Kill Switch

by James Phelan

  Walker saw that the guy had a cigarette lighter on top of a packet of tobacco and rolling papers.

  “And I’ll take your lighter.”

  The hipster bartender looked at it and hesitated. Walker was still holding onto the fifty. The hipster tugged at it and felt the resistance. Then he reached with his other hand and passed over the lighter.

  “Use that to get yourself a haircut,” Walker said as he let go of the money. “And a shave.”

  “So I can look like you and everyone else? Yeah, right.”

  Walker sat in a booth next to Monica, opposite Paul.

  “Some place you always wanted to see . . .” Walker said, tapping in the number for McCorkell’s New York office.

  “I still don’t get it,” Paul said. “We’ve just been talking it through.”

  Walker said, “Where did you always want to go?”

  “Going to the moon was my first aspiration,” Paul said. “And later, with Jasper, we talked about going to Stanford—they were developing the precursor to the Internet there when we were kids. It’s still a world leader—and close to here.”

  “But we’ve seen crosses to there since this started,” Monica said. “Stanford’s computer labs are leading university teams across the nation to try to trace back the hacks, so it can’t be there.”

  Walker said, “I missed that.”

  “I didn’t,” Paul said. “It crossed my mind to go and join them, then you two showed up.”

  “Well, Jasper reached out to you,” Walker said. “You have to know what he means, even if you don’t think you know.” He tried McCorkell’s cell phone.

  “Maybe I will remember, or figure it out,” Paul said. “With time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Walker said, the phone to his ear as the call connected and started to ring.

  “They’ll track that call,” Paul said.

  “We’ll be out of here in a couple of minutes,” Walker said. Two rings. Three. “Jasper’s message—it has to be something easy for you to recall. He would have made it the first thing to pop into your head.”

  “Stanford was the first thing. We wanted to go there,” Paul replied. “Neither of us got in.”

  “I’ll mention that to my guy if he ever answers,” Walker said, looking at the screen to make sure he’d punched in the correct number. “I’ll make sure they’ve done a search.”

  “If he’s there, they’ll have a physical connection into the computer networks, so, somewhere on campus,” Paul said.

  Walker nodded.

  “Jasper . . .” Monica said. She motioned to the television over the bar. “Look at him, in that last broadcast. He’s changed.”

  “How?” Walker said. Four rings.

  “His expression. The way he spoke just before. It’s like he’s delirious.”

  “They may have drugged him,” Walker said. Six rings. Seven. He looked down at the map of San Francisco. He found Jasper’s apartment and started looking at concentric rings out, at one-mile intervals. Where? Where would they take him? It’s close . . . near here. What’s near . . . Eight rings. Nine. Walker hung up and re-entered the number and tried again. “And kept him awake—maybe he’s been awake for more than twenty-four hours. He’s desperate and running on empty. It could be the gravity of the cyber attacks he’s had to complete, and he’s degrading and destroying the nation that he signed up to defend.” He looked to Paul. “Where else? What’s near that you could do this kind of thing from?”

  “Wherever they have Jasper, it’s somewhere with access to big hardware,” Paul said. “I’m talking serious grunt machines, because the computing power he’s using is bigger and meaner than the systems he’s hacked so far.” Paul tapped the map. “So, Silicon Valley, or a university, maybe something government. You could tap into any number of super-computers, servers, whatever you want. There’s a lot of that in the vicinity.”

  “Let’s narrow it down, then,” Walker said, staring at the map. “It’s got to be government. Has to be.”

  “Why?” Monica asked.

  “Whoever has Jasper has to have control,” Walker said. He tried another phone number, Somerville’s cell. “To have no one around to see it. If General Christie is driving this, she’d make sure it’s somewhere she can keep controlled for the duration of the operation. And it can’t be shut down. All that points to military. There’s redundancies there, too, because the General is thinking like a military commander and she wants the option of defense if it comes to it. She knows that she has to hold the fort for the full thirty-six hours.”

