by Brandt Legg
Mars couldn’t push any further, but felt confident Irwin would take the money. He just hoped it was in time.
Sixty-Two
Vienna, Virginia – April 3rd – 1:54 pm
Mission Control descended into momentary chaos when the feeds from the subway station went black.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Tess yelled. “Get me a picture!”
Amid a rush of terrified commuters fighting to escape up the long escalators, the IT-Squad Commander ordered four more operatives down into the Metro underground. A few minutes later, their images began to appear on the feed.
The news was not good. Two IT-Squad agents and Belfort’s employee were dead. Spinx, aka Anatoly, had disappeared.
“Get me Hyland!” Tess snapped at Linda. “It’s time to tell Russia we’re onto their game, and they’re playing with war.”
As Tess watched the unsuccessful hunt for Anatoly, her frustration grew. For the first time in her career, she believed they might not be able to avert a nuclear war.
Russia has to back down . . .
Linda ran breathlessly back into Mission Control. “Hyland is dead.”
Tess closed her eyes. “Then get me the president.”
“He’s on the way to Philadelphia.”
“Not the president of the United States, I want the president of Russia.”
Petersburg, Virginia – April 3rd – 1:56 pm
Irwin found Mars at the softball field.
“What the hell, I’m a gambling man,” Irwin said. “I don’t want to go back inside.”
“You won’t have to.”
Mars and Irwin sat on the top bleachers, their backs against a chain-link fence. Ostensibly, the two cons were watching the game. Quite a few of Mars’s friends were playing. It wasn’t like the relaxing athletics on the outside, as prison softball was almost a full-contact sport. Broken bones occurred in most games, while bruises and blood were part of every outing. The inmates and guards enjoyed watching the gladiators. Lots of money was wagered, won, and lost by both.
However, on that day, Mars and Irwin weren’t paying much attention to the competition. They stayed in the ‘cheap seats’, far enough away from anyone not to be overheard. No one paid them any mind during the raucous scene.
“I checked it out,” Irwin said. “You’re a man of your word.”
“Ten million safely transferred,” Mars said.
“Yeah. My attorney tells me the new identity papers are perfect and complete. Even have three credit cards. Nice touch.”
“Happy?”
“You’re like a fairy godfather. You might really be able to get me out.”
“Paperwork is already being processed. You’ll hear from your caseworker after the four o’clock count.”
“Everything is cool if I don’t take a bullet.” He looked out to the field, as if a gunman might emerge any second and kill him.
“And your end?”
“All right. The agent is a guy named Gary Bollinger. Works out of DC, lives in McLean, Virginia on Seacliff Road.” He handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the location of a storage bin.”
“What’s in it?”
“All kinds of incriminating information on Bollinger. Stuff he’s been involved in, information on an international terror group. They’re connected with some kind of black market tech deals, and they pay him big money to slow or stop investigations. Your friends will like it.”
Mars smiled. He would’ve been happy with just the name, but the extra information might make Chase and Wen’s job easier.
Mars decided to push now that the deal was done. “Where did you work?”
Irwin looked at him carefully. “DARPA.”
Shouts grabbed their attention as a fight broke out on the field. Bats were used as weapons, broken noses, blood. A surge of guards worked to regain control.
“I need to get this information out,” Mars said. “I’ll see you at dinner. Your last one in prison.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
Mars laughed.
A guard found Irwin as Mars was leaving. “Your case worker wants to see you after count.”
Irwin looked over at Mars, climbing off the other end of the bleachers, still unsure if it was a trap. He wanted to believe it was real though, and smiled.
Mars waved back. It was bittersweet for Mars that he had to stay and Irwin got to go.
There was no time for a call. Instead, Mars sent a text with the information, hoping Chase was still alive to receive it.
Washington, DC – April 3rd – 2:00 pm
Anatoly smiled as he took the call giving him the update on Chase and Wen’s location.
“They are still alive? That is lovely for me.” He hadn’t wanted someone else to have the fun of killing the two nuisances.
“I thought they had you in the metro station.”
“They are incompetent. I know their surveillance protocols, I can identify their agents, I spot the weak ones, and I can change my appearance. How could they ever catch the Spinx?”
“Good work. I was worried you might be dead. I still need you. Finish Chase Malone and Wen Sung.”
“On my way,” he said, as if going to a concert or some other enjoyable event. “And do not worry. Most people live their lives from the confines of fear. Not me. I am not afraid. And that makes all the difference between success and failure, living and dying.”
Sixty-Three
Vienna, Virginia – April 3rd – 2:12 pm
After Tess’s call with the Russian president, Linda could tell her boss was distressed.
“Didn’t go well?” she asked, rolling a green apple over the desk toward her boss.
“He claims they aren’t behind it.” Tess took a bite out of it hungrily.
“But isn’t that what you would expect him to say?”
“Yes, but I’ve known him for years. We’ve had a mutual respect since his days in the FSB.”
