Chasing Fire

by Brandt Legg

  Six IT-Squads, each having nine operatives, were loaded onto six specially outfitted Cessna Citation X jets. Each plane would head to a different destination. Their goal was to find the Fire Bomber before any other US government Agency. IT-Squads worked by different rules than other services—rather, they followed no rules. Loyalty to the mission ranked above country.

  Whatever it took to get the job done.

  Less than fifteen minutes after being released, Chase and Wen were back on the Bombardier-8000, cleared for takeoff.

  “You were right,” Chase admitted as the plane taxied. “We never should have come.”

  “Maybe,” Wen replied, staring out the window. “But we can’t hide. Whoever wanted to kill you isn’t going away.” She turned back to Chase. “We have to find them.”

  “And the Fire Bomber?”

  “It’s all connected. The Fire Bomber is who brought us here.”

  Chase nodded as the plane picked up speed. “Maybe we should have let Flint come with us.”

  “He needs to stay in Denver and clean up his mess. If Flint really wasn’t involved, then he can be a bigger help tracking down who was. And besides,” she added as the jet lifted into the air, “he can’t come where we’re going.”

  Ten

  Cane Westfield sat behind his large desk, reportedly made from WWII aircraft carrier steel, getting an update on the latest problem. A determined and disgusted expression creased his face, already hardened by decades of dealing with such problems and having to make difficult decisions.

  This one might be a little different, he thought. Every damned year the pressures compound, and the world gets more complex.

  At sixty-four, his lean, hard build had seen a lot of change, and more than his share of life and death issues. His wife still expected him to retire next year, and he’d like to have more time to spend with his four grandchildren, but that was never going to happen. Westfield would keep working until the moment he died, and if he could get past this latest firestorm, he hoped his funeral would still be a long way off.

  “People as mean as me live forever,” he would sometimes say. “That’s one of God’s cruel jokes—the good die young, and old snakes like me go on and on.”

  Considered an important man, Westfield, always well appointed, though with a permanent look of disdain, was kept well-paid, comfortable, and left alone to do the kind of work that not many wanted to do, and even fewer could handle. His budget had almost no ceiling; he could easily spend tens of millions on a “project”, and, if needed, more. Whatever his current focus, all he had to do was ask.

  Westfield enjoyed and exerted nearly unlimited power.

  He touched a button. A female voice responded, “Yes, sir?”

  “Send them in,” he said in a thick, gravelly voice, which he attempted to clear with black coffee as he went back to reading one of the screens on his desk. Even after weeks of reviewing the data and consulting with colleagues, he was still trying to decide the best course of action. Westfield always responded to a crisis with ruthless intent.

  Some of his co-workers, the few who knew him at all, speculated that it was power that fueled his drive, but they were wrong. His secretary, the woman who’d responded on the intercom, believed the challenge and thrill of the chase kept Westfield going, but she wasn’t right either. Westfield did what he did every day because he believed he was making the world a better place for his grandchildren, and was absolutely sure that no one else could do it but him.

  The two men who walked into the sparse, elegant office, could have been younger versions of himself. It was one of the reasons they were his top go-to team. Like him, they’d both been raised in small, rural American towns, played high school football, attended church, and believed in the same version of right and wrong: that some people were better than others and they needed to protect the weak from the weak.

  “Ryker,” Westfield said coolly, looking at the taller of the two and wondering again why a man who was only thirty-two would shave his head completely bald. “Damon,” Westfield said, nodding to the other man, a few inches shorter than Ryker, but still a solid six-foot frame. Unlike his partner, he had a full head of brown hair. Damon also clearly spent more time in the gym; his biceps appeared to be waging an angry battle to escape his sports jacket.

  “Sir,” both men said in unison.

  “Sit.” Westfield swept his hand impatiently. “I’ve got a real train wreck for you this time.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Ryker asked proudly, knowing he and Damon were the A-Team, meaning they always drew the tough assignments.

  “Yes,” Westfield said, appearing as if he’d eaten something disagreeable. “But I suspect this one could be your greatest challenge.”

  Damon stole a quick glance at Ryker, who’d kept his eyes glued on Westfield and recalled their last job—a nothing little village in the Middle East . . . they’d barely gotten out alive—wondering what the hell was in store for them now.

  “Are you familiar with Chase Malone?” Westfield asked.

  “The billionaire?” Ryker replied. “Invented some kind of artificial intelligence something or another.”

  “That’s right,” Westfield said, not surprised they knew of the target since Chase had been in the news when he sold his RAI program a while back. “I need you to find him, have a talk.”

  “That’s it?” Damon asked, surprised, pulling out a cinnamon toothpick and clenching on it like an old cowboy curling his lip around chew. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Recognizable guy like that.”

  Ryker, already figuring the security a man like that would employ and the resources he’d have at his disposal, asked the obvious question. “What are we talking to him about?”

  “A short talk. A very short one.” Westfield glared, as if strangling Ryker with his eyes. Both men understood the instruction—kill Chase Malone.

