Dead Man's Switch

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Hey,” Jerome said to the cell-phone voice. “Thanks. You know how hard it’s going to be to move him now that he knows?”

  “He was smart enough to know it all along,” the computer voice said in garbled tones. “That’s why he handcuffed himself to a bed. Now get it done. Even if you have to drag him to the edge of the cliff. Then go back to the hospital.”

  Click. The call ended.

  Jerome sighed. “Guess it’s time for a needle. Probably for the best. You won’t know what hit you.”

  “And neither will you,” King said.

  Jerome jerked on the choke chain. “Give it up. Don’t bother.”

  “Armageddon,” King said.

  “Huh?”

  “Armageddon. It’s a code word.”

  “It’s a stupid code word. Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Not yet,” King said.

  King waited. When nothing happened, he felt a sick clunking in his stomach. He’d put too much faith in the promises that had been made to him a few hours earlier in an office in downtown Seattle.

  “Armageddon,” King repeated.

  The promises. From a man in a navy blue suit with cropped hair and a face that showed no expression and who had nearly black eyes darker than the skin of the man’s face, eyes that had focused on King with an intensity that was more fascinating than frightening.

  “Yes, you’re going to be like a goat tethered to a stake to bring in the tiger. But the tiger won’t make it to the goat. Because we’ll be there. If you’re in a tight situation, talk long enough for us to get a sense of what is happening and get our men into position. No matter where you are, we’ll be there. We’ve got choppers. We’ve got a small army. We’re the best, the elite. We know how to hunt men.”

  But what if the transmitter sewn into his jacket had failed? What if somehow choppers had lost the van? What if the best of the best CIA agents weren’t good enough?

  “Armageddon,” King tried again.

  “Don’t get on my nerves,” Jerome said. “Wait. Too late. You already are. Maybe I won’t give you a needle. The choke chain will do it.”

  As if to prove it, Jerome gave another yank, and King staggered.

  King said it again, as calmly as he could, given the massive amount of adrenalin that was beginning to surge through his body.

  Where were the best of the best? The man hunters?

  King hadn’t known what to expect when it arrived. Only that he’d been promised, no matter what, that it would arrive.

  And finally it did.

  Thfft. Thfft.

  The sound didn’t mean anything to King at first. But it must have meant something to Jerome because King heard the big man grunt.

  King turned slightly. Saw surprise on Jerome’s face and two darts sticking out of the side of Jerome’s neck.

  As Jerome sagged to his knees in blank incomprehension, from 30 feet away, two men in camo stepped out of the bushes.

  A lot of things to say ran through King’s mind. Took you long enough. Good to see you. Nice shooting.

  Instead, he moved out of the way so that Jerome hit the ground instead of King.

  King knew it was going to feel good to get that choke chain off his neck.

  CHAPTER 46

  Inside a commuter helicopter, King waited for the blades to slow to a stop shortly after it had settled on a helipad.

  “We’re in Fort Lewis,” King said to the pilot, a man in a navy blue suit with cropped hair and a face that showed no expression and who had near black eyes darker than the skin of the man’s face. His name was Evans. No first name. Just Evans. “A military base.”

  “To be accurate,” Evans answered, “it’s Joint Base Lewis-McChord.”

  Back at the parking lot near the old van where King had been held prisoner, two choppers had landed shortly after the two-person team had taken Jerome down with darts. One of the choppers had been large enough for six men and a couple of women to step down and begin processing the scene. The second chopper, much smaller, was lightweight and looked like a traffic chopper that television stations in Seattle used. This was the one that Evans piloted, and after King had boarded, Evans had taken them west to the urban sprawl of Seattle and Tacoma.

  Joint Base Lewis-McChord had been an easy guess for King. On the approach, King had been able to see McNeil Island across Puget Sound. And things were starting to make more sense. If Evans was based out of Fort Lewis, that explained how he’d arrived so quickly at the FBI office in Seattle earlier that morning. And if the special units that Evans commanded were based out of Fort Lewis, it also explained how he’d been able to pull the operation together so quickly.

  “Here’s my question,” King said to Evans. “Is the US government willing to kill its own citizens to protect this secret?”

  The chopper was completely silent, and no military personnel had approached it. Obviously, it had been cleared to land, and Evans was expected.

  “Before I answer that,” Evans said, “I will tell you what’s been happening on the island. As you know, I’m CIA, and we have been running secret night games on the island to train our special ops group. It’s no coincidence that I’m based out of JBLM. This is also the home base for the 201st Battlefield Surveillance Brigade. The island provides training for some of their soldiers too. McNeil Island is the perfect location for all of our needs.”

  “Training,” King repeated.

  “We started this about a year ago. Murdoch is CIA, and he’s in control of the prison and the situation on the island. In these games, unlike training games the military runs elsewhere, our operatives had to pit themselves against dangerous felons in situations where if they lost, they faced real risks. For further clarity, in case you were unaware of what is public knowledge, Special Operations Group agents—SOG’s—are drawn from the elite of the elite. The army, for example, has the Delta Force. The navy has something called DEVGRU, but you probably know it as SEAL Team Six. The air force equivalent is the 24th Special Tactics Squadron. We take only the top 5 percent from each of those special forces for our own. The task is simple. Go places where we need them and do things no other soldiers could accomplish.”

