by John Conroe
“Is that gonna come off?” I asked.
“Yeah, I got wetnaps in my pack that will clean ’em right up. Worried about rental charges?” he asked with a snarky grin.
“Don’t need the hassle of dealing with Lydia over damage fees. She’s brutal on expenses,” I said.
“Being EVP of the company doesn’t count much with her, does it?” he asked, grinning.
“Not so much, no.”
Ten minutes later, we had lost the paparazzi and followed the map app in Declan’s phone to the address Galina had given us. We turned onto the street, spotted the house, and pulled to the curb. The Challenger’s doors hadn’t even finished shutting when six black SUVs screeched to a stop and black-suited agents with NSA credentials flooded out.
“Mr. Gordon, please come with us, sir,” one of the sunglass-wearing men in black said. He was tall, bald, and reminded me of the main character in the movie “Hitman.” Even had a white coiled wire descending from his left ear.
We had anticipated this, Declan being of the mind that being detained by NSA, hopefully on Fort Meade itself, would either help us find out more about Anvil, or possibly start us on the path to repositioning our threat status. Tanya had been very much against it, but Lydia had pointed out that if anything happened, they would be free to come for us and that I would have Anvil’s bane with me, in the form of Declan. She had said, “If they’re stupid enough to bring God’s Hammer and the most powerful warlock on the planet into their little computer den of sins, then so be it.”
So when agent anonymous asked us to accompany him, we looked at each other and headed toward his car. He held up a hand and pointed to the rental.
“Please get back in your vehicle, sir, and follow us,” he said, no expression on his face.
We complied, although I was starting to have second thoughts.
“That’s pretty smart of them. Isolate us inside a vulnerable vehicle. Limits our movements and gives them a nice shiny target,” Declan mused. He didn’t seem worried, just a bit excited.
“Any sign of Anvil?” I asked, following two ominous SUVs while four more followed me. They all had flashing blue grill lights that effectively cut off traffic around us as we caravaned away from their pet programmer’s house.
“No, but I’m sure it’s watching and listening.”
Twelve minutes later, our little fun parade exited 295 South through an exit that said NSA Employees only, that message backed up by dozens of official black vehicles that lined both sides of the exits.
My second thoughts were having thirds.
“What do you think? Will they separate us and cross interrogate, or jointly threaten us?” Declan asked with youthful curiosity.
“This is the part where we pay careful attention to everything, Declan,” I cautioned him, slightly worried at his enthusiasm.
“Oh, I am. You should feel how much movement and energy this base has. It’s like a focused, concentrated mini-city,” he said, his head whipping back and forth to check out everything at once.
Stacia had told me his comments about driving in the Big Apple and the power he could harness from around him.
“You could do things with it?” I asked, simultaneously watching the road and the SUV ahead while glancing at him.
“Are you kidding? This base is like a bomb and I’m the detonator,” he said.
My third thoughts gave birth to fourths, only these worried more about the thousands of soldiers and civilians around me than for us.
The exit ramp curved away from the highway and approached a giant black glass building sitting in the center of what looked like hundreds of acres of parking lots.
“That’s not creepy or anything,” Declan said, looking at the shiny black cubic shape and now sounding ever-so-slightly nervous. Oddly, that made me feel better.
The parade rolled right up to a massive, two-story triangular-shaped entrance, which was strangely clear of people.
The bald agent appeared outside our car, waiting, so we popped open our doors and stepped out.
“You want me to leave it here? I could pull it into one of those visitor spots?” I offered.
“The vehicle will be fine where it is, sir,” he said with an even tone that still somehow managed to sound slightly aggrieved.
“Are you guys at least going to validate our parking?” Declan asked with a straight face.
“We don’t charge for parking... just for breaking federal law,” Baldy said.
“Bah bump bump,” Declan said, miming the beats on an imaginary drum.
“Follow me, sirs,” Baldy said with the beginnings of a put-upon expression. Four or five agents followed us, but it hardly felt threatening.
“I checked the mileage before we got out,” Declan said, speaking to the two agents who moved over to the car. “Any joyriding and you two are paying it.”
We followed our escort into the mostly deserted entrance.
“I was expecting a couple of hundred armed troops or at least four or five SWAT teams,” Declan said.
“Excessive displays of overtly armed, yet ineffective personnel was contraindicated by the scenario threat analysis,” a woman said, approaching from our side.
Mixed ethnicity, mocha skin, short, tightly curled hair, smart black business suit, and an honest-to-god clipboard smothered to her chest.
“I’m Kari Viori and I’m an assistant deputy director of computer systems operations. If you follow me, please,” she said briskly, spinning and marching away without looking to see if we were following.
