Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  “Perhaps we should do as it asks, sir,” the president’s chief of staff suggested.

  “Negotiate with terrorists? Are you serious?”

  No one answered the commander-in-chief for a moment as the key members of Turner’s team began taking seats near the boss.

  What happened next stunned Sawyer, two members of the Joint Chiefs agreeing with the suggestion. “We might consider an exception here, sir,” stated one general. “I could make an educated argument that Gravity Well isn’t technically a terrorist.”

  Turner was as surprised as anyone, fully expecting the hawkish military commander to recommend some sort of action that included explosives, cruise missiles, or attack helicopters. An admiral agreed, “General Honeycutt is correct, Mr. President. If Gravity Well is what it claims, we’re not dealing with an organization that is trying to advance an agenda or negotiate for a better position. This is uncharted territory.”

  Dumbstruck by the two recommendations, the AG didn’t hear the president ask for his input the first time. “Mr. Sawyer? Are you okay?” Turner demanded as the AG’s mental fog lifted.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Sawyer smiled, recovering quickly. “I was deep in thought.”

  “And you have concluded?” the president inquired.

  “I agree with the Joint Chiefs, sir. We should sit at the table with this Gravity thing and see what can be accomplished. The worst-case scenario is that we buy some time.”

  The president leaned back in the chair, his expression hardened with disappointment. “So that’s it then? We’re beaten, forced to take a seat at the table of surrender? The strongest military in history goes down without a shot being fired? The most potent, well-funded law enforcement organizations on the globe throwing in the towel after only a few hours? Frankly, gentlemen, I’m astonished.”

  The chief of staff pointed to a nearby monitor, one of the cable news networks still broadcasting from backup power.

  All heads turned to see images of a grocery store somewhere outside of Nashville. Dozens of policemen were forming a line to block the doors. They were obviously protecting the entrance, an angry, agitated mob numbering in the hundreds hurling insults at the men in blue.

  The image then changed to the interior of the store, aisle after aisle of empty shelves streaming across the airwaves.

  “We have to do something, sir. A lot of people are going to die in very short order if we don’t take action soon.”

  Nodding, the president turned to AG Sawyer and probed, “Sometime back, you reported that you have people in California that thought they were getting close. Any update on that effort?”

  For the first time in his public service career, Sawyer lied to his superior. “No, sir. Nothing to report. I’m afraid that might have been a snipe hunt.”

  Turner was silent, staring down at the mahogany table for several seconds as his expression morphed into sadness. “Well, that’s it then. Cease all activities to locate Gravity Well. Broadcast your orders in the clear. Let’s see if this cyber-brain is an honest player and keeps its word.”

  They had just achieved twenty-eight thousand feet when Gravity Well’s last communication displayed on Kit and Griffin’s cell phones. Like every other American, their reaction was mixed, the marshal growing angry, the prosecutor worried, and the JASON, as always, curious.

  “I don’t think that message was created by a machine, artificial intelligence or not,” Sutherland had speculated. “There is a man behind the curtain.”

  “Does it matter?” Kit pushed back. “While we may not be in Kansas anymore, I don’t think it makes any difference. This is a nightmare.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Obviously, the capability to destroy civilization is real, the threat clear and present,” Sutherland agreed.

  “I just hope this damn cyborg can’t hack our airplane,” Griffin snapped. “Doesn’t this thing fly on computer chips?”

  Before long, the pilot’s voice sounded in the small cabin, “We’re on final approach to Fort Lewis. We’ve been cleared to land.”

  The Emerald City looked like anything but a jewel from the airplane’s window. Instead of the normal matrix of street lights, homes and traffic signals, the only illumination visible came from automobile headlights.

  They achieved wheels-down without incident, Griffin’s gut relaxing as the plane taxied toward a series of air freight warehouses far away from the busy airport’s passenger terminals.

  The marshal noted activity inside one of the large hangars through its massive, open doors. Evidently, the structure was served by a standby generator, the bright interior a gleaming oasis situated against a backdrop of gloom. Outside several vehicles idled, including the type of black SUVs commonly used by the US marshals. A light drizzle rained down.

  Jerry, as well as another marshal Griff didn’t know, waited at the bottom of the rolling stairs.

  “I’ve been told that you are in command,” Jerry acknowledged, extending his hand to Griffin at the last step. “Your wish is my desire, Lord Storm,” he teased.

  Griffin introduced his fellow passengers, the local marshal taking note of Kit’s presence. “You wouldn’t be that Carson? The Kit Carson of Dick Tracy fame?”

  “That story is greatly exaggerated,” the prosecutor grinned.

  “I’m sure,” Jerry responded with a smile before turning to Griffin. “I have our fugitive task force as well as a tactical team ready, willing, and able. I must warn you though; everybody is on edge. This digital mastermind has a lot of the alpha-types thoroughly spooked. They no longer feel like we’re the baddest asses in town.”

  “Roger that,” Griff nodded as they hurried toward the cargo facility’s open doors. “This thing scares the shit out of me, too.”