  He paused. “And sometimes they need to hunt other men.”

  He waited to see if there would be a protest. “Bin Laden, for example. Other terrorists. Some known to the world. Some not. You can debate the morality of this, but the fact is that without it, America would be less safe. SOG tactics and operations are highly secret, but as an arm of the CIA, the mission of the SOG is a matter of public record.”

  “I’m not here to debate,” King said. “I want to understand what’s been happening.”

  “We’ve learned that regardless of how well we train our operatives,” Evans answered, “90 percent of failures or casualties occur within the first three missions. Once an operative makes it past that threshold, he’s likely to succeed and return alive. What we needed—and found here on the island—was a real-life situation that dropped the failure rate during the first three missions significantly. Forcing them to hunt and be hunted by dangerous humans in training sessions on McNeil Island is an extremely practical way to prepare for other missions.”

  Evans looked past King with a thousand-yard stare, as if recalling a dangerous mission. Then he focused his laser eyes back on King. “As a secondary benefit, we’ve used this as a way to test a new drug that erases short-term memory and helps prevent posttraumatic stress disorders all across the military. It’s a variation of something called metyrapone.”

  “Is that what Jerome used on me?”

  Evans shook his head negative. “Our drug is injected after the hunt, not before or during. What he used on you was something to make you compliant. My best guess is flunitrazepam. It’s easy to obtain at a hospital. It’s a hypnotic sedative and skeletal muscle relaxant.” Evans smiled grimly. “And yes, we’ve used it too on occasion. For the same purpose he did.”

  “On the phone, my dad couldn’t rememb
er anything from last night,” King said. Every word had been recorded because the CIA had been in on this from the moment in the Seattle office when King had used cell phone video to convince Evans that King knew about the night hunts on McNeil Island. Mack had sent King straight to the FBI office. And about 20 minutes after King arrived there, Evans had walked in, and the CIA had taken over the operation.

  “Easy conclusion,” Evans said. “Murdoch has full knowledge of metyrapone. Your father might remember a few fragments but only if you tell him what happened.”

  The answer lifted a burden from King. It didn’t explain the quarter million dollars in the bank account, but it meant Mack had not been acting during the FaceTime call. Mack hadn’t been working with Murdoch.

  Evans said, “Our variation of metyrapone has the potential to help a lot of soldiers. If they are injected right after a traumatic battle, it saves them a tremendous amount of stress and could ease their transition back to civilian life. So the island provided us a situation where the most ruthless criminals in America were locked away forever. We could put them in real-life hunting situations and then test the effectiveness of the drug following each hunt. Few remember that they’ve hunted our men. Or that they’ve been hunted and shot with darts.”

  “Some people might call that monstrous,” King said.

  “Yes,” Evans said calmly. “And then again, many others of us have 9/11 seared in our memories and are determined not to allow it to happen again. I suggest you remember your earlier statement that now is not the time or place to debate it. You will have decisions to make shortly, and I want you to have as much knowledge as possible as I answer your question as to whether the US government is willing to kill its own citizens if necessary to protect this secret.”

  CHAPTER 47

  “Everything so far indicates that what you brought me earlier is accurate, and that video you shot of the prisoner with the Spiderman face is the last bit of proof I needed,” Evans said to King. “And we owe you a debt for that. We were unaware that Murdoch had gone renegade on us and was taking advantage of this situation to bring in private trophy hunters who paid huge bounties to hunt the most dangerous predator in the world.”

  Evans leaned back in his pilot’s chair and looked ahead through the bubble of the chopper window. “In retrospect, it’s something that could be too tempting for the wrong person. Internet forums make it easy to stay anonymous as you look for wealthy clients. And you easily could keep the location of the island secret too. Say the client is from Texas. You’d just need to make sure he doesn’t have any GPS technology, put him on an airplane at night, land at a private airport somewhere on the mainland, and keep him blindfolded during the final chopper flight to the island.

  King couldn’t help but think about the money hidden in Mack’s bank account. He’d been afraid to ask Mack about it the night of the escape. And King sure wasn’t going to bring it up now in front of the CIA.

  “We had a deal,” Evans said, shifting the conversation abruptly, “I’ve delivered on everything you wanted, so now I want my payment. Answers. How did you find out about Murdoch?”

  “Dead Man’s Switch,” King said.

  Evans raised an eyebrow as a question mark.

  “It’s a website. You set up a bunch of emails to go out if you don’t put in a password every day. That’s how I got the first email from Blake Watt. Blake’s funeral was a few weeks ago. Blake’s the one who found out. Blake’s emails started coming out and led me along little by little. The final proof is all on the Macbook Air that Murdoch has.”

  “A website that sends out info?” Evans glared at King. “You told me you could keep this secret. So now some website is out there holding all this information that could explode on the world at any time?”

  “I didn’t lie,” King said. “We can keep it secret.”

