Wired Kingdom

by Rick Chesler

  Reluctantly, Mr. Reed invited the agent inside, but only long enough to walk through an immense foyer that eventually opened up on the other side of the house. As she kept up with the Reeds at a near trot, Tara caught glimpses of framed photographs on the wall—Mr. Reed posing with Ronald Reagan; Mr. and Mrs. Reed on the cover of People; a shot of the much younger couple on the deck of a sailing yacht, Mr. Reed at the wheel, guiding the hands of a young girl. Their daughter?

  Mrs. Reed held open double French doors leading out on to a flagstone patio littered with wicker chairs and wrought-iron tables topped with umbrellas matching the decor. Her outstretched arm, wrist jangling with pricey baubles, all but shooed Tara from the mansion as though she were a day laborer done with a one-time job. A circular black-bottomed pool dominated the lower patio level. The Reeds guided Tara to an ivy-laced gazebo to the side. Some distance away, a gardener with clippers tamed a menagerie of topiary animals.

  “Look,” Mr. Reed said, “the truth is, we don’t really know what happened.”

  Tara glanced at Mrs. Reed, who appeared bored, examining her French-manicured nails. Need to wake her up. “Sir, lying to a federal officer is a serious crime. You and your wife run Wired Kingdom. Do you honestly expect me to believe you have no clue what took place?”

  Mrs. Reed shot Tara a look to kill. “Look, Agent . . .”

  “Shores.”

  “Agent Shores. Just as the web site states, we don’t alter images in any way, nor do we stage events. This is reality TV. The whale’s camera records whatever it happens to record.”

  A cell phone rang. Mr. Reed pulled it from a pocket and switched it off. “Sorry. Damn reporters.”

  Tara nodded. “What about the possibility that someone hacked into your web site and altered or substituted the images?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mr. Reed said. “Of course, my wife and I are far from technicians. You really need to talk with our technical director, the man who invented the whale-cam—Trevor Lane.”

  “I’m going to ask you both one more time, just so we’re clear. I remind you that if you are lying or omitting any part of the truth, you will be held accountable under federal law. Neither of you have any idea what those images were?”

  “Correct,” Mr. Reed said.

  Mrs. Reed shrugged and said, “No idea.”

  Tara gave Mrs. Reed a hard look. Her eye makeup was smudged, her eyes red, slightly swollen.

  “If that’s all, I’ll be going inside,” Mrs. Reed said, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Mr. Reed made a subtle motion for his wife to remain seated but she responded with a scowl. Tara sighed, allowing her impatience to surface. “I’ll tell you when we’re finished, Mrs. Reed. Sit down, or we take a ride. Your choice.” Mr. Reed couldn’t hold back a smile as his wife sat.

  “What the hell are you smirking at?” she said to her husband. The tone was venomous.

  Mr. Reed avoided further confrontation, scratching his temple while pretending to monitor the gardener’s progress across the yard.

  “Your daughter, Anastasia, is the host of the show. She’s spent a lot of time around the whale. Have you seen or spoken with her since the incident?” Make sure it wasn’t her in the video?

  Mr. Reed nodded. “Talked to her on the phone right after it happened,” he said. “She has no idea what it was, either.”

  She watched the gardener for a moment as he maintained a dolphin-shaped hedge. The ocean was a big place, and the chances of this whale randomly encountering an act of violence were slim to non-existent. For the first time since she’d been given the case, Tara allowed herself to consider the possibility that the video represented a real murder.

  “Tell me more about these million-dollar contests. How many people have entered to win this week?”

  “I’d have to talk to my people—” Mr. Reed began.

  “I’ll speak with your people myself if I need to. Just give me a ballpark estimate. Let’s start with how many entered last week.”

  “Quarter of a million,” Mrs. Reed said in an icy tone. Tara made a notation in her pad. The Reeds assumed she was simply recording the figure, but she actually multiplied 250,000 by $50, the contest entrance fee, and subtracted $1,000,000, the prize money.

