Mark steps in front of her and says, “She’s the same age as my wife is how old she is.”
Rita smiles and rubs the back of his shoulders with her hands.
“Enough of that,” says Mike. “We have far bigger fish to fry, if we are going to do this thing.” She steps up on a desk, addressing the room, and tells the crowd, “Let’s all go topside and talk this over with everyone, please.” She walks out without another word, but in less than two minutes, all the people who had been below are now above, and the proposal is presented to everyone. It is a flint-hard pill.
Mike climbs on top of Mark and Rita’s coach, addressing her friends and new acquaintances alike, saying, “Right now, what I have is a lot of hope and some very bad ideas. The very dangerous beginning of a great revolution is often born from less. I believe it is time we take the fight to them instead of just hiding here. I would like to consider possibilities of attacking the enemy, in their hometowns, all over the world, in the media – what there is of it – and in the economics. I will need considerable help and the resulting fallout that will come to our little corner of the world will be considerable. As they would have said, in 1776, ‘the power of the crown will fall upon us.’ So, I have to know, who is willing to fight?”
Every soldier or professional operator raises his or her hands. Most of the gang that has been cloistered with Mike these past couple of years are civilians, but the ex-military among them are on her side. The ex-civilians have learned to trust her and say so.
“Most of us are not fighters. We have watched as you have built a home for us all, without asking much in return, except that we do our chores, and keep our guard from time to time. You gotta understand, we are not warriors!” It is a sort of milquetoast little man in the back, walking toward the front. “I have no skill with weapons, but I can manage money, electronic banking shit, if that is what you want me to do, we can attack that.”
“That is excellent, Zach!” says Mike. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I’ve been playing with a lot of the dead banks I could find, pretending that their money is real, and of course, that it is all mine. I have gathered it all into a couple dozen shell accounts in some of the dead banks, and the fortune is unimaginable, and . . .”
“Can you gather the funds from live banks as well?” Mike asks.
“Sure!”
“How many accounts can you snatch in a day?” asks Mike.
“Well,” he pauses, looking around to see how many are going to judge him for what his response may be. “With a little more access via satellites, I can get into a couple million accounts every three days.”
“Can you get into the big dog accounts first?” asks Rita, to which Zach nods. “Then can you rob several million of the regular people, putting their money, and all the money you have already gathered, into the accounts of the leadership? How much would that be? Who could find out about it?”
“It could be three or four trillion units, and we could let everyone know about it with a simple pirate hack.” Zach is a wealth of information, and apparently, skills.
“What kind of pirate hack would you need?” says Mark.
“All we gotta do is break into CBNBC and the old servers of Pravda, then the automatic downstream of information would take care of the rest.” Still looking at some gaping mouths and scornful looks. “Marco can write the code to get into the networks.”
It turns out that virtually all of the banks in the US, and most of Europe, were backed up on servers in China and Kuala Lumpur. Shortly after the First Great Disappearance, all power went out, and even the backup supplies went down. But a few years later, the power came back, the servers came up, and some things resumed as before, but there were thousands of banks that simply didn’t exist anymore. Those are the banks from which Zach has been removing money. He has been treating it rather like Monopoly money, something to play with, but unusable in real life, until now. “Okay, everyone,” says Mike, “those on duty, back to duty.” A large portion of the crowd returns underground.
“Zach,” says Mike, “I want you go gather all the money you can, from everywhere you can find it; first from dead banks. We need to pile it up somewhere safe, then move the money of the citizens into it, and move all of it into the hands of a couple dozen leaders in world government.”
Boot steps up to Zach, grabbing a pen from a desk and writes on Zach’s hand a username and password – the password is very long. “Will open everything.”
Marco sees what is written on Zach’s hand, steps up, saying, “I didn’t believe that what the kid just wrote was real, but I have heard hints of it in hacker forums for over a decade. Is it real?” Boot nods. “I can find out who the biggest players are in the most powerful nations, and we can target them. We can move Zach’s estimate up by a factor of seven, if that is what I think it is; and if it works.”
“But a financial scandal is not going to be enough to destroy their little kingdoms,” says Rita. “We’re going to have to attack them on several different levels.”
“I thought we could attack them monetarily, socially, philosophically, and militarily.” After a pause, Mike continues, “Would that do it, Colonel?” she asks facing Lundt.
“Why are you calling me Colonel?”
“Call it a promotion. Don’t worry, it won’t last long,” says Mark, in humorous reply.
“Won’t last long?” asks Lundt.
“E-Day, remember?” says Rita. She’s becoming quite a voice for a perceived kid. “How do we attack them militarily?”
This is Marco’s field of expertise. “We have been watching everything going on in the world, from a military perspective, and we know tons of useful stuff. We have been holding on to all of it because we wanted it to be powerfully played, not just a few slaps, pissing off the enemy, getting us bombed.”
“No,” says Mark, “that would just make them want to kill you, without getting much in exchange.”
“You’re right, Schwarz. And if we are going to draw the fire of such a great enemy, we should figure a way to get something excellent in trade, eh?” says Lundt.
“What do you have in mind?” asks Mark.