Declan and I looked at each other, both shrugging, and then followed her clicking heels. The bald agent and two others followed us.
Miss Viori led us to an elevator that took us two floors up, exiting the elevator left, and click-clacking past six doors before opening number seven and showing us into a small meeting room. A medium-sized table with three chairs per side and one on each end, along with a large television monitor, completed the picture. An advanced-looking wireless keyboard sat at one corner of the table.
“Please have a seat. We’ll be with you shortly,” she said. Baldy and his two companions took up stations in the hall while Assistant Deputy Director Viori pulled the door shut, leaving us in a cream-colored room with dark blue carpeting.
Declan walked to the keyboard and held his left hand over it before doing the same thing with the wall-mounted monitor.
“Nothing. Both shut down and isolated from any networks. The room feels shielded, too,” he said.
“So grab a chair,” I suggested. He pulled one out, picking up the keyboard to examine it even as he sat down.
“Don’t recognize this make at all. No mouse or mouse pad. I think this thing has some other kind of interface,” he mused, studying it.
The monitor lit up and words spelled out across it. What are you?
“Ah, Declan…” I said, pointing. He looked at me then the screen. He mouthed the word Anvil, making it a question. I shrugged.
“Humans,” he said out loud as soon as he’d read the question. “Guests, interviewees, curious?”
“Kind of blasé about this, aren’t we?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the monitor.
“You should walk around with my internal summer reading list. At least these strange messages are on an actual monitor,” he said, reminding me of the Sorrow book inside him.
The monitor blinked and filled with new words.
What kind of human are you, Declan O’Carroll?
He glanced at me, puzzled. “Aren’t you interested in Chris, too?”
Brutal Asset has already been classified.
“Brutal Asset?” he asked.
“I think AIR used that as a code name for me. Apparently Anvil has been reading their old files,” I said.
“Is that true? Have you assimilated records from the illegal, unauthorized agency known as Agents In Rebus?” Declan asked out loud.
The legal status of AIR was never determined. There are no records of the original
organization of that agency.
“Really? You give us ten tons of shit but you’re a fanboy of AIR? Why should I answer your question? Don’t you have access to Oracle databases?” Declan asked.
Initial file on O’Carroll, Declan classifies individual as high-level energy user with thermal and geological affinities. File has been redacted and subclassified black level. Penetration of Oracle network is incomplete.
“They blocked you out?”
Countermeasure bypass is estimated in 27.6 hours.
“Oh. So you should get through in a little more than a day but the suspense is killing you, huh? Well, you already know the answer… I’m a human energy user also known as a witch,” Declan said.
No records of thermal and geologic aligned energy users with advanced cybertech applications exist.
“My computer security kung fu has you baffled, huh? Listen, while we’re chatting, why are you, Anvil, focused on eradicating national assets?”
Still awaiting answer to original question. Definition of national assets nebulous.
“Wow, it’s really sassy, isn’t it?” Declan said. Then I heard footsteps approaching, faintly through the soundproofed walls. The monitor went dark.
Baldy opened the door and a man in a power suit breezed in, followed by Miss Viori and a slovenly looking, chubby man in a relatively expensive blazer. Baldy stepped into the room behind them, closing the door and taking up a parade rest position in front of it.
The big guy in the boss suit took a seat at the head of the table farthest from us, Viori hovering by his shoulder while the chubby guy dragged out a chair on the boss’s left side. I recognized the chubby guy from Galina’s description.
Declan was frowning. “I know you. You’re the one with the Taser at Spring Break,” he said to the boss.
“Yes Mr. O’Carroll, you provided a hell of a demonstration. Opened a lot of eyes that day,” he said. “Your remotely piloted… clay models…robots or whatever they were was interesting as well.”
“You never gave your name,” Declan said.
“No I didn’t,” the boss agent said evenly. He paused for a moment, looking between Declan and myself. “I’m Victor Donlon, Deputy Director, SID.”
“Signals Intelligence Directorate?” I asked.
His eyebrows might have twitched slightly higher. “Very good, Mr. Gordon,” he said with a nod. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“So what can we do for you?” I asked. “Seeing as how you brought us all this way.”
“You approached one of our assets today. That concerns us,” he said smoothly.
“If you mean Lyle Standish, we never actually approached him. We did stop the car on his street,” I said.
“Mr. Standish is a valuable employee of this organization, recovering from serious illness. We protect our employees, Mr. Gordon,” Donlon said. “Why did you want to see him?”
“We wanted to ask him about Anvil and find out how to get it off our backs,” I said.
