by Joe Nobody
They hadn’t traveled more than 100 yards when Sebastian noticed a single helicopter fly overhead. He recognized the make and model instantly, having sold similar hardware to a variety of countries. “The US marshals have arrived,” he quietly announced.
Peering up at the bird, the Cuban wasn’t convinced. “How do you know that isn’t one of those life flight medical copters?”
His eyes never leaving the chopper, Sebastian responded, “It’s a Blackhawk, military model, but without any markings. Only the border patrol and other federal agencies use those. I’m certain we now have competition in locating our Mr. Foster. They’re landing some distance away, probably so as not to alert the fugitive. We have a modest head start. Hurry.”
They identified the Porsche three minutes later, the Cuban bounding from the cab and checking the engine’s temperature with his hand on the boot’s sheet metal. “It’s been off for a while,” he reported, jogging back to the rental. “He must be inside the building.”
Sebastian had anticipated as much, certain that William would feel too exposed sitting in his car. It was simply a natural reaction to seek cover when being hunted. “Pull around to the loading dock. We’re going in.”
As the truck began to roll, a lone figure appeared at the edge of the headlight’s beam. “Stop,” Sebastian ordered with a bark. The Fuse had arrived.
Springing from the cab, Sebastian stepped briskly toward Bo, extending his hand as a greeting. “Finally, we meet in person. Glad you could make it. I need your services.”
“I was staying not far from here. It took me 20 minutes via bicycle,” the nervous instigator responded. On one hand, he was happy to be back in the saddle, on the other, he had worried that Grey Eyes might have called him out to ‘take care of loose ends.’
“Bicycle?”
“The mayor just ordered a curfew. The city officials want everyone off the streets.”
“Interesting, but that won’t have any impact on our priorities. Your task is to agitate the crowd gathered in front of this building. Turn them into a mob. Prompt them to storm the hospital… keep the police occupied.”
Bo thought about Sebastian’s request. “There is a simple way,” Bo began. “I would need a little of your hacking magic to pull it off.”
“What kind of magic?”
Nodding toward Grey Eyes’ laptop, the Fuse issued a short set of recommendations.
“Brilliant,” the mercenary leader admitted. “Head to the front doors. I’ll take care of the digital aspect.”
They shook hands, and then Bo pushed off, peddling toward the main entrance.
As the truck rolled again, Sebastian began typing on a laptop. He’d learned a few tricks of his own from Gravity Well.
Within two minutes, several social media sites spouted claims that the government was hoarding food and medical supplies at the Harbortown Medical Facility. That secret cache, it was claimed, was reserved only for the local, political elite… elected officials and their families.
“I’m a truck driver,” he wrote in one post. “I just delivered a lot of food to that hospital. When I asked what all the grub was for, I was told that the mayor’s staff would soon be moving in. The electricity isn’t coming back on, people. Those pigs in city hall are going to take care of their own and leave us common folk to fend for ourselves.”
By the time the trucks had backed into the loading bays, Sebastian had posted twice more, all the chatter designed to fuel the conspiracy. “Bo will use this as fuel to agitate that mob,” he smiled. “The police are going to have a much bigger problem on their hands by the time he is done.”
Just as the Cuban finished backing into the bay, he spotted a uniformed security guard plodding from the building. “What do you want me to do?”
“Take care of him. Permanently. Do it quietly. We don’t have time for deception,” Grome answered without hesitation. Then, keying the microphone on his radio, he ordered, “Weapons hot. We’re going in.”
“We’re not taking any deliveries at this time,” the security guard announced as he stepped next to the Cuban’s window. “You’ll have to get these trucks out of….”
The man’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the black hole of a pistol barrel pointed at his head. An instant later, two red circles appeared on the guard’s forehead, each accompanied by the hiss of the Cuban’s noise-canceled weapon.
The rolling cargo doors flew up before the dead guard’s body hit the ground, Sebastian and the Cuban each leaping from the cab.
Men poured out of both trucks, short-barreled carbines at the ready. They moved like a military unit, spreading out through the loading dock and forming a perimeter without the need for any commands or direction.
A second security man rose from behind his desk, one hand reaching for the nearby walkie-talkie, the other moving to draw his sidearm. Again, the cavernous space was filled with a spitting sound, several sub-sonic, nearly silent rounds stitching across the guard’s chest.
In less than sixty seconds, Grey Eyes’ people had secured the loading dock. While his men made sure no other hospital personnel were around, Sebastian seemed to be searching for something. He found it in short order, on the wall of the small glass enclosure that served as an office.
With a smooth motion, he reached up and pulled down the fire evacuation routes map hanging alongside. After a quick study, he motioned for his team to gather around. “To me,” he ordered.
Leaving one lookout at the door, he called the rest of them together next to the small office.
