Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Mike Maden

Ryan smiled.

  “That’s the easy part.”

  * * *

  —

  “Easy?” Arnie asked. “How?”

  “We create our own five-trillion-dollar string of ones and zeros,” Ryan said.

  “What? Just create five trillion dollars”—Arnie snapped his fingers—“like that? How is that even possible?”

  “Modern money is a kind of fiction. It’s a story we tell ourselves to keep away the scary monsters of our uncertainties,” Ryan said. “Digital money—those ones and zeros on a hard drive—has value because people believe it has value.”

  “You’re waxing a little too poetic, boss. Simplify it for a knuckle dragger like me.”

  “Currencies like the U.S. dollar used to be based on something tangible, like gold. From 1834 until FDR outlawed the private ownership of gold in April 1933, you could trade in $20.69 American for one ounce of gold, and vice versa. That way you knew that your paper dollars were always worth something of real value.

  “Not anymore. It’s all fiat currency. The only thing sustaining the U.S. dollar is the ‘full faith and credit’ of the U.S. government. In other words, psychology.

  “Same with every other government using fiat currency, which is all of them. If you trust the government to protect your money, you trust your money. If the government says that digital dollars are safe, then they’re safe.”

  Arnie nodded, suddenly seeing the bigger picture. “And if someone steals all the money, it means your government can’t keep the money safe, which means people think that money has lost all of its value, and all economic activity grinds to a halt.”

  “It also means we’ve lost the ‘full faith and credit’ of the American people,” Moorcroft added. “And if they lose confidence in our ability to protect them on this most fundamental level—the means to feed and clothe and house their families—then I shudder to think what the political aftermath of that might be.”

  “We can avoid all of this if we can prove that those digital dollars really are safe,” Ryan said. “All we have to do is create five trillion new dollars and replace the stolen ones with it.”

  Moorcroft frowned. “What about inflation? Interest rates? What about—”

  Ryan held up his hand, cutting the chairman off. “I would only do this as a stopgap until we can recover the stolen five trillion. When we get it back, we’ll toss it in the desktop trash can, so to speak, and balance the books.”

  “But no government has ever done anything like this before. I’m afraid you’ll open up a Pandora’s box with this precedent,” Arnie said.

  “I think you’re forgetting about quantitative easing,” Moorcroft said. “And the other tools in the Federal Reserve’s toolbox. Just as the letter said, we created sixteen trillion dollars ‘out of thin air’ during the banking crisis.”

  “But that’s different,” Arnie said. “That was done to stimulate the economy. If Congress thinks they can just start printing ‘free’ money for votes, then all bets are off.”

  “They already do. It’s called twenty-three trillion dollars of national debt,” Hodges said. “But at least that took them over two hundred years to figure out.”

  Ryan shook his head. “I can’t worry about what politicians might do in the future, Stephen. All I know is that this move will buy us time and may prevent the collapse we’re all afraid of. I think it’s worth the gamble, unless one of you has a better solution.”

  Hodges nodded, reluctantly accepting the logic. “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. President. But if word of this gets out to the general public, it will still cause a panic, and a crisis in confidence in global currencies, and still lead to the collapse we’re trying to avoid, even if we promise to restore the five trillion in losses.”

  “Agreed.” Ryan turned to the chairman. “Wes?”

  The chairman shrugged. “This is a dangerous course of action that poses considerable risks over the long run. But I’m at a loss to offer a superior solution to the immediate crisis. I think it’s the way to proceed.”

  “Arnie?”

  “Sounds crazy enough to work, boss. But only if you can get everyone involved on the same page by Monday. Frankly, I don’t think that’s going to happen. You’d have a better chance of herding a hundred frightened cats all into the same litter box to take a shit together. And it doesn’t solve your bigger problem.”

  “I know. We’ve got to find the bastard who did this or it could happen all over again tomorrow.”

  63

  KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE

  Jack knew it was a felony to impersonate a federal agent, even if it was a fake agency like the Department of Homeland Investigations. But he was desperate and it was the only move he could come up with back at the UPS Store. He also felt guilty about lying to the nice UPS lady, especially after she thanked him for his service. But deception was as important a weapon in his business as the Glock 43 in his holster. Thankfully she bought the ruse, otherwise she might have felt compelled to call this Agent Kang and put her on his tail.

  Since the FBI had been to Runtso’s “office,” Jack assumed they’d already paid a visit to his home. They’d probably cleared out anything useful. But maybe they missed something that could tell him about Runtso’s work or any connection he might have to Sammler or even Bykov. Something that tied him to Renée would be great, too. Any intel he could find on RAPTURE would be a home run. It was a real long shot but worth the try.

  Jack followed the Jeep’s GPS back east on Kingston Pike to Neyland Drive. He followed the winding curve of the Tennessee River along the back side of the University of Tennessee campus, checking his mirrors for unwanted friends.

  Gavin nearly jumped out of his seat as they passed Thompson-Boling Arena, where the national champion Lady Vols basketball team played. Gavin had only ever seen the inside of it on a television screen. He made Jack promise they’d come back later and tour the arena, then grab pulled pork sandwiches at Calhoun’s on the River nearby.

