by James Phelan
“By you?”
“No. By someone with malicious intent, I’d say.”
“And your intent is what?”
“Patriotic duty,” Jasper said. “Many steps ahead of this moment here. You’ll see. At any rate, that blackout from a single source forced other powerlines to shoulder an extra burden—and in turn they cut out by tripping a cascade of failures throughout southeastern Canada and eight northeastern states, making it the biggest blackout in North American history. What I’m doing will become just like that. It will make us stronger. Make the system stronger.”
“And you want to do that to the whole country?”
“Oh no, nothing so primitive,” Jasper said. “See, the US power grid consists of three loosely connected parts: eastern, western and Texas. That’s our first problem—it’s just three connected pieces. So, what we’re about to do, in the long run, will make our country better. And I’m not just talking about the power grid—I’m talking about all these attacks. It’s like losing a war: you learn from it, improve and adapt for the next one—and there will be a war, a big war someday, and we have to be prepared. It’s people like me and General Christie who get that.”
“You want this cyber attack to result in the government implementing a smart grid capable of monitoring and repairing itself?” Paul said. “Why don’t you just spend your time programming for that?”
“You’re thinking too small, as usual,” Jasper said, pressing the Glock harder into the back of Paul’s head. “This is one of many attacks I’ve performed since yesterday, each needing attention. Every hack that I’ve implemented over the past thirty-five hours has been about highlighting what we need to fix. Secure our networks. Crypto our information. Protect our infrastructure, from GPS to the energy grid. Fire back at attacks at the source. Have safeguards on our automated weapons systems. Admit when we are attacked by a foreign national and fire back a proportional response. And pre-emptively strike. We can now—why not? Why not wipe out the economies of our adversaries? Why not let the world read all about them, every little private detail, to show what kind of corrupt hypocritical despots they really are?”
Walker kept the camera rolling, never letting his eyes leave the gun in Jasper’s hand.
“It’s not too late . . .” Monica said. She had tears running down her cheeks. “If you want the country to have learned a lesson, you’ve done it. Now stop it.”
“One of our greatest threats are those people here who are being radicalized and inspired by the propaganda that groups like ISIS put out there on the Internet,” Jasper said. “These home-grown violent extremists are inspired from overseas but they often act alone, and it’s not easy to track them down. This is the profile of the enemy within. This will give us a chance to root them out, starting from scratch, starting with an Internet where everything is monitored.”
“You’ve changed, man,” Paul said.
“I’m the hero this country needs right now,” Jasper said. “You’ll see.”
“People will die, Jasper,” Monica said. “All the hospitals without power? All those traffic lights stopping people slamming their cars into each other? Accidents will happen. People will riot and loot.”
“It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid,” Jasper said. “Or consider it a bit of Darwinism. We’ll be fine. Well, at least I will be. I can’t speak for Paul here.”
“You’re a real hero,” Monica said, not hiding the spite in her voice. “Dad would be so proud. Mum too.”
Jasper turned and pointed the gun at her. His expression was deadpan. “Paul, you have ten seconds, and if you’re not done by then, I will shoot my sister. That would make you sad, I would think. Unless you’ve changed? Your choice. Tick-tock, old friend.”
95
Jasper had dressed in his orange jumpsuit for the last time. He tucked the Glock into the back pocket and took his seat in front of the camera. With its viewfinder facing him, he used the remote to zoom a little, so that it framed him tightly, from the chest up to an inch or so above his head, and a couple of inches clear either side. The background, this time, was the background of the NASA computer lab—and Walker knew then that this was for keeps. Neither Monica nor Paul would be getting out of here alive. Jasper too—this seemed like he was about to admit to the world what he’d done and why, and Walker could not see a way out for him if he did that.
“Let’s see where we are,” Jasper said to the camera. “And let’s see how I can take you away from the edge of this abyss . . . When I was in the Army, I saw things that shook me to my core, that changed my view on how our country is governed, and where we have arrived, as one people, as humanity.