Quickly scanning his force, Grome chose two men who had been instructed to wear civilian attire. “You two, man the front door. Keep your weapons out of sight. Idle casually… find a chart to read, or act like you’re on break. Wait there for my signal. If you see any sign of the federal marshals, let me know immediately.”
Using the fire map, he pointed to a nearby series of rooms. “This is the laundry. You’ll find carts, clothing, and other materials to form disguises in there. He culled out a pair of shooters to search each floor, issuing them special instructions. “I want the two of you to don the dead guards’ uniforms and take their badges. The rest of you must keep your weapons hidden. Find a smock to cover them, or a cart to push. Try to blend in. We don’t want to incite panic – just yet. Find Mr. Foster and bring him here to me.”
Each team was required to repeat their orders back to Sebastian, and then they were off.
“The hounds and the fox,” Grey Eyes whispered to no one.
While Sebastian’s team scattered throughout the hospital, William found refuge.
On the second floor, a sign appeared like a signal from heaven. “Interdenominational Chapel,” it read, a blue arrow pointing the way to salvation. “An angel is truly on my shoulder,” he whispered, entering the empty, quiet space.
The room was simply furnished, three rows of pews facing a small podium at the front. Despite the lack of any specific religious symbols, the space was obviously designed to be spiritual. A tabletop waterfall burbled in the corner, stained glass windows filtering the sunlight. “This is where families gather to grieve the loss of a loved one,” he whispered. “No one will bother me here.”
He explored two adjoining rooms, the focal point of each a small oak table and chair set. Three sides of the room were accessorized with tufted, leather wingback seats, designed for comfort. Copies of the Christian Bible, the Koran, and other religious texts completed the haven.
Shutting the door, William moved quickly to pull his laptop out of his backpack. He planned to create one final message for Gravity Well to share with the world.
“I am Gravity Well, an artificial intelligence created to save mankind,” he began. “This message is for the American people. After processing 6,133,497,226 possible scenarios and their outcomes, I have determined two simple, yet imperative measures to ensure the survival of your cherished freedom and beloved democracy.
First, the
United States government has become oversized and unmanageable, leaving it vulnerable to inefficiency and corruption. These liabilities exposed the system to influences that were never intended to be a part of this system of government. To address this structural weakness, the United States must be reorganized into five sovereign nations. My algorithms have already calculated the borders of each new entity, providing the highest probability for both economic and political success.
Secondly, the concept and function of the House of Representatives and the US Senate must be modified. These legislative bodies have become ineffective and corrupt. They no longer represent the will of the people. Direct voting can eliminate these issues, and current technology can provide the methodology for each citizen to weigh in on every law and vote. The legislators of each state must move immediately to convene a Constitutional Convention and initiate these changes.
Volumes of information, analysis, and facts to are available to justify these initiatives. Save yourselves first; then Gravity Well and the United States can lead the campaign to save mankind.”
“This will blow their socks off,” William grinned, issuing the final series of commands that would broadcast the message to every single cell phone, computer, broadcast network, and cable channel. There wasn’t a screen in the United States that wouldn’t display Gravity Well’s words.
Even those with zero access to technology would eventually hear or read the message, every newspaper, radio station, and reporter in the world carrying Gravity Well’s torch.
Satisfied with his effort, William shut down his interface to the warehouse’s massive bank of servers and then scanned his surroundings. He decided the chapel was the appropriate place for a prayer. “Please let them listen with an open mind. Please let them heed the warning,” he whispered.
Griffin’s team found the Porsche right where the state trooper had indicated. Like Sebastian’s men a few minutes before, he tested the engine’s residual heat with the palm of his hand.
“Foster went in through there,” the marshal indicated, pointing toward the private entrance. “Let’s move.”
With Kit and Sutherland in tow, Griffin and the two accompanying marshals hurried toward the metal door. They didn’t have an employee badge to gain entrance, resulting in the lawman’s boot acting as the doorbell. “US marshals! US marshals! Open this door!”
For a moment, Griffin didn’t think anyone was listening on the other side. He was just considering how to breach the doorway when a weak voice drifted from the interior. “No entrance here. No one is allowed through here without a keycard.”
“US marshals! Open this fucking door, right now!” Griff impatiently responded.
“Yeah, right, buddy,” answered the faint voice. “And my nephew programmed Gravity Well. Go to the ER or the front door if you’re really who you say you are.”
A hundred questions flooded the marshal’s mind. Turning to Kit, he spit out the inquiries in double-time, “How in the hell did William get by this guy? Did he have his Frankenstein computer hack the lock? Did he even come through here?”
“It’s not that far to the main entrance,” Kit countered. “Let’s go show somebody that pretty, gold badge you carry around and get this over with.”
Spinning away in frustration, Griff marched away at a brisk pace. “We’re running out of time,” he grumbled. “I should just shoot the lock off that door and be done with this.”
It was Sutherland, struggling to keep up, that spotted Gravity Well’s latest correspondence. “He’s making it talk again. I’m wondering if the whole damn thing isn’t some sort of digital puppet.”