  $11,500,000 per week revenue, not counting the web site subscription fees. Lotta cash floating around this whale.

  “Have you had more or less contest entries this week?”

  “Quite a few more,” Mr. Reed said, sounding pleased.

  Tara tossed an eight-by-ten print of a frame from the video onto the table. It was the clearest shot of the victim. A savage gash ran from her belly to her breasts. The right leg was fully extended in some kind of death kick. Mrs. Reed recoiled at the sight of it.

  “How many entries are of this woman?”

  CHAPTER 4

  WIRED KINGDOM TECH SUPPORT FACILITY

  “Four thousand six hundred and ninety-seven,” Trevor Lane said, looking up from his computer monitor at the special agent standing next to him.

  Tara stood in the office of Wired Kingdom’s technical operations, in an industrial section of the San Fernando Valley. A trash can overflowed with crumpled printouts of computer code. Stacks of technical manuals engulfed the desk, competing for space with empty caffeinated-beverage cans. Only twenty minutes from the Reeds’ idyllic neighborhood, but a world away.

  The number Trevor recited was much larger than Tara had hoped to hear. She wondered if one of those 4,697 contestants could have orchestrated an oceanic scene in an attempt to win the million dollars.

  “That’s almost a thousand entries per minute for the duration of the video,” Trevor continued, clearly excited. Tara had learned from the Reeds that his average salary was augmented with handsome bonuses based on the performance of the whale-cam and web site. She noted the dark circles under his eyes.

  “Let’s back up a bit. Start with the telemetry device itself. Tell me how it works.”

  “In terms of satellite communications protocols, or video capture, data acquisition, power supply, or what?”

  “Just give me a general, non-technical rundown on how it functions and what it’s supposed to do,” she said, scanning the room. Her eyes lingered on a binder with the logo for a well-known national defense contractor entitled “Fundamentals of Satellite Communications Protocols.” His phrasing was identical.

  “The unit is implanted on the whale’s body,” Trevor began. “It—”

  “Excuse me, just one thing,” Tara said, taking the binder from the desk. “Did you work for Martin-Northstar?”

  Trevor’s eyes widened a bit as she opened the manual. “Uh, no.”

  She shifted her gaze from the binder to Trevor, then back again. The introduction page caught her attention. When all other resources for solving political problems have been exhausted, countries sometimes resort to the utilization of military force. The tools of this force are weapons, which, in the past, sometimes destroyed more than the intended target. . . . She doubted the manual, stamped CONFIDENTIAL, was ever meant to be taken off the defense contractor giant’s property.

  “That’s my father’s; he’s retired from Martin-Northstar.”

  Tara flipped through, pausing at the dog-eared pages, noting that several lines of complex equations had been highlighted. “Why do you have it?” she asked without looking up. If the whale-cam is based on stolen defense technology . . .

  “It’s just an interesting reference. I considered majoring in engineering instead of computer science, and so I asked my Dad if I could see some examples of his work.”

  “And you graduated how many years ago?”

  An awkward hesitation.

  “Seven.” Trevor drummed his fingers on the desk and stared uncomfortably at the monitor, which showed a whale’s back plowing through blue water.

  Tara decided that at this point the origins of the whale-cam’s technology were tangential to her specific case but that the potential threat of an investigation might
increase Lane’s level of cooperation. She handed the manual back to him, offering him a half-smile. He stuck it in a drawer.

  “So the whale-cam is implanted in the whale’s body?” Tara prompted.

  “Right,” Trevor said, glad to change subjects. “It contains a data logger that collects oceanographic data like temperature, salinity, dissolved oxygen, and what biologists call a ‘depth profile’ of the whale’s dives. A tiny camera also captures color video; a hydrophone records audio. GPS coordinates are also recorded. These in situ data are then encrypted before being transmitted to the closest of our satellites in geosynchronous orbit. From there they’re relayed to our secure servers, where the information is decrypted and broadcast on the show’s commercial web site.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Tara joked. Trevor smiled condescendingly as she continued. “But I thought GPS didn’t work underwater?” Tara couldn’t help but watch on the monitor as a school of baitfish balled up in front of the whale. Their collective shape shifted and darted while Trevor talked.