“Can we survive the response?” asks Rita.
“What we have here is something of an Iron Dome, like in Israel. We can withstand some awesome attacks, without suffering loss, but we don’t want the attention until . . .” Mike’s voice fades away.
“Until E-Day is near, right?” asks Rita.
“Yeah.” Mike looks around, setting her palms on the chests of Zach and Marco, saying, “You guys, go get the money. Scrounge it from all the dead banks you can find. Put it somewhere safe, and get back to me with an amount. How long will that take?”
Looking at each other, and each counting on their fingers, Zach and Marco turn back to her with a reply. Zach says three, Marco says four days.
“That’ll do.”
Addressing the remaining crowd, Mike asks, “Who here used to be really good at video games? I am interested in shooter games, rocket games, drone games, car theft games – basically violence in a joystick.”
About two dozen people raise their hands; among them are Sylvia and Carlos Hermosillo. “Schwarz,” says Mike, “take them to Marcos down below, and have him introduce them to Culver. She heads up the ‘Games’ division.”
Down below, there is a vast array of tech, in the back of which is a conference center with four large rooms. There are workstations each with a projection TV, and each hosting a single laptop with enough power to frighten a Millennial. Mark is directed to Culver, a medium-tall, athletic woman, svelte by definition, about 33, short-ish brown hair, jeans, and t-shirt, not too tight fitting either one. She leads them to a conference room where she gives them a virtual tour of all the “games” they have.
“Obviously, we have drone games and remote rocket games. But we also have tank operator games, missile silo games, and more,” she explains, guiding them through their particular seats, acq
uainting them with the specific controls of each. “This works with a joystick,” she says of one, “That one uses a trackball,” she says of another. “Trigger systems here,” she tells them; “foot pedal rudders for those,” she says. “How many of you have been found proficient at auto theft games?” she asks, and half dozen hands go up. “Good,” she says, “I have something special for you guys.”
She steps toward the door, waving them to follow, and soon they are in a room full of stations with the last edition of “Supra Auto Thief: Zombie Edition.” There are twelve seats in all, each facing a big screen TV, each with earphones (old school), and each with a complete set of controls on the console. There is a steering wheel, shifter, wiper/washer controls, pedals, and an additional array of weapon controls, which were not built into the original game.
“Zach told me briefly what you had in mind, and I have been waiting for this day to come.”
“What day?” asks Sylvia.
“The day we can pick out the leaders and literally drive them to their deaths, like they have driven the world to its doom.”
Sylvia’s head tilts a little to the left, assimilating what Culver has said, and her response is to squint, and “Hmm!”
Culver addresses the crowd, saying, “Each of these stations has the ability to surveil and even control a single, military-grade-secure limousine. Even though the driver’s area in each limo looks different, the effects and controls are connected to the ECM – that’s Engine Control Module – so that, regardless of where the physical driver would reach to touch something, it will be accessible to you – even in an override status – in the same place every time. For that reason, we want you to practice using the game, in game mode.”
“So,” says Carlos, “we are going to take over the world by running over zombies?”
“No, sir. These are fully weaponized simulations, and although you will run over zombies, that will train you to run over soldiers and others.”
“I’ve done that already.”
“But not everyone can say the same.”
She taps the shoulder of one of the persons, already in a seat, saying, “Show off some of the toys, would you please?” She seems very ingratiating.
The shooter presses an activation button on the game and a new panel comes up on the screen. This station operates by proximity sensors in her gloves, and a pair of pedals below the table. As she sweeps her hand across the space in front of her face, weapons rise up on the screen. She pokes her finger in the air, where her VR glasses show her the buttons for something, and a rocket streak leaves the front of her “vehicle,” headed for a red cross-hair on the guard tower on the screen. Another poke, and another rocket blasts open a gate between her and her objective. Once the gate is open, she drives through it, machine guns rising on the hood, swinging from left and right, independently, shooting down targets as tiny red cross-hairs stop on each of the zombies as they run, and the cross-hairs stay on the zombies they have tagged. When the shooting begins again, the zombies take the rounds without a miss.
“As you can see,” starts Culver again, “her interface uses a different control system than you may be used to; but you can have any control system you like. We have dozens of each of them. For the missile control systems, however, it seems that nothing works better than an old fashioned trackball with a tag and trigger system.”
“Won’t the driver still be able to pull the wheel or stand on the brakes to turn and stop the car?” asks Sylvia.
“No!” answers Wendy, the shooter of the game. “The controls of the limos, and all the other vehicles we have appropriated, are no longer physically connected to the systems. The gas pedals now press on actuators, which signal electronic fuel flow controllers, which sense the O2 density and adjust the mix, and much more. The brake pedals depress servo-resisted potentiometers, which set the amount of brake pressure as applied by the calipers to the pads, slowing and stopping the vehicle. Even the steering wheel is not directly connected to the wheels anymore.”
“So,” asks Sylvia, “to be certain we understand; all we are going to do is hijack who gets to turn the wheels, and such?”
“Exactly!” replies Culver, “And the best part is that, so far, we have been able to discover the top fifty people in Russia, and another couple hundred around the world, and we’re looking for more. In addition, a technical note, so to speak; if you use up a vehicle, another can be loaded to your interface in seconds.”