“This is my chance to set things right. But let me tell you what I saw, the thing that made me then change direction, inspired me to join the NSA and work from within, which has brought me to this point, where I am on your screens right now.”
Jasper took a breath, then said to the camera: “In 2008, something quite extraordinary occurred in the United States, something that—despite its clearly controversial nature—went almost entirely unaddressed by mainstream media. On the first of October 2008 the US military assigned the 1st Brigade Combat Team of the 3rd Infantry Division to the United States Northern Command. This meant that American soldiers were operating on US soil, seemingly in direct contradiction of our constitution.
“The 1st Brigade was there so that it could be called upon to help with civil unrest and crowd control or to deal with potentially horrific scenarios such as massive chaos in response to a chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear or high-yield explosive attack. But our Posse Comitatus Act, passed in 1878 following Reconstruction, prohibits federal military personnel from acting in a law-enforcement capacity in the United States, except if authorized by constitutional amendment or Congress.
“I ask you, where does it stop?
“Since September 11, 2001, the executive branch has been slowly chipping away at civilian protections against martial law, possibly rendering both Posse Comitatus and the Insurrection Acts impotent. You know what?” he tugged at his orange jumpsuit. “We’re all prisoners, in this country. And that’s gotta change. It’s time for us all to rise up and take control. It’s our constitutional right.
“We will have a cyber equivalent of Pearl Harbor at some point, and we must not wait for that wake-up call. Through my actions, I’m giving our nation a chance to adapt. Social networks and other online services are the command-and-control choice for terrorists and criminals; my work has highlighted that. Massive networking makes the US the world’s most vulnerable target. We need to be aware of that. The question for us is not what new story will come out next. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
96
Walker had watched Jasper’s speech.
And now, Jasper had signed off and moved back to Paul, who was taped to the chair, and he held the Glock to the back of his head.
“Enter the code,” Jasper said. “Do it now, or . . .”
Jasper lowered the gun at Paul’s leg. Walker reached up and pressed the record button, and the feed started to transmit to the world.
“The code,” Jasper said.
Paul’s hands didn’t move.
“You always were slow to realize what needed to be done,” Jasper said to him. “Don’t you see what I’ve done? Don’t you see what you could have been a part of?”
Paul was silent and still.
“The code, bitch!”
“Leave him alone!” Monica said.
“Oh, my little sister is sticking up for this guy?” Jasper said to her in a mocking tone. “Why? Why would you do that? We’re supposed to be family . . .”
Walker made sure that the camera took in the whole scene. Right now, hundreds of millions of screens around the world, perhaps in the billions, were seeing this live feed.
And they were seeing Jasper for who and what he really was.
“Come on!” Jasper screamed at Paul. “I’ve done it this far!
Me! All on my own—I’ve stood up to make this nation a stronger place—and now, at the end, you’re going to stand in my way?”
Paul was silent. He just stared at the screen in front of him.
“Okay,” Jasper said, his tone was defeated. He pointed the Glock down toward his sister. “Paul? Paul . . . look here Paul.”
Paul looked.
“You enter that code to shut down the nation’s energy grid, or first my sister loses the use of her legs, and a lot of blood, and then her life, and then the same will happen to you, only slower.”
Paul looked to Monica.
“Ignore him,” Monica said. She was composed and calm. “They’ll be here soon. This will all be over.”
“One,” Jasper said.
“Leave her be,” Paul said. His voice shook. “You—”
“Two,” Jasper said. “Just enter the code.”
Walker moved around the room, crouched low, so that he could come up behind Jasper. Without a weapon, he would be reliant on crash-tackling him, and doing his best to not allow the Glock to go off in Monica’s direction.
“Three.”
97
In General Christie’s office, McCorkell and Somerville watched the screen in detached incredulity. General Christie had not yet said it, but it was clear to anyone in view of a screen that Jasper was a part of this, a willing participant rather than a hostage being forced to do the will of others.