  “What?” Jerry replied, pretending to be shocked. “Don’t tell me that the fearless Inspector Storm has had his testosterone levels lowered by some itty-bitty, teensy-weensy microchip?”

  “It doesn’t help that the president has surrendered. Evidently, being elected shrinks your man sack,” the other marshal spouted.

  “What?” Kit asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “We received the order before you landed,” Jerry explained. “Immediately cease all activity surrounding Gravity Well. Every cop, soldier, and mother’s son got the same instructions. I think the USA just got spanked by some nerd sitting in his mother’s basement with a Radio Shack computer.”

  Exchanging a troubled glance with her friend, Kit’s expression was pure disbelief. “You better call Washington, Griff. Something doesn’t sound right.”

  Nodding, the marshal borrowed Sullivan’s phone and repeated the connection routine. Sawyer responded in a whisper. “Have you landed, Marshal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now listen carefully. You are to take the resources provided and proceed to the location. There, no matter what, you are to secure this… this… entity. Do not contaminate a shred of evidence… or damage the computer hardware in any way. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Griffin replied, his mind now wondering exactly where the nation’s top law enforcement official was heading.

  As if he could read his subordinate’s thoughts, the AG continued, “Our nemesis is clever and has clearly penetrated every level of the federal government. It might attempt some sort of deceit or trickery, so be prepared for anything. You are to lock down and hold that location until you receive further orders from me, and me alone. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Now call me once you’ve achieved the objective, and good luck, Marshal Storm.”

  Griffin stood in the mist, staring at the phone for several seconds before Kit’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Well?” the lady attorney questioned.

  He flashed her a look, silently relaying the message, “I have no idea what in the hell is going on,” to his friend. Griffin’s indecision didn’t last long,
however. Pivoting with purpose, he turned to the two west coast marshals and declared, “Let’s mount up. I have orders to secure a location about 45 minutes north of here.”

  Knowing that additional details would come soon enough, the group moved for the hangar’s oversized opening, Griffin tugging on Jerry’s arm to slow him down.

  “Did you get a tail on Foster?”

  “No. My men followed three rental limos out of Foster’s compound, but that was a diversion. By the time we gained entry to the residence, nobody was inside. Sorry.”

  Griffin cursed and then patted his friend on the shoulder. “Welcome to my world, buddy. Every move we make against these guys winds up in failure. They’re always one step ahead of us, and I’m getting tired of it.”

  The two lawmen entered the warehouse, immediately finding themselves surrounded by twenty eager faces.

  Scanning the gathered marshals, Griffin noted many of them were already wearing full tactical loadouts complete with M4 carbines, sniper rifles, load vests, and pouches swollen with magazines. A small detail reassured the visiting marshal – the amount of tape each man had wrapped on his weapon.

  Often called 100-mph tape by those with military experience, the versatile material could be used to secure rattling sling attachments, provide a marker for a proper cheek-weld, or attach extra bandages to the weapon. Griffin had even seen it adapted for minor repairs to the plastic buttstocks. Its abundant use was a sign of experience, of each man modifying his primary firearm after time-tested skill in the field. Tonight wasn’t going to be a routine mission. There was no room for rookies or greenhorns.

  In the back of the cavernous facility lurked two Blackhawk helicopters, their crews hustling to prepare their birds for a mission.

  Jerry led them to a small cluster of plastic chairs, all facing a rolling blackboard where someone had taped a map of Seattle. Less than a minute passed before all the lawmen were seated and settled. Griffin moved to the front, Kit at his side.

  “On the flight north, Federal Prosecutor Carson and I took the liberty of scouting the target as best we could,” Storm began. “Our objective is here,” he stated, drumming the map with his finger and then reading off the address. “This operation will be conducted in two phases.”

  Pausing to gauge the attentiveness of his audience, Griffin spotted nothing but attentive professionalism amongst the gathered marshals. He continued, “Phase one is simple; secure the perimeter. This will be a complete 360-degree fence, facing both inward and outward. This Gravity Well thing, whatever it is, seems fully capable of calling for help. There is no way to anticipate what form such a command would take. We need to be on our toes, ready for anything, gentlemen.”

  Again, Griff made eye contact with every man. He detected apprehension but no fear or hesitation. “Phase two will be to secure the interior. My orders are clear on this action – we are to avoid damaging any of the equipment or other evidence that may be inside. Mr. Sutherland, a civilian advisor, believes that we will find nothing but racks of electronic equipment in there. And while I hope he’s correct, I don’t have to tell any of you that such intelligence is often inaccurate. We will treat this entry just like it’s the worst nest of drug dealers we’ve ever encountered. Is that clear?”

  All heads nodded, all of them knowing that there would be time to ask questions at the end of the briefing.

  At that point, Griffin stated, “I’m now going to turn this over to Jerry. He’ll oversee the tactical assignments and timeline.”

  The local marshal, having been studying a tablet computer since everyone had been seated, stepped forward. “Okay,” Jerry began, “This looks simple enough. The target is located in an industrial development with an extremely low population density. That’s the good news. On the negative side of the equation, surprise is going to be an issue. We can count on security cameras, a chain-link fence, and heavy-duty metal doorways.”

