE. TRY AGAIN!
A new burst of code emerged. Within seconds, the computers that remained on the site now saw the power disappear from their units with a sickening groan that sounded like each computer was gasping for breath.
Twenty-Five
Talk about protocol. Grant sat with a confessed mass-murdering terrorist, and the love of his life calls. Jesus, he couldn’t not answer. He would be worthless talking to his subject, knowing she had just called. He hadn’t spoken to her in two years, not since the aftermath of the incident, and he was shocked she would ever call him again. Did she need him with all this chaos? Was it that simple? He knew he had to answer.
He held a finger up to Naseem and walked to the other side of the room, careful not to let him out of his sight.
“Hi. What a surprise.”
Despite the fact he wanted to talk to her more than anything, Grant knew he couldn’t have a casual conversation with her.
Caitlin said nothing.
“Everything all right? I would love to talk, but you can imagine that we’re busy.”
“Grant, I’m so happy to talk to you. I was worried that you were killed in the St. Louis attack.” She knew its exact location and its proximity to him. “I feel so horrible. Now, I know for sure that I know who did it.”
“What?”
“I know who is behind this, and he’s chasing me now.”
Grant looked back over at Naseem. Ice flowed into his body. How could this be? Was Naseem being straight with him?
“What makes you think that?”
“I got involved with a guy. He had lots of money and was kind of an asshole. My type of guy—right? I saw some documents I wasn’t supposed to see.”
“Like what?”
“A list. It included several of the places I know were hit, including the St. Louis FBI office. I should have called you right away, but I couldn’t make myself think it was true.”
“Who do you think this is?”
“His name is Britt Vasher. I’m sure it’s not real, but that’s what he goes by.”
Grant was crushed and furious and mad at himself for realizing how madly in love he still was with her.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at one of the big casinos in Vegas. I prefer not to say which one until it’s absolutely necessary.”
“This isn’t your number.”
“This phone was given to me by a man who tried to set me up. I’ve memorized your numbers. This is the last call I’m going to make from it. I’m going to leave this phone here and let it get lost.”
“Are you safe for an hour or two?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, I’ve got one matter to piece together, and then I’ll create a plan to get you out of there.”
“Involve as few people as possible,” she said, fear creeping into her voice.
“I will,” he said, already half-annoyed she would choose to tell him this. What was her involvement?
“Grant?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for getting you into all of this.”
Oh God, what did that mean?
He told her to get a new phone number and text him the number. Then he ended the call and walked slowly back to Naseem.
“Did Yankee have a girlfriend?”
Naseem nodded slowly. “That’s why I called you.”
Twenty-Six
In the end, President Morgan did speak at the same time Sabotage did. He had no other choice, really. The president can do many things but appearing to plan his schedule around terrorists is not one of them.
He stood in the White House press room, cameras snapping, and thought about how different it was than his other times in the room. Just as he was to begin, he decided to stop. He had always been an extremely talented gauge of how he needed to come across, and so he chose to make his remarks without a teleprompter.
“You know,” he said, resting his elbow on the podium in a way he never did, “I’ve been in this room many times. I was here as a Congressional aide back in the seventies, and I was here as a Congressman in the eighties. I’ve been here and spoken to these same faces hundreds of times in the last few years. Most of the time, and certainly during my time as president, for every challenge that we have, every situation that needs to be fixed, there’s still a joy and an energy that comes with being here. There’s a sense of where we’re going and what we’re going through.
“But today, you know that some animals have torn at us in a way that we’re not used to. They’ve hit us where we live, literally. As I stand here today, I am telling you that we are at the very beginning of getting to the bottom of this. Today is not a day of joy in this room. It is a day of resolve. This country has given everything to me. Its people are an endless source of pride and joy to me and to everyone who works in Washington, no matter what side of the political divide they may fall on. We may have bickered yesterday. Today, we hang together.
“I don’t have answers for you right now. I only have the supreme confidence of someone who has seen this nation at work. We will put a swift end to this. We will restore this nation’s safety. I ask everyone to report any suspicious activity and to join in whatever relief efforts you can. Now is the time to show these …” he searched for the right, PG-rated word, “vermin what we are made of. They will find out.”
He thought about saying more and then thought of his days as a prosecutor. He had hit the right notes. Better to end a few words too soon than a few words too late.
He took a deep breath. “May God bless the United States of America. Thank you.”
Jones met the President in the corner of the room. She turned and walked with him. “Best speech I’ve ever heard you give. Nothing like the bland rhetoric Sanders gave you.”
Morgan gave a laugh, straight from the gallows. “Yeah, too bad nobody saw it.”
Twenty-Seven
Traffic in Las Vegas was never a source of pleasure, but the normal traffic paired with the panic in the air from the word spreading about all the attacks plus a nasty rear-ender about ten cars ahead made it unbearable.
Britt tried to remain calm. He knew he should have hired a helicopter. He knew it, but he didn’t want to file another flight plan, and he traveled the streets eno
ugh to believe that the time he allotted himself would be more than enough to make it into the air prior to his next move.
He wanted to get out and exact justice. He wanted to shoot the person who was so careless to not even notice that there was a car stopping in front of them in the face. He wanted to blow their brains out. He wanted to see it and do it himself.
But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk everything to satisfy his need for vengeance. The whole plan was still there. He was sure he would make it on time. He looked around for anything in the limo to calm him down. A drink? No, that was not going to help. He turned on the TV. He watched the flames and the crying. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. He was in control of that.
He calmed his mind. He wasn’t going anywhere for a few minutes. He had time to reflect and nothing more important to do. He slowed his breathing and let his thoughts collect. After all, the most fun part about this entire endeavor was the thinking and the guessing. Will they or won’t they? Will they stop trading on the stock? Will they inflate the price? He didn’t think so. In fact, he hoped they wouldn’t. Would others do the job for him? He rigged the entire situation so he couldn’t lose whether the stock hit the target or not. He was going to rain the same hell down on everyone regardless of what they did. An interesting experiment in predicting what would happen in unpredictable situations.
You put the game in motion, and then you get to see how they respond. They went along with his model for the most part. Britt thought that the president might stand a little taller, talk a little more boisterously at the press conference, which he tried to listen to while simultaneously watching his own fun, but his Sabotage game made it difficult to respond—too much shock and awe, to use their phrase. He had them completely off-balance. He congratulated himself for that.