  “Defense?” Monica said.

  “First and foremost, she’d take it over.” Walker ended the call and looked at the phone. Something wasn’t right; he hadn’t even reached McCorkell’s message service, nor Somerville’s. “They’d have it scheduled for maintenance or something, so no one is around. That’s the first step. Then she’ll want safeguards in place. It has to be off the grid. Generate its own power—not just as a back-up power plant, but its own power station, separate from the grid, if they’re threatening to take it down.”

  “A government response would have been to turn off power to any possible location,” Paul said. “But all these places around here—Apple, Google, Yahoo, you name it—they’ve all got their own power generation, big gas turbines to ensure that they’ve got reliable supply no matter what.”

  “Power . . .” Walker stared absently. Then he dialed another number, this one a cell phone, a number that hadn’t changed in all the years he’d known it. “It needs defense from power. From shutting it down, I mean.”

  Paul said, “That’s what I just said.”

  “No. You’re thinking macro. I’m thinking micro . . . an EMP.” His attention returned to the map, to those one-mile rings out from their location. Within just a few miles of where they were in Palo Alto was virtually the center of the Internet and all that ran it. “Though it doesn’t have to be military, it could just be government. Christie could pull strings to take over anything federal she wanted or needed.”

  “That narrows it down.” Paul looked at the map. “Where’s a government-owned site that has its own power plant, and has an EMP-resistant super-computer? Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado? That place ticks all the boxes. It’s literally designed to survive anything.”

  “But it’s too far away,” Walker said, tapping an imaginary point at the far edge of the table, way off the map. “And there are too many people around there for the General to do something like this and keep it under wraps. It can’t be a part of vital national security infrastructure.”

  “Maybe she sold it to them as an exercise as well?” Monica said. “Sucked them in, made them leave? Locked them out of part of the complex?”

  “She sold the exercise lie to Paul, sure, but that was before all this started,” Walker said. “But it wouldn’t work now, not since it’s been getting airplay, now that the world believes a terror group is actually doing all of this. To me that rules out anything military, because there’s too many people and bureaucracy involved in any place that would have the type of computer power we’re talking about. She may be head of Cyber Command, but no Admiral or Air Force General is going to turn over his entire base, empty it of all personnel, for her to use for at least thirty-six hours.”

  “You really think it’s close to here?” Monica said.

  “Yes,” Walker said. “From the time they nabbed Jasper to the first broadcast and hack, what was that—an hour? Less? We know they put him in a vehicle and then changed vehicles. Maybe another car, maybe a helo. But even if they put him on a helo to somewhere, they couldn’t travel far before landing and getting him to a video and then a computer terminal. It all happened inside of an hour from the abduction. That tells me they’re holding him somewhere here, in Silicon Valley.”

  Paul’s eyes scanned the map. Monica’s too.

  And then Walker saw it. He saw it and he felt a weight in his gut, a pit of sickness that was instantly roiling and bubbling
, because he thought of the car that his father had given him yesterday and the key ring and he knew, then, that his father knew far more about Zodiac and how it was playing out than he had admitted.

  “Here,” Walker said, his finger on the map. “Three miles from Jasper’s apartment. Government owned and operated, and I bet you a section of it is closed off right now for some reason or another.”

  “NASA,” Monica said, reading the map. “Ames Research Center.”

  “Yes, and—” Walker brought the phone’s mouthpiece up to his lips. “Eve—it’s me. Listen, I need you to do something. What—no, I’m fine. Eve, I can’t get hold of McCorkell or Somerville. You have to keep trying for me, every number you can try, for him or Somerville or anyone there who can get you through to them, but you need to say that they have to get General Christie. She’s the one driving this: she got to Jasper Brokaw via Paul Conway, and Jasper is being held at the Ames Research Center in Silicon Valley. It’s part of NASA. Got all that? Yes, Ames. Good. They’ll know what it means. Thanks. Talk soon.”