  For the next 30 minutes, the marshals discussed their approach and plan, several of the officers contributing helpful suggestions. They were all experts, many of them having spent decades apprehending society’s most dangerous criminals.

  It was determined that they would split into two teams, Griffin leading Unit Alpha that would travel by helicopter to secure the perimeter. Jerry and the remainder of the team designated as Unit Omega would take the SUVs and arrive later. When the two groups rejoined, they would breach and take the interior.

  The briefing continued for nearly an hour, Kit pulling up satellite images and street-view photographs. Jerry drew a diagram of the area, making team assignments and noting various aspects of the target’s surroundings as the flight crews began pushing the Blackhawks out of the hangar.

  Glancing at his watch, Griffin scanned the gathered lawmen one last time, his eyes asking if there were any more questions. “Mount up,” he ordered. “Let’s show this… this computer the difference between a video game and the real world.”

  Chapter 17

  “The electrical grid is still down, sir,” one of the military officers reported.

  “And my order to stop all activity against Gravity Well has been distributed?” President Turner asked.

  “Yes, sir. The order was broadcast on all military and law enforcement frequencies.”

  “Good. Thank you,” the commander-in-chief nodded. Turning to his chief of staff, he reflected, “I guess that proves that our foe isn’t negotiating in good faith.”

  “Or your orders aren’t being followed,” his counselor mumbled, pessimism thick in his tone.

  Turner started to press what was meant by the comment, but then changed his mind. “I need options, gentlemen, and I need them right away.”

  “Perhaps we should give it a little more time, Mr. President,” one of the seated generals suggested. “If I were on the other side of the table, your order would have been interesting, but I would be waiting to see proof that it was being followed. Depending on Gravity Well’s input and processing capability, establishing our compliance might take a while.”

  Glancing at his watch, the commander-in-chief retorted, “I issued that order over three hours ago. That seems more than enough time to gauge our sincerity.”

  “Perhaps the general is correct, sir,” Sawyer chimed in. “Plus, we have no way of knowing how long it takes to reverse whatever method was used to drop the power grid.”

  “I have an army of analysts and the best engineering minds in the country ready to get back to work on providing a defense against this threat, sir,” the Secretary of Homeland Security interjected. “I think it would be prudent to reactivate at least the teams at NSA and CIA.”

  Everyone then tried to speak at once, POTUS holding up his hands to restore order. “Please, one at a time,” Turner demanded.

  As each member of the security council voiced his or her opinion, Sawyer sat quietly and observed the proceedings.

  General Honeycutt, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, had never liked his new boss. While the career military man was far too sage to overtly voice conflicting opinions or beliefs, the AG had detected numerous small nuisances during Turner’s short tenure in office. A man whose whole life has been dictated by a rigid code of behavior can have no genuine loyalty to our president, Sawyer mused.

  In fact, the AG realized that practically every director, secretary, and senior advisor in the Situation Room probably had good reason to resent or even loathe the president. Turner was unpredictable, uncontrollable, and constantly embroiled in turmoil. He wasn’t the typical, diplomatic politician, and he certainly didn’t play by Washington’s rules. He was constantly stirring up some mess that resulted in his staff having to come in and clean things up.

  Sawyer himself had grown to despise the president, the attorney general repeatedly distracted or pulled away from his duties at Justice due to Turner’s missteps or lack of political savvy. It seemed like every morning there was some new crisis, a gaggle of reporters camped outside his office and
demanding answers.

  There were special prosecutors, innumerable House and Senate investigations, ethics committee probes, and an ongoing war with the news media. All the while, little was being done to address the serious problems facing the country. No one’s agenda was being advanced, the continued mayhem crippling.

  His most egregious wrongdoing, however, was when the president refused to act. Sawyer’s latest initiative, reversing the previous administration’s tolerance of states legalizing cannabis, was just another example. When the Justice Department had announced that violations of the Controlled Substance Act would be enforced, no matter what state or local laws were in place, several states had filed actions in federal courts. Turner had refused to step in and force compliance, and that had infuriated Sawyer.

  Again and again, the AG had taken steps to better the nation, only to see each and every move stopped, delayed, or overturned in the courts. He had pushed to withhold funding for sanctuary cities that refused to enforce immigration laws. He had crafted the travel ban to protect against terrorism and the roundup of criminal illegal aliens, both actions canceled or thwarted by federal judges.

  All the while, Turner’s social media gaffes, off-the-wall statements, and hostile demeanor towards the left deepened the divide. Rather than approach his opponents diplomatically, as had been Washington’s way for 200 years, the president had attacked, refused to compromise, or insulted those who didn’t agree with his agenda. It didn’t seem to matter how many cities were burning. The chief executive didn’t appear to care that the country was tearing itself apart.

  Sawyer pined for a more forceful approach. The president could have impeached the federal judges who seemed to be in the opposition’s pocket. Turner could have declared martial law, threatened to remove federal monies from the states who were fighting him tooth and nail, or filed charges against mutinous local officials. In reality, despite all the campaign rhetoric and tough talk, the commander-in-chief had been little more than the whiner-in-chief.