by Brandt Legg
A technician immediately forwarded a transcript of the call between Sliske and Franco to Tess’s tablet computer. Three rapid chimes warned the CISS chief that the message was both highly classified and the highest level of importance. She tapped an icon on the screen and a window opened, instantly displaying the details of the call including time, date, location, participants, a summary by the technician, and the complete transcript. Tess read every word and excused herself from the meeting she’d been chairing about consolidation taking place in the media industry—specifically a German company secretly owned by a Russian oligarch attempting the takeover of a major US entertainment conglomerate. As she raced to the CISS Crisis Center, which the agencies internal techs had dubbed “Mission Control,” she called Travis Watts and told him to get to San Francisco, “NOW!”
The basement of the secret CISS headquarters in Vienna, Virginia, which fronted as an insurance company, was filled with wall-sized monitors and computer terminals, making it look like a futuristic version of NASA’s Mission Control, thus the name. Once inside, checking the monitors populated with live images from several points in San Francisco, Seattle, and Vancouver, Tess assessed the situation and contacted the Director of Homeland Security.
“We’re going to ground that plane,” Tess said, smoothing her hands over her pale yellow pantsuit after updating the Director on the situation.
“Which one? BE or GlobeTec?”
“GlobeTec,” she said, surprised there was any question.
“Seems a case could be made that BE is the instigator here.”
“Are you kidding?” Tess asked, not having time to be diplomatic, and knowing that although the Director was her superior, the CISS mandate gave her the authority to do what was necessary. “No. GlobeTec is the liability here.”
“GlobeTec is no dime store,” the Director said, implying that the huge global conglomerate was a thousand times in size and importance to Chase’s Balance Engineering. “It’s complicated, Tess.”
“Of course it is,” Tess said, while nodding to an assistant to go ahead and move on the FAA order to ground GlobeTec’s jet. “That’s why I’m not going to allow their corporate hit man to assassinate Chase Malone.” Her chilled yet delicate jawline revealed a woman serious in her work, and her exercise regime.
“If they don’t get him today . . . ”
Tess wasn’t shocked at the Director’s indifference, the government routinely acted as judge, jury, and often even executioner behind the scenes, acting with cold decisions in order to protect the balance of power between nations, and now corporations. What exasperated her was that she had to get into a debate on the subject of why, even though GlobeTec might appear more important, it wasn’t. And letting GlobeTec murder a prominent tech billionaire wasn’t a priority that should be pursued.
“Chase Malone isn’t disrupting the balance, he’s one of the ones keeping it,” Tess countered. “His company is called Balance Engineering, for God’s sake!”
“Yeah, and Google’s motto is ‘Don’t be evil’. Need I say more?”
“I’ll let you know how it turns out,” she answered, annoyed.
“Update me by the end of the day,” the Director ordered tersely. “We should work on a response in case Malone dies today.”
Later, it occurred to Tess that the Director of Homeland Security may have been compromised.
Twenty
At Dez’s insistence, Chase had brought along two of BE’s best security people to Vancouver. Chase, a well-known tech billionaire in the business media and Silicon Valley, was still not a household name, nor nearly as rich as contemporaries Bezos, Zuckerberg, Gates, or Musk. While high-profile CEOs such as Tim Cook, Sundar Pichai, or Satya Nadella required round-the-clock protection, Chase had been able to forego that invasion of privacy most of the time. However, in light of Porter’s death, he was more than willing to travel with the two BE Security men—both former police officers, who looked like they lived at the gym.
Chase had taken two adjoining suites on the thirtieth floor of the Vancouver Marriott Pinnacle Downtown Hotel. He and the security detail—Bob and Dave—were mostly hanging out in Chase’s room . . . waiting. Wen’s letter had been vague on the exact time she would arrive, since there could be no way to know how much trouble would follow her. Chase wasn’t excited about having Bob and Dave there for his long-awaited reunion, but with the MSS after Wen, and GlobeTec’ hit squad possibly looking for him, he’d made his peace with it. Bob and Dave took turns patrolling the hall, but one of them always remained near Chase.
On the way to the airport, Chase had met Beltracchi, the man Mars had hooked him up with to make fake papers for Wen. Beltracchi looked like a twist on an old librarian, with thick glasses, long, thinning white hair, an earring, and lots of ink. One tattoo of a giraffe-like creature extended up his left arm and finished just under his chin. He reeked of tobacco and fast food. Beltracchi had held out the thick manila envelope with blue latex gloved hands and said, “Mars had me include a set for you, too. Said ‘if the MSS decides to come after you, then you can’t be you anymore.’”
The words had immediately disturbed Chase, and as he sat there waiting for Wen, both sets of documents in his coat pocket, he couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble he’d invited into his life. Where does loyalty cross the line to love?
Rong Lo had tracked Chase to the hotel like a starving man hunting with his last bullet. “Chase Malone, there are three good reasons you must die,” Lo muttered to himself in English while readying himself for an attack on the billionaire’s room. “And only one thing keeping you alive.” The MSS agent needed Chase to lead him to Wen, or rather to be the bait. Lo cursed in Mandarin thinking of Wen, knowing she must realize that Chase would be killed as soon as she showed up.