  “Where is he?” Damon asked.

  “Malone's gone dark,” Westfield said. “Completely off-grid.”

  “Not easy to do.”

  “Unless you have a billion dollars,” Ryker said.

  “And some help,” Westfield said. “Professional help.”

  “Our kind of professional?” Ryker asked.

  “Unfortunately.” Westfield handed them each a computer tablet loaded with the case files and full details of the mission.

  Ryker took one look at the screen on his tablet and understood why Westfield said it would be their most challenging job.

  “Timeline?” Ryker asked.

  Westfield shook his head. “There isn’t one. Should’ve been in his grave yesterday.”

  Eleven

  Tess and Travis were met by a car and driver upon landing at Dulles International Airport in the Washington DC suburbs of Virginia. Typically hot and muggy summer conditions hit them like a steam bath. Tess couldn’t stand the nation’s capital weather, and August, the worst month for unbearably swampy conditions, was less than a week away. The thought reminded her how much time had gone past since the Fire Bomber’s assaults had begun.

  “Chase is our best chance at finding these terrorists,” Tess said as the car sped toward the secret CISS headquarters in Vienna, Virginia.

  “You were right about Chase. I’m still surprised he agreed to take the assignment.”

  “I wasn’t so sure, after talking to him. And Wen Sung is definitely going to give me plenty of headaches, but you can’t deny she’s fearless.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “Maybe. Even so, I’m not certain Chase would’ve gone along with us if someone hadn’t tried to kill him at the airport.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?” Travis asked as they drove along Lawyers Road.

  “I don’t care why he agreed, so long as he did.” She moved uncomfortably in her seat, tapping nervously on the turquoise bracelet she always wore as if it might respond to her.

  “No, I mean aren’t you concerned that somebody knew he’d be there and is taking shots at him?�
��

  “All billionaires have enemies,” she said, continuing to sound distracted. “Chase Malone has even more than his fair share. But that’s Flint’s problem to deal with.”

  “Chase can’t find the terrorists if he’s dead.” Travis had been against bringing Chase into the mix, believing his CISS field operatives and IT-Squads could handle the situation, but with each passing bomb attack, even he had to admit something more was needed.

  “As Chase proved again today,” Tess said, “he’s not an easy target, and should not be underestimated.”

  “Particularly with his MSS agent girlfriend.”

  “Former MSS agent,” Tess corrected.

  “Do we know that for sure?” Travis asked, adjusting his silver and lilac tie. After his army fatigues and special ops mud and wet “uniforms,” Travis preferred dark tailored suits. Tess often joked that he probably slept in a pinstripe suit.

  Tess shot him a disapproving look. Then she seemed to reconsider her position. “Okay. Find out who shot him at the airport.”

  They continued to volley possibilities and consequences of the latest situation waiting for them at the CISS crisis center, known as “Mission Control.” The Fire Bomber had struck again, surprisingly in India, but this time they had a suspect.

  Chase’s Bombardier-8000 began its decent into the Redding Municipal Airport in northern California. “Are we making a mistake?” Wen asked. “Why does Tess want us to start with the Astronaut?”

  There were eleven known brilliant savants called “Astronauts” who were sought after by the major intelligence services. These super-intelligent individuals were nearly impossible to locate, and extremely difficult to work with. In the days before advancements in artificial intelligence, their off-the-charts brain power in certain areas made them critical weapons as each country vied for advantage in arms/space/tech races.

  “Because she knows what the Astronaut is capable of,” Chase said. “Maybe she wants us to lead them to him.”

  “When I was with the MSS, we kept lists about these specific astronauts and were continually adding known data on them. They are constantly afraid that one side will eliminate them.”

  “Why haven’t they?” Chase asked as the wheels touched the runway.

  “There have been rumors of attempts, but they are too important. Even AI can’t reason like them.”

  “So the astronauts use those same smarts to hide?”

  “There are three who are above the others—substantially brighter. Those are the most sought after ones, and they can almost never be found,” Wen said as the plane slowed, then, adding quietly, “And those three are the most dangerous ones.”

  “Is our astronaut one of the three?”

  “Yes,” Wen said, recalling how their astronaut, Nash Graham, had saved her twice.

  “He sold you the Antimatter Machine,” Chase said. “Tess knew you had it with you. Why didn’t she just take it?”

  The Antimatter Machine, a customized, portable “super-computer,” built by the Astronaut, that allegedly couldn’t be traced, took its name from actual antimatter, which could not be seen. It used an atom transistor and included many powerful features, one of Wen’s favorites being an icon which would put her in immediate touch with the Astronaut. Wen shivered involuntarily as she recalled his warning when he’d given it to her.

  “Always remember what happens when matter and antimatter meet . . . they are both annihilated.”

  “I think Tess let us keep it,” Wen began. “Because we’re going to need it in order to find the Fire Bombers.”