  Walker ended the call before Eve could go on, because he knew that she’d be worried and would want to know where he was and what was going on and in what capacity he was involved in the cyber attacks, and he not only did not have the time but he wanted to keep her in the dark as much as possible. Because that’s worked so well all these years . . . Do people change? Can they? Can I? Will I?

  “It will have the computer gear, the power station, and the EMP protection . . .” Paul trailed off. “That’s NASA’s super-computing center. And we used to talk about being astronauts. That was the first thing we ever said—we did an assignment together on going to Mars. That’s when we became friends.”

  “Ah, my phone?” the hipster bartender said, his arm outstretched to Walker, but he paused mid-action.

  Walker tensed.

  The barman had the same expression on his face as Monica and Paul. What he didn’t have was a red laser dot in the middle of his chest like they had.

  Walker knew, before he saw them. He turned slowly, keeping his hands flat on the table.

  Four black-clad paramilitary guys stood in a tight huddle, their faces hidden behind black ski masks, their silenced H&Ks aimed with laser pointers.

  No way out.

  78

  “This is Harrington,” he said into an encrypted satellite phone. “We’ve got them. All safe and sound.”

  There was a pause, and then Harrington said to General Christie: “Sorry, can you repeat that? Okay. Okay. Right. Copy that, moving now.”

  The call was ended and Harrington said to the driver: “NASA’s Ames Research Center, eastern gate.”

  •

  Eve tried another landline, then another cell number, and they all ended in the same result: nothing—not even voicemail.

  Eve paced her room. She saw on the news that the Russian President had ordered a proportional military response to a US cyber attack on their nation’s communications network, and that it would be swift justice against the perpetrators. Columns of Russian armored vehicles were crossing the border into Eastern Ukraine, and NATO announced that it was mobilizing its rapid reaction force so that all options were on the table. The news feed cut to the White House for commentary.

  Eve stared at her phone.

  When she thought of McCorkell and Somerville, she also thought of the first person who she had met out of that UN team: Andrew Hutchinson, an FBI Special Agent on secondment to the unit. She had his cell-phone number in her phone, and she rang it.

  Nothing. Not even voicemail. The phone just rang and rang.

  Then she saw the Vice President of the United States on the television, and did a double-take. She dialed the operator for a call-connect.

  “The White House, please. Yes, the White House. I don’t know—is there a press number? Or how about general inquiries? Okay, that’s fine, put me through. Thank you.” Eve waited as the call connected, and when it was answered she said, “This is Eve Walker, and I need you to listen to me: I have an urgent message for the Vice President, from Jed Walker . . .”

  •

  Walker was in the back of a transport van, his back against a side wall, a black hood over his head and his wrists bound behind his back with plastic cable ties. Paul was seated to his left, and Monica to his right, each identically subdued. He knew from the sounds and motions inside the van that two of the paramilitary guys had climbed in and sat opposite, watching them. The leader, Harrington, whose name he caught one of the guys saying as they were loaded into the van, was talking—Texas accent—on the phone in the passenger seat. And the fourth guy was at the wheel, driving through Palo Alto.

  To NASA’s Ames Research Center.

  Did these guys know that Jasper was there? Judging from the way Harrington took the information during the call, Walker figured he was in the dark about the location; Harrington had seemed surprised that they weren’t heading to a DoD site. Unless of course his surprise had actually been connected to what he had been instructed to do with his prisoners once they arrived at Ames . . .

  79

  “Okay guys, listen up,” Harrington said.

  Walker listened closely, trying to glean as much information as he could. He knew he could bust from his cable ties, but the two guys opposite would be on him fast. He wouldn’t have time to remove his hood before attacking the man immediately in front, so he would be reliant on how that guy reacted before deciding on a course of action with the second one. Still without seeing, fighting blind. Not a good option.

