Seven Unholy Days

by Jerry Hatchett

  “Absolutely. This data was intercepted directly from the satellite downstream and interpreted by Doctor Hilton.”

  Hart smiled. “And what of the good professor?”

  “He won’t be teaching anymore.”

  17

  11:12 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

  YELLOW CREEK

  “Decker, we both know your past isn’t quite the All-American story it’s made out to be. You’ve made a ton of money legitimately, but I know about the other business you ran on the side for years.”

  It took me much of the day to get Potella cornered for a talk, but we were finally having it. I would’ve normally spent the time and energy to deny what he was saying, but I didn’t have any of either to spare, so I shrugged and said, “I’ll tell you what else we both know, Potella: You don’t have one thing that will stick. If you tried to do anything, it’d be for pure spite.”

  “Oh you were slick with it, I’ll give you that. But don’t get cocky. The people you dealt with have the loyalty of snakes. They’d turn on you in a heartbeat if it benefited them, and while I might not be able to get a conviction, I could damn sure end your days as a high-paid government contractor.”

  “That’s a reach, but let’s get to it, Potella. What do you want from me?”

  “Three things. First, I want to know if there’s anything to suggest this psycho is someone you’ve dealt with before. Second, I want to know what ‘filthy secrets’ he referred to in that message.”

  “And the third?”

  “I want to know why you dealt with those bastards in the first place.”

  “If I answer your questions, what then?”

  “Answer them honestly, and unless I find out you’ve done something totally treasonous, your case will be closed as far as I’m concerned. Forever. You have my word.”

  We walked the sidewalk around the control building, neither of us saying anything for the next several minutes. Mississippi in August is a miserable place to be. It was almost midnight and the air was still so hot and heavy that it clung to me. I wiped a film of sweat from my forehead and thought about Potella’s offer. I could put myself in a precarious position by talking to him without the benefit of a written guarantee of immunity, but things like contracts and legalities seemed so unimportant at the time, almost surreal. What mattered was survival, and not just my own. I needed this guy off my back and on the same team. There was also the insurance of my growing cache of information on Mr. Potella. If he got carried away, it could probably be used to rein him back in.

  “Well,” I said, “first let me say that I can’t imagine any connection between this situation and my work history. My competitors are ruthless but they’re not killers and I have positively no idea who this guy is.

  “As for filthy secrets, he can only be talking about the things you tried to bust me on and—”

  “This is a waste of time. Didn’t take you long to start lying.”

  “What?”

  “I know what the secrets are, Decker, and they don’t have squat to do with what we tried to bust you on. We were after you for hacking into databases and cleaning up things for politicians and anyone else who had the green to buy your time.”

  “I know damn well what you were after me for, Potella, and I hate to disappoint you, but that’s all there is.” That wasn’t quite accurate but there was no way he could know about any of the things I cleared from my own record.

  “You make me sick. Did it ever occur to you that you were not just breaking export regulations but also betraying your country?”

  “I’ve never betrayed my country, and I have no idea what you’re talking about when you say ‘export regulations.’”

  Potella stopped walking and whirled angrily to face me. “You developed, among other things, an arms-trading network for terrorist groups, so secure that the C-I-frigging-A couldn’t track it. Before your little exercise, we knew what they were buying and a lot of the time how they planned to use it. Once your little project became operational, we were blind as bats. That didn’t create a problem with your patriotism?”

  “Whoa, chief! You have some seriously bad information. I’ve never written a line of code for any arms-trading network. I think you and I are on entirely different pages here. In fact, I know we are.”

  “I have a strong trail of evidence that says I’m right and you’re wrong.”

  “Like what?”

  He opened the file folder and handed me a sheet of paper. It was a copy of a bank statement from Suisse Banc Geneve, dated a week earlier. The account number was redacted but the account was in my name. With multiple large deposits posted in it. “Potella, I know nothing about that bank account.” I spoke truth. Switzerland doesn’t come close to the Caymans in the no-questions-asked genre of banking.

  “This came straight from the bank.”

  “I don’t care where it came from, it’s not my account; I am not and have never been involved in anything like this. Like I said, you have bad information. How long have you had this?”

  “It was faxed to me today,” he said.

  “Look, I agreed to be honest with you and that’s what I’m doing. Can’t you see that somebody’s trying to set me up?”

  “I see you backpedaling, Decker, and I don’t like it. It’s obvious from the way you were talking two minutes ago that you’re guilty of something. Now this song and dance—”

  “Do what you want, Potella,” I said as I walked away. I sized up the situation, deciding whether to drop a hint about the information I had on him. I decided to keep my cards close.

  11:48 PM CENTRAL DAYIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

  Tark tracked down someone he knew at a nearby bedding factory and talked them into bringing over several mattresses. They were spread across the floor in the lounge so we could catch naps without leaving. He was sound asleep on one of them. Abdul Abidi was a machine that needed neither food nor sleep.