It took a while for Monica to start screaming. By the time she did, Paul had entered the code, and suddenly Walker came into view, running across the room.
Jasper saw Walker and brought up the Glock. He started firing—
And then the screen went dead. As did the lights in the room, until the back-up power system took over.
McCorkell looked to General Christie.
“See?” she said. “I win. You lose. You need to wake up. We’re in a cyber cold war. You think this ends now? You’re a fool. People will rally behind me. We’ll get our cyber arm of the military. I’ll be pardoned. I’ll be honored. And then where will you be? We’ll see who comes out on top after—”
Somerville punched General Christie square in the face, and she slumped unconscious in her seat.
“Thank you,” McCorkell said.
“We have to get help into there, for Walker.” Somerville was on the phone and calling in everything that was on hand at Ames.
McCorkell looked at the time. “We might be too late.”
•
Walker felt the bullet tear into his left triceps and his arm exploded in heat and heaviness, as though he could no longer control it.
But it didn’t matter. Two hundred and thirty pounds hit Jasper side on, and it would have made his football coach back at the Air Force Academy Falcons proud. He heard the air crash out of Jasper as he was hit, and then Walker landed on him with all his force and weight, which slid them both across the tiled floor, slippery with blood mixing from both Monica and Walker. Jasper’s head hit the tiles with the satisfying sound of a coconut cracking and he was out cold, and the Glock clattered across the floor. Walker sat up and inspected his wound. Not bad—not much blood compared to what was on the floor.
That was from Monica. Her leg shot was in the thigh and it was arterial blood.
“Pressure!” Walker said. He removed his belt in the three strides it took to reach her and looped it around her upper thigh and pulled it tight as he elevated the limb above her heart, her torso and head now on the ground.
Her shock was abating and she screamed—the kind of scream that ripped through the air and sliced into the walls, the sound destined to forever echo in the concrete bunker.
“Paul?” Walker said as he watched Monica’s bleeding start to slow to a trickle.
“Rebooting . . . now.” He left his chair and crashed down onto the slippery floor, next to Monica, and held her hand.
Monica said, “The power went down?”
“And will stay down, until the local power company manually restarts all their mains switches,” Paul said, helping stabilize Monica, putting his folded shirt under her head and keeping hold of her hand. Blood was everywhere. “But the grid is back up, Mon. And it’s over. Hear me? Jasper is over. This is all over. We won.”
Monica nodded. Her face was white.
Walker stood and went to try one of the phones to call for an EMT—
And stopped.
Jasper was gone.
98
Walker looked back to Paul, who was holding Monica and talking softly to her to keep her awake. They both saw the expression on Walker’s face and knew, without even looking around, what had transpired.
Walker said, “I have to—”
“Go,” Monica said. “Go. Get him.”
“I’ve got this,” Paul replied. He squeezed Monica’s hand. “We’ve got this.”
Walker gave Paul a landline phone from a desk and then he ran.
•
“We’ve got San Francisco SWAT and EMTs rolling into Ames now,” Somerville said.
On cue the television news feed went from the talking heads discussing their shock over Jasper’s involvement to a live feed from a news chopper above NASA’s Ames Research Center. The entire area around Ames was blacked out, but the campus itself had a few building lights on, generated by its back-up power.
“What’s that?” McCorkell said, pointing to the east. “Fires?”
Somerville looked closer at the screen. A few blocks out from Ames were residential streets. Then the helo tracked its cameras at the SWAT and EMT vans rolling through the streets toward the super-computing lab. The EMT vehicles stopped. The SWAT van rolled closer and stopped and then its members fanned out. Another helicopter came into view and landed—a ghost in the night, painted black and visible only for its navigation lights. An eight-man team dressed in combat fatigues.
“That’s HRT,” Somerville said. “They’ll go in first.”