She can’t come, but she will. She has no choice, he thought, checking the magazine of his QSZ-92 semi-automatic pistol.
As he waited for Wen in the suite, Chase filled his time working on the AI anecdote while also fielding calls from Dez, Adya, and one of the Garbo-three who thought he would have information from TruNeural’s RAIN project the following day.
Hours passed. Chase and his two bodyguards were growing a little stir crazy. What if this is like Hong Kong? Chase wondered. What if she doesn’t come? What if the MSS caught her? He’d already driven himself crazy trying to understand why the Chinese Ministry of State Security wanted to kill the woman he’d loved since college.
Finally, there was a knock on the door. Chase felt like a teenager going to prom. He hadn’t seen Wen in person for more than five years, although she’d appeared often in his dreams, and regularly in memories of the happiest days of his life.
Dave looked at Chase, an unspoken question in his eyes. Should he answer the door or did Chase want the moment?
Chase just smiled and dashed across the large living room toward the door. He knew they were safe. Only Wen knew he was there. They’d been “double-triple-extra careful” not to be followed. Still, Dave, being well-trained, reached inside his jacket and unclipped the holster containing a Glock 22 semi-automatic pistol. Chase, taking a deep breath, put his hand on the knob and braced himself for the reunion he’d thought of countless times with anticipation that his past and future were finally about to merge. He pulled the door open.
Instead of his beloved Wen, a Chinese man, with danger in his eyes, stared back.
The man pushed Chase into the room while simultaneously pointing a gun at Dave. “Put the gun down,” the man demanded in accented English. “Now!”
“You first,” Dave shouted back as the man kicked the door closed behind him.
“Gun down!” the Chinese man repeated louder.
Twenty-One
Chase was considering tackling the Chinese man when the suite door suddenly flew open again. Bob, his other security agent, flew into the chaos. Chase spun and, being the only unarmed person in the room, dove to the floor.
The Chinese man, caught between two guns
pointed at him, immediately dropped his weapon and put his hands up. “Wen Sung sent me!” he said quickly. “I’m here to help.”
Before the intruder could say anything else, Bob shoved him to the carpet. Dave kept the gun aimed at the man while Bob got his arms pinned and zip-tied his wrists.
“Wen Sung sent me,” he repeated quite calmly.
“Then why did you pull a gun on us?” Chase asked, getting up.
“If a man break into your house,” the man began, his English very deliberate. “You might shoot first and ask questions later. I wanted to make sure you would listen to me. My name is Twag. I am here to help.”
“Mr. Malone, let’s call the police, right now,” Bob said. “We have no idea how many more are behind him.”
Chase, ignoring his bodyguard’s recommendation, walked over to Twag. “Where is Wen?”
“I do not know,” he replied, his eyes begging to be believed. “She could not come. She sent me. I am help to her before.”
“Mr. Malone, he’s Chinese. Probably one of the guys he’s claiming to protect you from.”
“I am from Taiwan. Underground in Taiwan. I fight China communist party,” Twag said. “For democracy.” He attempted to smile as he looked at Chase.
“She sent you with a message?” Chase asked.
“She sent me to keep you alive.” Twag stared at Chase, who was astonished by the answer.
“Keep me alive? I have security . . . who is she protecting me from?” he asked, knowing Wen could not be aware of the threat from GlobeTec.
“The MSS is in Vancouver to kill you. You must listen to me or you’ll be dead today. There’s no time, Chase!”
Dave let out a laugh. “Who is this guy?”
“And who is the MSS?” Bob asked. Chase hadn’t told his bodyguards much more than he thought they needed to know—that he was meeting an old girlfriend who was attempting to defect from communist China. They had all been much more worried about GlobeTec.
“He knows,” Twag said, motioning back to Chase.
“MSS is the Chinese Ministry of State Security—their intelligence service,” Chase said, still holding Twag’s stare.
“Like secret police?” Dave asked, obviously concerned. “We need back up,” he said, turning to Bob.
“Is Wen still coming?” Chase asked.
“I do not know. That’s not important right now. Keeping you alive is important.”
“Let’s call the police now,” Bob said.
“How are you supposed to keep me alive?” Chase asked Twag, still ignoring his bodyguards.
“We must get you out of hotel. MSS here. They kill you soon.”
“Listen Mr. Malone, this guy probably is MSS,” Dave said. “He’s trying to trick you. Let’s give this to Vancouver PD.”
“I have message,” Twag began. “Wen Sung tell me to tell you, ‘silver slippers.’”
“Cut him loose,” Chase said.
Bob looked from Chase to Dave questioningly.
“Not a good idea,” Dave said.
“Do it,” Chase barked impatiently.
As soon as his hands were free, Twag moved toward the door. “We must hurry.”
“Where?” Chase asked.
“Out of here. Somewhere safe. Must go now!”
The door burst open. Three Chinese men stormed into the room.
Bob dropped for cover behind a chair. Dave stood and fired.
Twag threw himself onto Chase. Once on the floor Chase pushed him off.
“I’m protecting you,” Twag said, as bullets ricocheted inches from them. Somehow they got to the other side of a large sofa without getting hit.