  I lay down on one of the mattresses, but even exhausted, sleep was slow to come. My mind wouldn’t shut down. I knew intellectually that I made the right move by bringing the power back online, that there’s no way I could have known a lunatic would barbarically murder a multitude as a result. But knowing it intellectually didn’t assuage the guilt. I had been a party to the deaths of two million innocent people. Hitler killed six million and is held by history—rightfully so—as one of the worst monsters to have ever lived.

  Innocent intentions or not, what conclusion would the world draw about Matt Decker? Should I have considered the consequences more carefully before being so gung-ho to prove what a genius I was? Did I want the power back on to help other people, or was it just one more battle for me to fight and win for the thrill of it?

  In addition to the guilt, it had been a frustrating day. Between digesting the horror of the news from Los Angeles, then having to bring all the grids back down, and dealing with Potella, the day had been consumed. That meant 69 was still out there, and I was no closer to knowing who or where he was.

  DAY THREE

  THURSDAY

  And I beheld, and lo a black horse;

  and he that sat on him had a pair of balances

  in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst

  of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny;

  and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.

  Revelation 6:5-6

  18

  8:23 AM EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

  SITUATION ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  President Stanson was not known for early-morning meetings, but these were not normal times. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, flanked on both sides by the upper echelon of American government. On the right side was his national security advisor, Rich Henning. Beyond Henning were the joint chiefs of staff, the top military officers from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps. Jonathan Golden, the chairman of the Federal Reserve, sat in the number one chair on the left. P
ast him were Keen Brandon, the director of the FBI, the FEMA director, and the secretaries of defense and state. White House Chief of Staff Arnessy paced and took notes as he listened.

  Golden was speaking. “Mr. President, as you’re well aware, the U.S. stock markets have naturally been closed for the past two days. Foreign markets, however, have remained in operation in an attempt to make things appear as normal as possible under the circumstances. The dollar has taken a hell of a beating against the Yen and the Euro, but nothing that couldn’t be overcome once things return to normal.

  “The foreign markets themselves have suffered some pretty heavy losses, with stocks of American companies that trade on those exchanges getting hit the hardest.”

  “Of course,” the president said with more than a hint of impatience. “Move on.”

  “Sir, last night, about halfway through the afternoon session of the Nikkei, massive sell orders started hitting the desks for a number of major companies.”

  “American companies?” the national security advisor asked.

  “No. These were all Japanese giants. Matsushita, JVC, Sony, and several others. Their stock prices had already fallen an average of around twenty percent over the past couple of days as a result of our troubles. We expected another round of heavy selling last night and I personally asked the director of the Nikkei to suspend trading until we could get a handle on this thing.”

  “And did he?” asked the president.

  “No, sir, he did not. He said his obligation was to let the traders of Japan buy and sell stocks as they see fit, period. The trading started and, as expected, the American companies got slammed. What we did not anticipate–and rest assured they didn’t either–were the enormous sell orders that started piling up on the Japanese companies.”

  “Get to it, John. We have a lot of ground to cover here and most of it is probably more important than the stock markets.”

  “With all due respect sir, we’ll find that the markets are incredibly important. You see, once those big sell orders started, others followed, and others, and others. Sir, the Nikkei crashed last night. Hard. It lost eighty-four percent of its value before they got it shut down.”

  “Dear God,” the president muttered. “Give me the nutshell version of the immediate ramifications, John.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more. The eastern markets like the Nikkei are the first ones open on any given trading day. If this had happened early in their session, the European markets probably never would have opened. But it didn’t. The sells that started the slide didn’t start executing until Europe had opened. And the panic spread, sir.”

  The President was on the edge of his seat. “For Christ’s sake, Golden, tell me what happened!”

  “Sir, the bottom line is that most of the world’s stock markets crashed last night. We’re looking at a worldwide economic meltdown and I believe it was orchestrated.”

  “If it was, can’t we track down the source?”

  “We’re already looking into it, but remember that everything is now moving at a snail’s pace. We’re crippled.”

  “I don’t give a happy damn if you’re crippled. The people don’t want to hear that their government can’t protect them and I won’t accept it. It’s our job to protect and we will by God do just that by whatever means necessary. Now finish your explanation as to what we can expect next with regard to economic fallout.”

  Golden cleared his throat and continued. “It’ll hit the more advanced areas first and hardest, but it will eventually hit everywhere. Our own system was already on the edge of a cliff. As soon as the news of this filters out, it’ll fall off that cliff. There’s not much commerce taking place as it is, but what goods are being sold will quadruple in price. We’re talking twenty dollars for a loaf of bread, if you can find one left at all. And it can only get worse.