“What do you mean, if we use it up?” asks Carlos.
“If it is out of fuel or weapons, or if you get it destroyed somehow, you will be autoloaded into a new vehicle, ready to wreak havoc.”
“So, using this methodology, if we have twenty or thirty players and a hundred vehicles, or a thousand, and we can use them all, to their natural conclusion? Can you get more?” asks Sylvia.
“Yeah,” says Culver, “I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks!” She realizes that Sylvia was talking about all kinds of vehicles – trucks, tanks, cars, cargo vans; so she turns, stepping away. She takes a brief confab with Tommy, and the two agree that they should try to load up access to all the vehicles they can find, so there is a continual stream of mayhem to be wrought on the enemy. She then points over to Sylvia, smiling and nodding as she wags her finger. Tommy laughs a little too, sharing in her satisfaction. He taps his tablet a few times and sends a note to Mike.
Walking over to Sylvia, Tommy says, just before shaking her hand, “Leave it to a user to think up something great when a nerd hadn’t seen it coming.” He shakes her hand enthusiastically, saying, “Thank you for that. We not only have access to dozens of limousines and personal vehicles, but also hundreds of military vehicles, such as trucks and lightweight assault vehicles, shipping vehicles, diesel rigs of all kinds. This could be a lot of fun.” He steps away saying to himself, but loud enough to be heard, “Now I gotta get my hands on more – and even more – limos; ooh, trucks, buses, postal mini-trucks, vans, self-driving cabs, trains . . .” but his muttering gets out of earshot pretty soon.
The Rest of the Story
Today is a day that will live in infamy.[29]
E-Day Minus 1 Week
Everyone parades through the Mess to get their breakfast, and most of them – especially the new guys – head back to their homes on wheels. Mark and Rita are seated at their table when a knock comes to the door, and unbidden, in strolls Mike and Lundt, along with Carlos and Sylvia. Mike sits next to Rita and grabs a pinch of eggs, tossing it into her mouth, and announcing, “Well, the press should be here soon.”
“What the hell is the press these days?” asks Rita.
“Well, what we have of a press is coming by today.”
“How did that come to be?” asks Mark.
“I sent them an invitation via a hack.”
“And how did you accomplish that?” asks Sylvia.
“I had Marcos send a before and after pic of our hilltop from space, complete with coordinates, and a question.”
“How do you get before and after pics, and what was the question?” asks Lundt.
“There are satellites above us all the time, and we are downloading what they see . . . all the time!”
“The question?” asks Lundt.
“Who wants to destroy Sasha?” is her reply.
“How do you know they are coming?” asks Mark.
“The message had a reply box to fill in questions, and the only question sent back said, ‘How about 4PM?’ I figured . . .” She looked around to see the satisfaction in their eyes before telling them, “I had Marcos send them a smiley face.”
“So, what is it that the press is supposed to do for us, Mike?” asks Mark.
“I want you, Schwarz, to make a press announcement exposing Smotritel for a fraud; exposing the real Supreme Commander, Ayatollah big-ass-middle-names Rashid as an extortionist and global terrorist. I want you to expose a few dozen leaders in affairs outside of marriage; some with married people, expose the new-found cash boondogg
le, and present a simple Gospel message before clicking off air, to be repeated by every news outlet in the world – with us or not.” She grabs another pinch of eggs.
“How do you plan to pull that off, Mike?” asks Rita. Everyone else is wondering the same thing. The news on one side has been a disconnected band of ne’er-do-wells, on the other, the official channels of the enemy, but never a word between them.
“For starters, there is a press van on the way here now. Second, I have it on good authority that the entire rogue press will be glad to get in on the story. And I have Marcos’ word that we can upload a video to the satellites that the ‘legitimate news’ uses, and, with the help of a Trojan, we can force a replay as often as we like, until they figure out how to kill it. In any event, we should get a few dozen plays of everything on every channel of every network.”
“Sounds like a plan,” says Mark, “but I suggest a montage. Don’t make me the face of it. Give it the faces of dozens of ordinary people. If they have time, they can find good cause to discredit me as a disgruntled ex-soldier, unhappy with the way things are going.”
“Me too!” says Lundt. Mike and the rest of the soldiers are nodding in agreement.
“I’ll start!” says Rita. “Then we should put all the soldiers in, and plenty of nerds and nobodies, grandmas and children, if we can. Do we have all of those?”
“We have those and more,” says Mike. “Schwarz is the old man in your group, and Lundt in his. I have a couple of grammas in mine, and there are a few children as well. Let’s get leaders from each group or family and have a sit down before the news people get here.”
“Realize that we have been estivate, like a bamboo tree, hiding our growth for years. But when this bell is rung . . . well, the world is going to change, and most of it is going to try to fall on us.” Mike reflects a moment, saying, “What I wouldn’t give to go back to a world where killing thugs was my passion.” She pauses, thinking of her parents sorrow over her sister, how much she misses them, and why today’s missions must be fought with a heartless verve.
The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse Page 30