  “Our orders,” Harrington said, “are to hand over these three to another group who have set up security at the computer hub at Ames. In and out. Got that?”

  “Why there?” the guy opposite Walker asked.

  “That’s above our pay grade,” Harrington replied. “But I assume the General’s got a tech team from Cyber Command holding station there in case the DoD needs to use the computer facilities. It’ll be a safe place for these two—while they work out what to do with Walker.”

  “We can’t keep him?” the driver asked. “The son of a bitch killed—”

  “For what purpose would we keep him?” Harrington said.

  The driver was silent.

  “Justice will come,” Harrington said. “The General will know what to do with him.”

  “There’s DoD at Ames?” the second guard in the back of the van asked.

  “Yes,” Harrington said. He paused, then said, “Team Black is set up there.”

  The men in the van fell silent. Walker sensed all kinds of opportunities and dread in that silence.

  •

  “Damn!” Special Agent Fiona Somerville said. She indicated and started to slow the car, just a few miles out of Dulles where they had a jet waiting to take them back to New York City.

  Bill McCorkell looked over his shoulder.

  “It’s DC police,” Somerville said. “I’ll flash my badge and we’ll be on our way.”

  “You were speeding?”

  “A little. Nothing to make any trouble.”

  “No, wait,” McCorkell said, looking again out the rear window. It was impossible to make out the markings on the squad car in the dark and with the flashing lights strobing at them, but the uniform he did now see, as the officer started running from his car toward them. “It’s Secret Service, uniform branch.”

  80

  The vibe in the van had changed. Walker felt it in the air without a word being spoken.

  Team Black is set up there.

  That’s what had changed the mood. Tension. Apprehension.

  First, it meant that this team was surprised that DoD had people there at all. So, they weren’t in the loop on that. Nor why they were headed there—certainly not on Jasper being there, either. But did they know of the General’s involvement? And the silence that followed Harrington’s mention of Team Black—these guys knew Team Black. It wasn’t like they were saying Delta were there, or a Ranger platoon. It was specific, and the
refore small, part of the same black-ops outfit as them, in this case working for the General out of Cyber Command.

  Walker summed it up: a small blackball outfit of the DoD, operating on US soil. Split into six-man teams? And the General was bent. And, it seemed, these guys in the van weren’t privy to Team Black’s operations or intentions.

  Walker had to exploit that.

  •

  McCorkell stood on the shoulder of Interstate 66 and used the Secret Service officer’s phone to call Eve Walker.

  “The Vice President got your message,” McCorkell said. “And it turns out that someone has put blocks on all my team’s phones so that they’re no longer connected to a network.”

  “It’s General Christie,” Eve said. “That’s what Walker told me to tell you. That she’s driving this—that she has Jasper.”

  McCorkell was silent.

  “Are you still there?” Eve asked.

  “Yes,” McCorkell said. “I’m here. Was that all he said?”

  “He said that Jasper is being held at Ames Research Center.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, okay. That’s it?”

  “He said this all started with General Christie.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Eve. Are you safe?”

  “Yes I’m at—”

  “Listen, do me a favor,” McCorkell said. “Wherever you are? Leave your phone behind, take cash, no cards, and hole up for the next few hours until this blows over. Things have been said on this call that may get flagged and then tracked back to your cell phone and your location can be found. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Watch the news. You’ll see when this ends, and after that—well, then all will be fine. Stay safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  McCorkell ended the call and asked the Secret Service agent to escort them directly to the White House.

  81

  Jasper could tell that things had changed. He’d counted six armed men over the course of his time at Ames. Never all in the one place, never more than three of them down in the computer network center, as though the other three who rotated through were on sentry duty. One was in charge, that was clear. His name was Webster. Jasper had never seen their faces, because they wore ski masks when they brought him out of the computer room to film the demands that were beamed around the world. He could tell things had changed, because they were animated now, moving about, quickly, not measured and laconic as they had been up until now.