  “Manufacturing is at a standstill. Food and perishables were already in bad shape and now they’re going to be worse. Ironically, the population will for the most part deem traditionally expensive items like cars, appliances, and electronics to be meaningless and those values will deflate. It will quickly deteriorate into economic chaos. Mr. Henning can probably give you a pretty good prediction of where things will go from there.” Golden closed his folder and leaned back in his chair.

  “Rich?” the president said.

  “Mr. President, economic chaos will turn into social chaos and it will happen almost immediately. People will sense that things are out of control and do almost anything for them and their families to survive,” Rich Henning said.

  President Stanson turned his attention to Bill Fremont, the director of FEMA. “Bill, how are operations holding up?”

  Fremont looked down at his notes and spoke quietly, “It’s not going very well, sir.”

  Stanson slammed his fist down on the table, rattling water glasses. “The entire reason for FEMA’s existence is to be prepared for something like this. Explain to me why the hell your agency isn’t doing its damn job!”

  “Nothing of this scale was ever considered a possibility. We’re woefully short on resources. We had five thousand gas-powered generators. We need a hundred thousand to effectively provide services. We’re commandeering more, but that’s not going well. People aren’t keen on turning over their private property to the government.”

  “Commandeering? Are you telling me that you’re going around this country taking generators away from the citizens who own them?”

  “Yes sir. We have no choice. Hospitals and law enforcement must take priority.”

  Stanson shook his head and rested his forehead on his hand, speaking into the table. “God help us. We sound like communists.”

  No one said anything. “I want specific recommendations right now. The floor is open to you all,” President Stanson said.

  The chairman of the joint chiefs of staff spoke next. Admiral Bradley Stockton looked as lean and crisp as his heavily decorated dress blue Navy uniform as he snapped up out of his chair and looked directly at the president. “Mr. President, sir, I believe we must declare martial law immediately.”

  “Brad, how did I know you might say that?” The president attempted a smile and most of the others followed suit with half-hearted attempts to do the same. The moment of forced levity faded quickly.

  “I’m a military man, sir. My colleagues and I are in unanimous agreement. Looting is rampant. Police departments are outmanned ten to one by thugs and formerly decent people who are being turned into criminals by fear. If we could flip a switch right now and return everything to normal, it would still take months to repair the property damage that’s already been done. Who knows how long it will take to rebuild the confidence in our infrastructure and our ability to provide the ‘domestic tranquility’ we’re so fond of.”

  Henning was rapping a pencil on his knuckles, head tilted to one side. The president read him. “Rich, what’s on your mind?”

  Henning turned to Admiral Stockton. “Admiral, you know I’m an ex-military man myself, and you and I agree more often than not. With that said, though, are we at a state of military readiness to accommodate martial law?”

  “Of course we are, Rich. We’ve been looking at the possibility for days. Our forces are more than up to the job.” The general in Army green was nodding.

  “How much of the Army would it take?”

  “It’ll take all of it. Keeping two hundred fifty million people in line will take a lot of manpower and a lot of logistical resources.”

  “And if we do that,” Henning said, “how prepared will our borders be to resist compromise? There exists the possibility that we’re being set up, distracted as a matter of strategy.”

  The president looked to the Defense Secretary, Jonathan North, and arched his eyebrows. “I’ve seen no intelligence to indicate possibility of invasion,” North said, to the agreement of the admiral and three generals.

  Henning glanced from man to man, and finally to the president. “Sir, with all due resp
ect to these men in whom I have a staggering amount of confidence, not a single one of our intel sources had the first blip on their screens to suggest that we would be sitting in the mess we’re in right now.”

  “Good point, Rich,” Stanson said. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the joint chiefs, “I’m definitely not ruling out the possibility of martial law, but I need a few hours to think this over. This nation has never had tanks rumbling through the streets. I want to be sure there are no alternatives left.”

  “I understand, Mr. President,” Admiral Stockton said.

  The president turned his attention to Brandon. “Keen, what’s the progress on finding this lunatic?”

  A Navy steward walked in with a tray of fine china cups and a steaming pot of Navy-made White House coffee, purported by many to be the best there is. The young man went about his duty quietly with obvious pride, and all those at the table welcomed the coffee. Sleep was in short supply in Washington and caffeine was becoming even more of a staple than normal.

  Brandon inhaled the aromatic steam and took a sip. “Sir, we have an incredible amount of manpower on it. At this point, we’re working these emails, the one sent to us and the one sent to Matt Decker.”

  “And what progress have you made?”

  “Not much but we’ve narrowed the origin of the emails down to either New York or Los Angeles.”

  “Well how very helpful that is,” the president said.

  “It’s all we have, sir. I’m sorry—”

  “I do not want to hear that you’re sorry. For God’s sake, man, our nation is in a state of catastrophe and the whole damn world is right behind. Do not tell me you’re sorry. I’m going to start making calls to my contemporaries in Europe and Asia, and assure them that we are going to find and stop this bastard. And I want exactly that to happen. Is that clear?”