McCorkell nodded, watching the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team move quickly toward the super-computing lab, the members splitting up and heading for two entry points, while the Palo Alto SWAT unit set up fire positions outside.
The news helicopter did a wide circuit, and the cameras were now pointed away from the Ames Research Center, toward the glowing fires a mile out.
The images showed the National Guard at their checkpoints, a three-mile diameter bubble around Ames, and beyond the Guard troops and their big bright lights was the darkness of a city with no power. But that darkness was punctuated, near the Guard units, by fires. First one, then a few, then several, and now more than a dozen, glowing and burning hot and bright. Some fires were cars, others were Molotov cocktails burning against the ground.
“People are rioting,” Somerville said. “The power being out, all cell phones being out—they’re losing it.”
“Wait until they get the power on and find out what kind of guy Jasper Brokaw really is.”
•
Jasper ran. His prosthetic leg below his knee was loose but he ignored it, ignored the pain and the way that it was wobbling and slowing him down. He kept checking over his shoulder, the Glock in his hand, trying to think how many rounds he had left, if it came to it.
He was in the sub-basement level. He had studied the schematics for the building and he knew that this was part of an emergency escape network twenty feet beneath the base, with concrete tunnels and ductwork and piping overhead, weaving all over a couple of square miles, with egress points dotted all about the base and beyond. Blue stripes and green stripes were painted on the floor. He knew that the tunnels with blue stripes led to exit points on the base, and that those with green stripes led to points outside of the NASA compound.
He followed green.
There would be cops at the exit, he figured.
Emerge, plead for help, they’ll give it—shoot them, ditch the jumpsuit and keep moving. Blend into the crowd—
“Jasper!” A voice cut through the tunnel. Walker. “Jasper! I’m coming fo
r you!”
99
Walker stopped at a cross junction in the labyrinthine tunnel system beneath Ames. He stood still and listened, trying to make out which way Jasper had gone. He kept a hand tight on his arm as blood poured over his fingers, the flow faster than before from the exertion of running. Movement, shuffling, the echoed pitter-patter of the uneven gait of Jasper running away. The tunnel to his left, with a green stripe painted on the floor and ductwork and piping above, and every fifteen feet a small neon light overhead.
Walker set off in pursuit.
•
Jasper stopped. He was panting hard. He propped himself up at the turn in the tunnel; the construction of the tunnels included lots of thirty-degree turns so that if there was a blast or a fire it would not flush clear through the tunnel like a chimney and the fire-suppression systems in the pipes above could stand a chance to extinguish it.
Ahead was a clear 200 yards. He held the Glock with as steady a hand as he could muster.
Deal with Walker. Get to the exit. Kill the cops. Blend in. Get a vehicle, get away, find a phone, call the General, replay and reboot. Maybe what they’d done was enough. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, so long as he got out. He saw a shadow at the bend behind him.
Jasper fired twice. The sound of the 9-millimeter Glock in the confines of the concrete tunnel was near deafening, and he worked his mouth and jaw against the sounds that were crashing through his head. Seeing Walker go down, he turned and ran.
•
Two hundred yards of travel for a 9-millimeter bullet was not a problem. Aiming and hitting a target, a moving target, over that distance, was near-on impossible. The fall of the round over that distance was extreme as gravity worked on the projectile. There was no wind sheer to factor in.
The two slugs from the Glock were traveling at 1200 feet per second down the corridor and Walker dropped as he heard the shots, thinking in that split second that Jasper would be aiming high, for a center mass, while at the same time his mind told him that any action was useless and likely just as dangerous as taking no action at all, because the two lumps of metal headed his way would likely hit the concrete wall or ceiling and ricochet around and spit up bits of concrete that would act as shrapnel. In the same moment that he hit the concrete floor he knew that by the time he heard the shots the rounds would have been on him already, so it was a moot point as the speed of sound was around 1200 feet per second. Hear the shot—and the shot is at you.