  “It doesn’t work under water, but when the whale comes to the surface to breathe, the GPS coordinates are transmitted then. You want some coffee?” he asked, gesturing toward a pot brewing on a filing cabinet.

  “No, thank you.” Tara made a note in her pad.

  Trevor poured himself a cup.

  “Do you archive the transmitted data?”

  Trevor nodded. “A copy of everything streamed to the web site is also stored on separate machines.”

  “I need to see the stored copy of the incident from this morning.”

  “Sure, but it’s exactly the same as what was transmitted. The interference happened as a result of the satellite transmission.”

  “I still need to see it.”

  He led her around a corner into a glassed-in room filled with servers and tape drives. Stepping inside, she was glad she hadn’t taken off her jacket.

  “It’s air conditioned in here for the benefit of the machines,” Trevor said, out of habit. “Several terabytes of data are recorded each week from the whale. It’s all stored here.”

  “So all these computers are to handle the whale's telemetry feed? Or is one of them for the whale and the rest are for your online role-playing games? What's the hot game these days—I haven't evolved much past Tetris and solitaire.”

  “The hot game these days is Wired Kingdom. A million bucks a week . . . play from anywhere . . . everyone's in. All this equipment is for the whale and the Wired Kingdom web site.”

  “What do you do with all the whale's data after it streams onto the web site?”

  “Nothing yet. Eventually, it will be made available via on-line subscription for anyone who wants to pay.”

  “Who would want to pay?”

  “Researchers. Similar to how biotech companies with proprietary gene sequences make their data available to pharmaceuticals to develop new drugs with—an ocean science version of that. The database has a name already: MS. ANASTASIA REED. Or ANASTASIA for short.”

  “She named it after herself?” Tara asked, unimpressed. Scientists were known for personalizing important accomplishments, such as discovering new species, but this seemed unusually vain.

  “Yeah, but it’s also an acronym that describes the service.”

  “Acronym for what?”

  He indicated some text on a screen.

  “Marine Science Animal Network And Satellite Telemetry-ASsisted Information Archives of Real-time Environmental and Ecological Data.”

  “Cute,” Tara said, adding to her notebook.

  “I guess she wanted it so that whenever anyone needs to look at the data they have to go through MS. ANASTASIA REED.”

  Takes all kinds, Tara thought. She reminded him that she needed to see the video.

  He pressed a key, and a copy of the transmitted footage played. Tara noted that it was indeed the same as what was broadcast. She watched the unknown woman struggling yet again. Who are you?

  “Make me a copy of the tape, eight hours prior to the incident to right now.” She observed him closely for signs of discomfort. If he had anything to hide, he’d stall, claiming that he had to obtain permission from his boss or that it would be too difficult and time-consuming to download so much data.

  “Sure, it’ll take a minute,” he said, turning back to the machines. Tara watched him start the transfer process.

  “So you have no idea what caused the interference on the video?” she continued.

  “Not yet. That’s what I’m trying to figure out today.”

  “And so there is no copy of the video unaffected by the interference?” she asked, wishing she could see through the static on the screen.

  “I didn’t say that,” Trevor said, eyebrows raised. She waited for him to explain. He hit some keys and turned to face her. “On the whale.”

  “On the whale?”

  “Right. The telemetry tag on the whale has its own special hard disc. That disc contains the original data—unaffected by any interference from transmission.”

  Okay, now I’m getting somewhere. Trevor handed her a set of computer discs containing a copy of the incident. She would submit the digital footage to an FBI lab for image analysis; they’d be able to verify its authenticity.

  “Where’s the whale now?” Tara asked, pocketing the discs.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you.” Trevor exited the data storage room. Tara was glad to return to the warmth of the main office.