While taking several bullets, Dave shot two of the Chinese men before a fatal shot connected and he collapsed to the floor. Bob continued exchanging fire with the third man. Twag slid across the carpet and retrieved his own gun, just as the man in the doorway switched to an AR-15 assault rifle. Bob was cut down by the forty rounds fired by the automatic weapon in less than five seconds.
Twag got a clear shot and, without hesitating, took it. The last man fell.
Twag quickly helped Chase to his feet. The tech billionaire stumbled, stunned, toward Dave’s body, wanting to see if he was still alive.
“You come now, Chase!” Twag yelled. “More coming!”
Twenty-Two
Not far from Vancouver, in the small village of Port Hardy, Wen Sung sat inside a tiny cottage near the harbor. It would take her six hours to drive to the exact spot where Chase was running for his life. She wanted more than anything to be there, but it could not be. Even if she could magically transport herself, the risks were too great, and she had already survived a perilous journey of planes and boats to get even this close to the man she loved. Still, every few minutes she compulsively looked at the old clock on the wood-paneled wall and wondered when she would get the call.
A small tattoo, on the outside of her left upper thigh, defined her philosophy. It depicted the word “crisis” in Chinese, composed of two characters. In the West, many believed that one of the symbols meant danger and the other meant opportunity. While it wasn’t an entirely accurate translation, she liked the sentiment, and it being counter to the traditional Chinese meaning. Wen considered herself a rebel, and believed that every crisis held the potential for good and bad. A kind of yin and yang, which she also had tattooed on the inside of her right wrist.
Wen pulled out the ten hard drives hidden inside the carton of cigarettes and carefully copied a series of files onto four small flash drives, placing each into an envelope. After double-checking the addresses, Wen slid the four envelopes into a padded mailer and sealed it. “It’s time,” she said to herself, knowing that once the information contained on those drives reached their destination, everything would change. War, revolution, economic collapse . . . anything was possible. But if the stars aligned, Wen just might be able to save many lives, possibly even her own.
Irvin Sliske stood in the large, imposing office of the Chairman of GlobeTec that took up an entire floor. He’d been there before, but each time it seemed bigger. There was a reflecting pool the size of Sliske’s own office with a fountain in the middle of the room. Small trees caressed skylights above live hedges which concealed hidden rooms within the huge suite. Incredible views in every direction including Central park, Manhattan, the East and Hudson Rivers, reminded any visitor they were in the presence of great power and wealth. Sliske wondered about the rumors he’d heard that the Chairman had a direct line to the leaders of many countries, including the US president. A tense silence hung in the room as each man contemplated their arguments and the potentially ugly ramifications of the decision they were weighing.
“It’s time,” Sliske said, pushing buttons on a glass enclosed maze about the size of three pool tables. It bothered Sliske that he needed to get the Chairman’s approval. Sliske, the youngest of three brothers, had spent his life seeking the praise of his older siblings, one of whom was a top neurosurgeon. The other, a brilliant MIT physics professor, had actually taught Chase Malone one semester. Sliske’s parents, also over-achievers, favored their eldest two children.
“The latest report I received from TruNeural’s engineering department stated they weren’t ready,” the Chairman said, watching Sliske manipulate the laser barriers in the giant maze located in a dimly lit corner of the room.
“That report was written almost three weeks ago,” Sliske said. “They’ve made a lot of progress since then.”
“A breakthrough?”
“We have three people who’ve been suited up for fifteen days, four more who have been linked for ten days, six that have been in for five days, and we’re doing nine more today.”
“My God,” the chairman said, a look of awe mixed with fear on his face. “And it’s working?”
“Amazingly well,” Sliske said, smiling as if he was a student who’d just out-smarted his teacher. “The first group is advancing so rapidly the engineers were having difficulty keeping up.
But then we got the idea to have the first group help the second group, and so on. And that’s made a huge difference.”
The Chairman stood speechless, absently watching the mice race through the maze while his thoughts grappled with the magnitude of what they had started. “But the last engineering report . . . ” the GlobeTec chairman finally began, “we were estimating that it would still be six or seven months away from suiting up . . . ”
“We figured some things out.”
“Did you?” the Chairman asked, suddenly suspicious of his protégé. “Or did you rush it because of the Porter-Chase issue?”
“We did what we had to do,” Sliske snarled. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s working.”
The chairman opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, Sliske repeated emphatically, “It’s working!”
“We can’t cut corners with this,” the Chairman blasted back. “It could be disastrous . . . infinitely disastrous.”
“By the end of today, we’ll have twenty-two suited up, and each one is helping us with the next generation. By the end of the month, we’ll be over one hundred. The expansion will be unstoppable!”
“How soon until we run out of in-house subjects?” the chairman asked, referring to employees of TruNeural who had been specifically hired and groomed for the RAIN project.
“Less than thirty days.”
The Chairman shot Sliske a concerned look.
“Then we’ll have to decide,” Sliske said.
The Chairman nodded. “Going outside the company is much riskier.”
“Yes, but it gets us to exponential growth very rapidly, and then the risks diminish greatly as RAIN turns into a global flood that would overwhelm Noah himself.”