  Chase used a false identity to pick up a rental car. He was pleased they had a Ford Mustang GT convertible. He always loved to drive fast. As they began the seventy minute drive to their destination on the outskirts of the tiny mountain town of Mt. Shasta, they continued to discuss why Tess really needed them, and if it was actually possible they could do something that the CIA, NSA, and FBI could not.

  “Flint suggested those agencies are too big, too bureaucratic,” Chase said as he passed a UPS tandem trailer. “When he gave us the flash drive, he said that this situation needs something more nimble.” The drive contained all data and reports thus far on the Fire Bomber.

  “Or,” Wen began, pulling out the Antimatter Machine, “Tess is just using the Fire Bomber as a way to trap us or trick us into revealing something.”

  “What could that possibly be?” Chase asked, not sure he wanted the answer, almost wishing they could simply enjoy the scenery.

  Wen hit a few keys on the Antimatter Machine. “That’s exactly what we need to find out.”

  Twelve

  Gunner Easton, a hard man with a deceptively friendly face, emerged from the woods at a bend in the river wearing olive drab military fatigues covered in mud and dust. He stood near the edge of a three-thousand-acre swath of wilderness known as the “Training Fields,” looking up at the sky, judging the wind by the movement of the clouds and concentrating on the sound of distant machine gun fire.

  Another man, clad in heavy camo, jogged over. “The next order is sent.”

  Gunner nodded approvingly, checking his watch while starting to jog. “And he got word?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied, a salute in his voice.

  Gunner would have smiled, if he remembered how. Ever since he’d begun “the machine wars” a grave seriousness had overtaken his normally jovial manner. “Do you know why we’re doing this?” Gunner asked rhetorically, continuing to run at a quicker pace.

  The man kept up with his boss. “Yes, sir.”

  “A man is not a man unless he’s fought the fight.” Gunner stopped to listen for the sounds of battle. “America is under siege. We once thought it would be from the outside—the communists, Islamic extremists, but the greatest threat to our country, our way of life, is from the inside. From the titans of technology.” He picked up a jog again, looking around since an ambush could happen at any moment.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said again, ducking at a branch Gunner had pushed away and snapped back. He’d heard the sermon many times before, believed it, believed in Gunner, and had decided to do his part to take the country back and save his children, and their children, from the kind of hellish future that Hollywood had shown in glittery prophecies.

  “We’re being careful,” Gunner added, reaching for his binoculars and scouring the area. “Even so, people don’t always know what they’re running from. Most of the time those needing to be liberated don’t understand. Damn, those damned—look out!”

  Both men hit the ground.

  “Thing is, they’ll be coming for me,” Gunner whispered, looking up at the sky again as if it might now be filled with black gunships ready to descend on his expansive compound. He knew they could see him, knew they would find him. “Even now, they’re using their technology to search for patterns, motives, connections, suspects . . . cross-checking and digging into the archives of every recorded phone call, text message, and email ever sent.” He stood up and looked back at his subordinate as if just remembering he’d been talking to someone other than himself. “Not too long from now, they’ll come here.”

  “And we’ll fight, sir.”

  “And we’ll lose,” Gunner said, as if the taste of the words might have stolen his courage for a split second.

  “The battle, but not the war.”

  Gunner nodded. Another smile fought its way to his face, but died well before seeing the light. “Yes, we will win the war . . . we must.”

  Wen made another pitch to Chase about WOLF, an acronym for “World of Liberty and Freedom,” which she sometimes also simply referred to as “The Cause.”

  “I think we have enough troubles,” Chase said as they merged onto I-5 North toward Mt. Shasta, California.

  “Our ideas and goals are similar to The Cause,” Wen said, checking the rearview mirror. “That means our problems are also the same.”

  “Did someone try to kill the leader of WOLF this morning?” Chase asked. �
��Because someone tried to kill me.”

  “WOLF stays hidden, working in the background. No one knows what they do, who they are.” She cut an apple for the two of them.

  He bit into a slice. “I know. My point is we’re not facing the same issues.”

  “They, like us, want to see the world in balance. You should meet with them, and you will understand. For many years, they have been working to try to correct the inequality.” She pointed the apple at him, then took a bite seductively.

  “And for all that time, it has been getting worse.”

  “It is a big problem. The corruption is overwhelming, but now with technology, there is a chance to finally make progress. Want another slice?”

  On that point, Chase agreed with her. The world was at a tipping point. Technology—specifically machine learning and artificial intelligence—was ushering a revolutionary change. Afterwards, either the super-rich would forever be an elite ruling class, or the majority of the population would finally have a chance to prosper.

  “The odds are against the masses—the ninety-five percent of the world’s population who share less than a quarter of global wealth.” Chase waved an arm toward the vast and wild landscape. “Look at this beautiful country. Mt. Shasta is supposedly dormant, but it appears as if it could go at any moment.”

  “That’s why they need The Cause . . . and us. And more of this incredibly beautiful scenery!”