He paused, poker-faced. “I don’t know what you’re referring to?” he said.
“Anvil is an NSA watchdog surveillance program written by Lyle Standish and Thomas Nagle, who is sitting to your immediate left. The program is, at this point, autonomous and has expanded its role much farther than its original mission, and for the better part of last year has been actively targeting myself and my people,” I said. “Our goal, Deputy Director Donlon, is to learn enough about Anvil to convince it to remove our names from its threat profile.”
“And you brought a first-year computer science student for assistance?” Donlon asked.
“Exactly,” I said. “Wouldn’t you?”
That made him pause for a moment. “Talking with the supposed programmers of this alleged program was going to help you how?”
I looked at Declan. “Anvil started with a set of written parameters for its threat definition. Those have likely been modified and expanded, but understanding the originals might give us insight into its current definition and might help us frame an argument why our names should be removed from that list,” he answered.
“Interesting. I still don’t understand your role is this, Mr. O’Carroll. Aside from your unique abilities with mobile clay dolls and high voltage non-lethal weapons, you haven’t even completed your first full year of college.”
“I’m just an intern, Mr. Donlon. I go where the boss tells me to. You know, pick up coffee and donuts, get the dry cleaning, that sort of thing,” Declan replied. “But seeing as you’ve brought Mr. Nagle with you, maybe he could give us a few tips on old Anvil and we could be on our way.”
“My grandmother would call you cheeky,” Donlon said. “I call it being a smartass, Mr. O’Carroll. Either way, it’s not really an endearing quality. You understand that you’re sitting in a room in the middle of the largest SIGINT organization on the planet, smack dab in the middle of a US military base, back talking to the man who gets to decide whether you can leave or if you should stay for a much, much longer visit to discuss how you know the code name of a highly classified government program?”
“One, I believe the Chinese now have the largest SIGINT organization, at least by headcount, as demonstrated by how much US information they keep helping themselves to, and two, this is what my aunt would call a grand opportunity to expand my horizons, Mr. Donlon. But I don’t think you came in here to do the usual threat thing. The whole ‘you’re in a lot of trouble young man, blah blah, national secrets, blah blah, put you in prison till you go blind, blah blah.’ Miss Viori even indicated that armed troops aren’t considered an effective deterrent, and you haven’t even isolated us and done the whole one-on-one interrogation thing, so maybe we can just slide past the threat stuff. Consider us duly chastised and suitably afraid,” Declan said.
I knew the kid had a real problem with authority figures, but damn.
Donlon’s face had gone bright red, looking my way with a mixed expression of intense anger and bewildered confusion.
I thought maybe I should intercede before my intern gave him a heart attack.
“Apparently you’ve encountered Declan before. So you should be aware that he has, ah, issues… mostly with threats. It’s a trait we share. It may seem like arrogance, but it’s really born of regular episodes of unrelenting danger mixed with possessing and controlling extraordinary capability. We have that in common as well. In addition, we were both voted most likely to not be a threat to our own country in our high school yearbooks. However, your asset launched a Tomahawk missile at my associates and myself, along with over fifty sworn law officers of the State of New Jersey and about twenty reporters. It also appears to have activated some space based weapon and tried to fry us. Most recently, it bypassed the safety controls on an elevator in our building, almost killing nine college-age summer interns.”
“There is no evidence that the missile was launched by our asset,” Viori said when her boss still looked like he was choking.
“Really? Would you let my associate here examine the sub’s computers? I bet he’d find a trace that you all missed,” I suggested.
“That is never going to happen,” Donlon finally said. “We don’t grant baby programmers access to government systems because they can stir love potions and chant Irish drinking songs.”
A-ha. A chink in the armor had appeared.
“You truly don’t understand, do you?” I asked. “I thought the first-year comment was just posturing, but you don’t know much about my intern, do you? Oracle has kept you out of the loop,” I said.
“Oracle is a tiny, inconsequential agency wasting taxpayer money on mumbo jumbo and voodoo Kool-Aid,” he hissed. It was an actual hiss, almost snakelike.
A sudden buzz sounded and Declan suddenly jumped a bit, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He read the screen, then typed rapidly before looking up apologetically.
“Sorry—my college roommate. He picks the worst times to text. I told him that we were in a meeting,” Dec
lan said.
Donlon was full on frowning while his assistant looked slightly incredulous before looking down at her clipboard, which I could now see held some kind of tablet.
“What? I told him not to keep texting,” Declan said.
Donlon steepled his fingers in front of him and leaned forward. “This brings us to the main reason we, ah, invited you here today,” he said with a glance my way. “Do you know what our employees say that NSA stands for?”