  From Neyland they made their way up to the Henley Street Bridge and headed south on Chapman Highway. They made the turn onto Druid Drive past Berry Funeral Home, a stately, mountain stone building and into a historic, tree-lined neighborhood.

  Following the narrow two-lane roads, Jack and Gavin navigated past dozens of cozy, well-kept homes. It was a workday morning and there were few signs of life save for a half-dozen parked cars in driveways or on the street. Jack assumed those belonged to stay-at-home moms, working self-employed and remotes.

  “There it is,” Gavin said, pointing at one of the few river rock houses on the street. Jack gently lowered his arm. “No pointing, Gav. It’s rude. It’s also a big red flag.”

  “Oh, gee. That was stupid. Sorry.”

  Jack could see the yellow NO ENTRANCE sign taped to the red front door in his peripheral vision as they passed by. No doubt put there by the FBI.

  He took one more trip around the neighborhood just to make sure there wasn’t a government car parked somewhere or anyone watching from a living room window. Reasonably sure they weren’t being watched, Jack pulled into Runtso’s leafy driveway and around toward the back of the house, where a one-door garage stood, out of sight of the street.

  “Keep your eyes open, Gav. And let’s not give the neighbors any reason to call the cops.”

  “You got it,” Gavin whispered, slinging his messenger bag over one of his narrow shoulders.

  Jack glanced around one more time for prying eyes but didn’t see any. He and Gavin snapped on pairs of latex gloves before Jack pulled out his lockpick set and easily opened the back door. They stepped inside the small kitchen.

  Not good.

  * * *

  —

  The kitchen was trashed. Drawers had been pulled out and crashed on the floor, along with silverware, pots, pans, and lids. Cabinets were opened, as were the pantry, the doors beneath t
he sink, and the utility closet. Everything in them had also been thrown to the floor. Someone had gone through this room like a hurricane. Judging by the effort, Jack assumed they had done the same to the rest of the house.

  He was right. They went room to room in the old house, including two small bathrooms, a formal dining room—with a pool table—and two bedrooms. Each had been thoroughly tossed. Furniture cushions, pillows, and mattresses had been cut open. Drawers, cabinets, and closets were also torn apart.

  The only good news in all of this mess was that the whole house wouldn’t have been torn apart if whatever they were looking for had been found easily, if at all.

  Jack also knew it wasn’t the FBI’s style to tear a place apart like that. If they had, they would have attempted to bring it back to some kind of order. That told him someone else had been here besides the Feds.

  Probably Sammler.

  The largest bedroom was the last they checked and it had been converted into a game room and office. A file cabinet stood in one corner, its drawers opened and files tossed on the floor, along with a smashed router and a broken laser printer. A green leather couch was shoved against the far wall, its cushions cut open. A busted shadow box lay on one of the ripped cushions.

  “Jeepers! Look at that!” Gavin dashed over to the couch and picked it up. The two-foot-wide, one-foot-tall, six-inch-deep display case was glassed-in but the glass was cracked. Inside of the case was an object that looked to Jack like an old computer keyboard. It was thick and beige with brown keys.

  Jack didn’t get it. Why is Gavin so fired up?

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s an old Commodore 64! I had one of those when I was a kid. How freaking awesome is that?”

  Jack shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” He pointed at a cut-up padded chair, tossed on its side. “What’s that?”

  Gavin looked at Jack like he was the village idiot. “That’s a reclining racing simulator cockpit driving seat with a gearshift, steering wheel, and pedal mounts. Dude must have been a serious racer.”

  “As in computer games?”

  Gavin’s eyes said, Duh, even if his mouth didn’t.

  Gavin set the broken display case back down on the couch gently, as if it were a rare Egyptian artifact, then pointed at the eighty-five-inch LG TV on the wall.

  “Runtso sure had an awesome setup.” Gavin walked over to the shelving beneath the TV. He pointed at the rectangular dust outline on the top shelf. “They took his game machine.” Gavin bent close to the dust outline. “Judging by the size of the imprint, I’d say this was an Xbox One X.” He glanced around the room and pointed to a broken controller lying in the corner. “Yup. Definitely a One X.”

  “Why?”

  “Game consoles are serious machines, especially this one. It has a one-terabyte hard drive, twelve gigabytes of RAM, and a whopping six-teraflop GPU. If I was hiding files, that’s where I’d put them.”

  Jack kicked aside one of the dozens of emptied game poly-boxes. Most of the titles were racing games, especially cars. “Took the DVDs, too.”

  “Yeah, an even better place to stash stuff.”

  Jack swore. Whatever Runtso might have stored anywhere in the house had probably been found and taken away, either by the FBI or, more likely, Sammler.

  “HEY!”

  Gavin’s high-pitched shriek spun Jack around on his heels. He reached beneath his sport coat. By the time he faced Gavin, the Glock 43 was in both of Jack’s steady hands at low ready.

  Gavin’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Wow! That was a Wyatt Earp fast draw if I ever saw one.”

  “A scream will do that.” Jack holstered his weapon, half angry, but mostly relieved. “What’d you see?”