“Are you saying you believe him?”
She shook her head, took a few more bites, then set the apple down. “There’s one sure way to tell when the Russian president is lying.”
“How?” Linda asked.
“His lips are moving.”
She let out a nervous chuckle. “So the Russians are behind it?”
“I don’t know. Get me the president.”
“Ours?”
“Of course, ours.”
Tess took the video call in Secure. The president had already cancelled his trip to Philadelphia and was in the situation room, consulting with the Secretary of Defense, Secretary of State, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Director of National Intelligence, the CIA director, and the National Security Advisor.
“We’ve been waiting for your update, Tess,” he said.
The 5,525-square-foot Situation Room, officially known as the John F. Kennedy Conference Room, located under the West Wing of the White House, always appeared cramped to Tess, and she was glad not to be there.
CISS had been sending constant updates to the president, but he always wanted her personal take.
“Russia denies it.”
“I know,” the president said. “He called me after your conversation.”
“Do you believe him?” she asked.
“Nyet,” he replied.
“Then you should move to PEOC,” she said, referring to the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. The bunker-like facility buried under the White House East Wing was a secure shelter and communications center for the president. Built to withstand a direct nuclear hit, its entrance was located behind multiple vault-type doors with biometric access control systems.
“Are you saying Washington is the target?” the president asked, alarmed.
“We still don’t know, but based on the Russian activity in the city today, and the fact that it could be anywhere, I think PEOC is a prudent choice.”
“Tess, if it’s Washington, we have to consider a first strike against Russian targets.”
> “I know.”
“Are you still confident of the timetable?”
“We have no indication it has changed.”
The president looked around at the solemn faces of his top foreign policy advisors. Each one of them knew the possibility that if the United States was about to launch a preemptive strike and ignite a nuclear exchange, it meant World War III. “We can’t wait until 4:44.”
“I know. We still have at least fourteen hours.”
“Not that many,” he said. “Instead of moving to PEOC, I think we might be spending the night on the E-4.” The president was alluding to the Doomsday Plane, officially known as the Boeing E-4 Advanced Airborne Command Post, a highly modified Boeing 747-200B. Designed to be “the most secure plane on earth,” it was a fully functional war room.
“Understood,” she said.
“Damn it, how can we not know the target yet?” the president said. He pointed at the top intelligence people in the room, and then at the screen displaying Tess. “Get the answers!”
New York City – April 3rd – 2:15 pm
Belfort unleashed the full force of the cartel’s technological might. “If we can’t kill these ghosts,” he said of Chase, Wen, Grimes, and Shelby, “then we’ll break them.”
“Yes, sir,” a nerdy looking woman said.
“Strip them of their wealth, take away their identities, erase their existence.”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “It will take some time.”
“No. No more time. This needs to happen now. Find out who’s helped them hide their wealth, find the assets, and destroy them. Do you understand? Spare no expense, but make it happen!”
“Yes, sir.”
Washington, DC – April 3rd – 2:17 pm
The Astronaut watched as the screen displaying Skyenor’s DARPA phone scrambled into an unrecognizable matrix of characters. “I’ve lost it,” he said. For hours he’d been nursing it along, trying to prevent the self-destruct app that held control over the data contents he so desperately needed to access. “Whoever set this up was better than me,” he whispered to the phone, which began to emit a thread of white electronic smoke. “I’d like to meet you.” And he suspected he already had.
Still, he had seen enough. After speaking with Tu about his theory and piecing together what he had taken from the phone, the watch, and the flash drive, he had a clear view of the weapon that Tu called the “Death Star Death Ray.” The Astronaut had never seen Star Wars, so he did not understand the reference, but Tu had explained the concept well enough, and with the rest of the data and what he could extrapolate, he’d proven the mechanics of it.
He called Chase and Wen.
“They are going to melt a city . . . and everyone in it.”
Sixty-Four
Georgetown, Washington DC – April 3rd – 2:21 pm
After the call with The Astronaut, in which they learned of the death ray, Chase and Wen felt more urgency than ever. “We gotta find the facility!” Chase said as they moved through the crowded streets of the Georgetown shopping district.
“We have to find out which city first,” Wen said, checking the time. “We have just over fourteen hours left.”
“It’s Norfolk, it has to be. Even The Astronaut thinks it’s the most likely target.” Chase thought about how many incredible minds had already died. “There has to be a way to stop it. They wouldn’t kill all those scientists unless they were hiding something.”
“You remember what Osborne and Forbes told us,” Wen said. “The weapon that’s being targeted against America was mostly developed here by DARPA and others. Stolen secrets.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Chase said as they turned their car up the street. “I’ve got a helicopter on standby. Let’s fly to Norfolk.”
“And just try to spot the facility from the air?”
“It has to be big, and we have to be there. Remember what The Astronaut said, once the countdown has begun, the weapon cannot be canceled. They designed it that way. So we need to be where it’s happening. There won’t be an option of extra time.”