  “These are the GPS coordinates,” he said, pointing to the video feed from the whale. He saw her writing in her notepad and added, “These are always displayed here, so you can check on its position any time.” The animal rested on the surface, alone in mild swells. Foamy water sluiced off its broad back. “So far it’s stayed way off . . . the . . . coast,” he said, his voice trailing off as he noticed a scrap of paper with his handwriting.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “These are the GPS coordinates I wrote down at the time of the interference,” he said, extricating the paper from beneath a pile of empty energy drinks. “They haven’t changed on the video feed.”

  “Maybe the whale’s still in the same location,” she offered.

  Trevor shook his head. “No way it can be in the exact same location. This isn’t your standard consumer GPS. These coordinates are accurate to the nearest inch. Normally, when the whale is on the surface, you can see the coordinates changing in real time, even if she looks like she’s just floating in one place.”

  Tara eyed the GPS data on the screen. They remained fixed, the same digits as those Trevor had copied earlier. “Has this happened before?”

  “Never.” A current of stress transformed his voice. “Whatever caused the interference apparently disabled the GPS function of the telemetry unit.”

  “And there are no other tracking devices on this whale besides yours?” she asked, hopeful.

  He shook his head. “None. Animal rights groups gave the show enough of a problem over this one tag, even though it’s feather-light and minimally invasive. A lot of people are against endangered mammals being turned into floating Radio Shacks.”

  “So there’s no way to tell where the whale is now?”

  It was Trevor’s turn to sense her concern. He glared at the screen, frustrated. They both knew he wouldn’t be getting any bonuses until the GPS was restored.

  “Without the GPS, all we have is its last known location.”

  CHAPTER 5

  WIRED KINGDOM HEADQUARTERS,

  LOS ANGELES

  The Los Angeles set of Wired Kingdom buzzed with activity. A live studio audience waited for the taping of the show. Behind the set, dozens of television studio employees scurried about making last-minute preparations. Among them was producer Anthony Silveras, who checked his watch as he spoke with a nervous assistant producer. Silveras was a stocky Mexican American in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair. He wore his usual outfit of jeans and a Polo shirt, with cowboy boots.

 
“Five minutes, everybody.” He held a hand up, fingers outstretched. “I just talked to Trevor and he’s still got no idea what’s up with the GPS.”

  “As long as Anastasia knows how to handle it—I hope somebody pried her out of her lab,” one of Silveras’ assistants said. Anastasia was known for being late, ostensibly because she was always working overtime to meet submission and publishing deadlines. “Publish or perish!” she would say, breezing onto the set minutes before airtime. Her tardiness was tolerated, due to the fact that it was her very scientific reputation that lent the show its credibility. “I still can’t get over the fact that the star of the show works a real job,” he added, shaking his head.

  “It took a lot of convincing to get her to do the show at all; it’s not like she’s in it for the money.”

  “Yeah, well, if I had her parents . . .”

  Silveras shrugged. “I still don’t think—” He cut himself short as he saw a brunette of medium height, long hair tied in a ponytail, wind her way through an army of production assistants.

  Anastasia waved to Anthony. She wore the same featureless, black outfit she wore for each episode. She had defended it, saying that she wanted viewers to focus on what she said as opposed to what she looked like. She couldn’t find work as a fashion model, but she had been dubbed easy on the eyes by the show’s producers after a test screening.

  Anthony walked to greet her. “Anastasia, c’mon, you need to get to makeup right away—four minutes!” He knew that she refused all but the most basic makeup required by anyone appearing under television studio lights, but even so, she was cutting it close.

  “On my way,” she said, breezing past him.

  “You got the script revisions?” he called after her. She gave him a wave without looking back.

  Minutes later, a studio camera’s red light blinked to life. Celebrated scientist Dr. Anastasia Reed began her broadcast. She sat at a low-profile computer workstation on a reflective black floor. A glass-etched wall map of the world spread out behind her, from which most of the light on the set emanated. The oceans fluoresced a deep electric blue while the continents were a dimmer green or brown. White lights indicated major metropolitan areas; a whale icon glowed red against the blue, off the Southern California coast. Ethereal electronic mood music pulsated in the background.