  Gavin bent over and picked up a cracked photo frame and handed it to Jack. It was a photo of Elon Musk with his signature, addressed to Runtso.

  “How cool is that?”

  Jack frowned, unimpressed.

  Until he had a thought. He glanced around the room again and handed Gavin the photo frame back. “What do you make of that?”

  “He must have met Elon. That would be awesome.”

  Jack shook his head. “Look around you. What do you see?”

  Gavin did as he was told. His face lit up with a smile. He held up the photo. “You’re right, Jack. Runtso was into cars. I bet he even owns a Tesla.”

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  Jack led the way back out through the kitchen, stopping briefly at the door to make sure no one was watching them. Then he and Gavin dashed over to the garage and pulled open the door.

  No car.

  The garage was completely empty. Just a couple of rakes and a shovel hanging on nails on the walls. Gavin tugged at the messenger bag that kept slipping off his shoulder.

  Jack pointed at the floor. “Looks like there were storage boxes in here. A lot of them.”

  “Whoever took them thought there was something in them.”

  “Something that had to be gone through with a fine-tooth comb. My guess is tax records, business records, that sort of thing. They took them because otherwise they’d be standing in here for hours going through them.”

  “Makes sense, Jack. But where’s his car?”

  “The only thing I can think of is at the airport, where he left it before his trip to Spain.”

  “No, I mean, if he’s a car guy and he has a garage but he uses it for file storage, where does he keep his car?”

  “That’s a great question.”

  “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  —

  “We’re looking for a key fob,” Gavin said, stepping over pots and pans on the kitchen floor, his head on a swivel. “Tesla has a phone app that will open your car and start it at a distance, but they also make fobs. Find the fob, we find the car.”

  “How do we find the car with the fob?”

  “You find the fob. I’ll find the car.”

  Gavin went over to a key rack screwed into the wall. A couple of lock keys were on it, and probably a spare house key.

  “I didn’t see a fob when we went through before,” Jack said.

  “Me neither. But I think I can find it.”

  Gavin reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a handheld electronic device.

  “Fobs put out a constant RF signal that communicates with its paired vehicle. In North America, that signal broadcasts at 315 megahertz, plus or minus two-and-a-half megahertz, depending on the make and model.” He held up the device. “And this, my friend, is an RF signal detector, tuned to the same wavelength range.”

  “Seriously? You just happen to carry one of those around?”

  Gavin patted his messenger bag. “I have all kinds of goodies in here. Like I told you before, you’re the physical, I’m the technical. Just cross your fingers that Runtso wasn’t paranoid and parked his fob in a Faraday bag.”

  Gavin switched on his device. “If Runtso was just a little paranoid, he’d know not to keep it near a door, where thieves can stand outside and capture the signal, amplify it, and send it to another thief standing by the car with a transmitter imitating his fob.”

  “Yeah. Everybody knows that.”

  “Yeah. Everybody in this house not named Jack. C’mon.”

  Gavin found the fob signal and within five minutes found the fob, tucked inside a toilet paper roll lying on the bathroom floor. “Okay, so he was a little paranoid. But there ya go.” Gavin pulled it out and handed it to Jack.

  “What good is this if we don’t know where the car is? Don’t you have to be like three feet away for this to work?” Jack hit the button. Nothing.

  “You need to be three feet away. I don’t.”

  Gavin walked over to a street-facing window and pulled back the curt
ain. He then pulled out another device and held it up. “Note, one aforementioned amplifier.” He turned it on. “Hit the button again.”

  Jack did. They both saw it. A pair of headlights flashed dimly beneath a plain car cover just two hundred feet up the street.

  “You didn’t hear the engine start because it’s electric,” Gavin said in a professorial tone.

  “Thanks, Elon. I might have worked that one out for myself. We need to check out the car. It might have just the clue we’ve been looking for.”

  * * *

  —

  Still confident they weren’t being watched by killer mercenaries, FBI agents, or even curious neighbors, Jack and Gavin lifted the car cover, folded it up, and tossed it into the backseat of the sporty Tesla Midnight Silver Model S.

  Jack handed Gavin the keys to the Jeep. “Meet me at the funeral home we passed earlier. We can’t leave it here.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Jack climbed into the Tesla and drove the short distance back to the Berry Funeral Home parking lot. He pulled the Model S into a spot toward the back where they could work undisturbed and camouflaged by other parked cars. Gavin parked next to him and climbed into the passenger seat next to Jack with his messenger bag in tow.

  It only took them a few minutes to pull up the Tesla’s onboard map. From there, Gavin hacked into the car’s hard drive and downloaded all of its GPS records onto his tablet. The GPS data only went back eight months, which was when Runtso had apparently purchased the vehicle.

  With the Tesla data on his tablet, Gavin pulled up a map of the area and downloaded the GPS coordinates onto it, generating thousands of blue lines traversing roads all over Knoxville and the areas surrounding it. Two giant nodes stood out far and above all of the others. Runtso’s home, and one other location.

  “What’s this place?” Jack asked.

  Gavin pulled it up on Google Maps. “No name. Looks like some kind of an industrial park or a distribution facility.” Gavin dropped the little yellow street-level man on the location. The pictures that came up were blurred.