  King glanced at his watch. He’d already plugged in the password for the day and had bought another 24 hours, but Evans wouldn’t know this. Best thing to do here would be to squeeze Evans with time pressure the way that Blake had squeezed King.

  “We have about four hours to stop the release of the info,” King said. “But not until you come up with some guarantee that nothing will happen to me or my dad or my friend MJ. You know, that part about whether we believe the CIA would kill American citizens to keep a secret.”

  Evans nodded, but none of the sudden anger left his face. “Releasing that information would be something we’d hate to see. We want the lowest profile possible, which is why I’d much rather work with you to keep it secret than work against you if you went to the press. But if you did go to the newspapers right now with your story, the CIA would find a way to deny any plausibility. It’s the Internet age. People make wild claims all the time.”

  Evans snorted. “If you took this public, we could arrest you and charge you with one thing or another under the Homeland Security Act. But we wouldn’t, because if we did, that would be an indication that there was truth behind the accusations. No, we’d just let the rumors continue and start our own whisper campaign against the accusers. Stories about your backgrounds would be leaked to the press, and those stories would be outrageously false but put you in a bad light.”

  Evans smiled grimly. “Your mother, for example, would be exposed for her time with bikers as she sold meth and marijuana to underage kids in bars.”

  King began to arch his back in indignation. “She did not.”

  “Of course not,” Evans said. “But we’d find ways to get into courthouse computers and make it look as if she had a jail record. I promise you right now, if you went public with this, it would be far worse for each of your parents’ reputations than for the reputation of the CIA. Their credit scores would be destroyed; they’d be out of work. And all that you would have inflicted on us is yet another conspiracy theory.”

  “That’s what I needed to hear,” King said. “Now I know I can trust you.”

  “What, bringing an elite force of special operatives to rescue you wasn’t enough?”

  “No,” King said. “You didn’t do that for me. You did it because of Murdoch. He was playing you like a fool and making millions because of it. You didn’t do me a favor. I did you one by bringing this to you.”

  Evans grunted but didn’t agree or disagree.

  King tossed his iPhone to Evans, who caught it with a fluid athletic movement.

  “Dead Man’s Switch,” King said. “It’s not only a website. It’s also a game app.”

  Evans hit the home button and glanced down. “Password?”

  “Two eight five five.”

  Evans unlocked the phone.

  “Look through it,” King told Evans. “Check out the apps.”

  After about 30 seconds, Evans said, “Hundreds.”

  “Actually, 3520, if you want to be exact,” King said. “It’s Blake Watt’s phone. All those games and apps made no sense. Then I thought about how easy it would be to hide an app in there. So I did a search. Try it. You know how to go to the search screen? Go to—”

  “You kids think you’re the only ones who understand technology.”

  “You there?”

  “Give me a second,” Evans said.

  “Just—”

  King stopped when Evans shot him a cold glare. Then King grinned, letting Evans know King was messing with him.

  “Do a search for Dead Man’s Switch,” King said.

  Evans worked his thumb on the screen. Then lowered his eyebrows as the result came up. “Game app. And don’t tell me. Tap it and it will open.”

  King waited. He was silent as he watched Evans, whose eyes widened moments later.

  “It’s on an island. CIA operatives. Each given different weapons. Hunting. This is…this is…”

  Evans was speechless.

  “It’s ninety-nine cents, is what is,” King said. “Available on iTunes.”

  “We’ll get it pulled,” Evans said.

  “Come on,” King said. “Who would bel
ieve something that crazy?”

  “Ha, ha,” Evans said. Short pause. “What’s your point here?”

  “Blake Watt was a computer wizard. He’s the one who created it. I know that because I looked up the game app developer. He calls it DMS Apps. It’s proof Blake also knew about the CIA hunting games on the island.”

  “And?”

  “Everything he pointed us to was meant to expose Murdoch. Yet if Blake also knew about the CIA, that means I wondered if maybe the CIA knew about Blake too. If his drowning wasn’t an accident. That led me to the big question. Who got rid of Blake? Murdoch? Or you guys?”

  Evans folded his arms. “Do I really have to answer? We rescued you.”

  “Maybe some kind of reverse thing. Making it look like you’re against Murdoch to get me to tell you what I know. After all, you admitted Murdoch is CIA as well.”

  “Was CIA. In about an hour, his career is finished. It’s a short hop to the island from here.”

  “I didn’t know who to trust until now. The CIA doesn’t need to get rid of people to keep it secret. You can use other methods.”

  “I still don’t understand your point.”

  “It’s this,” King said. “You didn’t need to kidnap Blake. You would have threatened him and his parents just like you threatened me. That means you didn’t kidnap Blake, it meant Murdoch did.”

  “Kidnap? He’s the kid who drowned.”

  “Unless Murdoch took him and Blake was smart enough to threaten Murdoch with exposure with the dead man’s switch so that Murdoch couldn’t just kill him,” King said. “And if Murdoch kidnapped Blake, I’ll bet he’s still on the island. Alive and waiting for us to do something about it.”