“We don’t know where ‘there’ is.”
“Our answer is in the power,” Chase said, stopping. “The weapon requires enormous amounts of energy, meaning there must be a way to deny it that power.”
“But The Astronaut just told us the weapon is controlled by artificial intelligence. The documents from the DARPA phone showed they had tested a similar weapon, and when they shut down the power source, the AI figured out a workaround.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t another way to beat it,” he said.
Wen grabbed his arm. “See that silver SUV?” She glanced at a vehicle pulling up to the curb on the other side of the street. “I think those are shadow people.”
“They never stop!”
Wen pivoted, scanning the street, crowded with pedestrians. “Traffic’s too heavy. Let’s stay away from the car. Easier to escape on foot.”
As they moved up the street, away from the SUV, they saw four more shadow people running on the sidewalk toward them. “This is Grand Cayman all over again,” Chase said.
“And there,” Wen said, turning. “Six more.”
“Let’s never go to a place named Georgetown again,” Chase griped as they crossed the street and ran away from the SUV.
“Cayman’s George Town is two words, named after King George. This one is one word and named for the two George’s who founded the city.”
“Either way you spell it, that’s a lot of George’s, and let’s just hope our luck holds out.”
“In here,” she said, dashing into a store.
“You think it has a backdoor?”
“With city fire codes, there’s probably a good chance, but it doesn’t really matter.”
Inside the designer clothing store, Wen surveyed the space quickly. They each got behind solid brick columns.
“Can I help you find anything?” a slightly suspicious female clerk asked Wen.
“No, I just saw my ex-boyfriend on the street and he’s very abusive. I’m hoping he won’t see me.”
“Oh. Should I call the police or anything?”
“Only if you see him come in.”
“What does he look like?”
The bell hanging over the door jangled. Three men came in.
“I think that might be him,” the clerk said, suddenly nervous. “He doesn’t look friendly, and he has a couple of friends with him.”
“I think they have guns,” Wen said, pulling out her own MP7 Submachine gun. “Get down!”
She killed two of them, but the third one disappeared behind a rack of fancy leather jackets on clearance and returned fire from behind another brick column. Chase slid under a display table filled with expensive tee-shirts and got two shots off. One found the man’s head.
“Let’s go!” Chase yelled.
The clerk was screaming.
“If you have a back door,” Wen said, “we’ll leave before anymore come.”
“Yes, yes,” she said through tears. “But it will trigger the fire alarm if you open it.”
“We’ll risk it,” Chase said. “Where does it go?”
“Into the alley. Now can I call the police?”
“Sure,” Chase said. “Sorry about the mess.”
Sixty-Five
Georgetown, Washington DC – April 3rd – 2:24 pm
Wen peeked out the backdoor, looking up the alley and out toward Wisconsin Avenue. She saw three more men. They saw her, too, and raised their weapons.
“Come on!” Wen said, running in the opposite direction.
Across the street, a Mercedes SUV side-swiped her. Chase barely dodged it. Wen ran up on the hood and onto the roof, thinking this really was like Grand Cayman all over again. She leaped onto the top of another car and kept running, using the cars as stepping stones while bullets began ricocheting all around. She leaped off the last roof, spun in the air, and based on the trajectory of the bullets,
shot toward where she believed the shadow people were.
Wen managed to kill one as she skipped onto the now deserted sidewalk. Shoppers and pedestrians had all fled in panic and were taking cover behind cars, kiosks, vending machines, or wherever they could find it. She swiveled her head, spotted Chase, decided his route looked good, and quickly caught up with him.
Chase and Wen jogged up the streets. This was not an early morning hotel on the edge of a business district, this was Georgetown, an affluent commercial center of the capital founded in 1751, home to Georgetown University and many other landmarks and embassies. It was also filled with high-end shops, bars, and restaurants full of tourists, workers, shoppers, and residents. The police wouldn’t have to come there, they were already present. However, they had no idea what they were up against that day.
Two officers went down almost immediately while trying to engage the shadow people. They did not understand that these soldiers-for-hire did not see the police as an authority, merely another obstacle to overcome; more expendable human life between them, their target, and a big payday. Several innocent bystanders also died in the malaise.
Unfortunately, Chase and Wen, now running with their guns in the open, crashed into a couple of officers. Wen kicked one in his knees, knocking him down. The other one, much more experienced than Chase with firearms, separated himself.
“Don’t move,” he said, pointing his pistol at Chase.
Wen spun around and held her Glock against the downed officer’s head. “You’re not going to believe this, but we’re the good guys.”
“It doesn’t look like it!”
“CIA officers pursuing Russian operatives intent on carrying out a massive terrorist event. And if you don’t lower your weapon, I’m going to have to blow your partner’s brains all over the sidewalk, and I don’t have much time to think about it.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re one of the good guys either!”
“Weapon down!” she repeated.