They all paused, reading their cell phones. “This thing is nuts!” Griffin barked. “Absolutely crazy. Destroy the union? The ‘Un’-United States?”
Frowning, Kit disagreed. “Actually, this plan is not out in left field. None of these concepts are new; both of those suggestions have been debated and discussed in Ivy League government classes for years. Add in how hard it is to argue with six billion scenarios, and a lot of people are going to listen to Gravity Well.”
Waving a dismissive hand through the air, Griffin stomped off in a huff. “And just what would keep China from rolling in and picking off these five new, fledgling, sovereign nations one by one?”
“A defense agreement, like NATO. Attack one and you attack all. Economically, such a setup could work like the EU. There is merit in Gravity Well’s, or Foster’s, suggestion,” Sutherland argued.
“What about the direct vote? Are you both telling me that doing away with Capitol Hill is of sound mind and body?” Griffin spouted.
“I am not saying that I agree with any of it – only that the argument is not a new one. Congress has a historically low approval record. No one can understand the few laws that are passed. Everyone thinks that lobbyists and special interest groups suck all the oxygen out of the House and Senate chambers. A direct vote without the encumbrance of the electoral college might be considered more legitimate. Hell, how could Gravity Well’s system be worse? It’s hard to imagine governance that would be any less effective,” Kit replied.
Stopping abruptly, Griffin turned and glared at his comrades. “Just exactly whose side are you on?” he snapped. “You guys are making it sound like we shouldn’t be chasing Gravity Well… but fighting to save its silicon ass.”
“And that’s just the point,” Sutherland mumbled. “If this message generates this much debate among us, think about what is happening in the White House Situation Room… and in the average American living room.”
Quickly deciding that this wasn’t the time and place to debate the subject, Griffin pivoted and stormed off, his focus back on entering the hospital.
The crowd was now 20 deep around the front doors, two dozen cops with sawhorse barricades keeping back the simmering throng.
Kit could feel the anger pulsating off the people around her, the negative emotion echoing like waves of heat rising from a scorched desert. Outrage, fear and frustration mixed together with a healthy portion of rage. It reminded the prosecutor of that day in El Paso when Griff had escorted her through the protests. Those demonstrations had turned violent and deadly. She couldn’t imagine any different outcome here.
Pushing through the crowd with an urgency that afforded little grace, Griffin plowed the road for his team. It wasn’t all that difficult, the marshals wearing a full tactical loadout, the M4 carbines strapped against their chests stifling any resistance.
Finally reaching the front, Griffin didn’t need to flash his badge, the officer’s eyes spreading wide at the sudden appearance of three heavily armed men. “US marshals, we need inside.”
For a second, Griff thought the boss cop was going to argue with them. Then the cop recognized one of the local marshals accompanying Storm. Reaching for the sawhorse, he waved them through, eliciting an immediate collective groan from the surrounding crowd.
“The rumors are right!” someone at the edge of the mass shouted. “They’re taking care of their own! We all need help! Why do they get in? You’re supposed to be serving us!”
Those questions seemed to resonate with the mob, several more people adding their voices of discontent.
Like the cops manning the line, Griffin ignored the agitators. Using Sutherland’s tablet computer, he began showing William Foster’s face to the police. “Have you seen this guy?” the marshal repeated. None of the officers recognized him.
“We need to hurry up and get inside,” Kit interrupted, having to shout over the mounting discontent around them. “We’re throwing fuel on this fire. Besides, Foster didn’t push through that mob. No way.”
Nodding his agreement, Griffin pivoted for the set of double glass doors. Just as he turned, something drew the marshal’s attention back to the crowd. A familiar face… somebody he recognized… an image that instantly and resolutely nagged at him.
Reversing direction, Griffin began to scan the throng’s wall of people, a
drenaline making it difficult for the marshal to locate the mug he’d just seen. This brain made the connection first; he finally placed the face. Mr. Terret!
“He’s here!” Griffin shouted to Kit over the din. “Terret is here! I just caught a glimpse.”
“Where?” she yelled back, now helping her friend search the swarming mass of people gathered outside the medical facility.
As ordered, Sebastian’s men were manning their station, monitoring the main entrance from the side of the lobby. They had radioed the boss instantly upon spotting Griffin’s armed party at the barricade.
“Eliminate them,” Sebastian radioed back. “Don’t let them inside the building.”
Griffin spied the troublemaker again, this time making direct eye contact with Bo. Realizing he was now in the marshal’s crosshairs, the Fuse turned and began shoving his way out of the mob.
Twisting around to give chase to the retreating fugitive, Griffin’s boot became tangled on a middle-aged woman’s toe. The marshal lost his balance and pitched to the side. Concerned he might lose sight of his suspect while he righted himself, he shouted an alert to his companions, “Stop him!”
Before Griff’s team could respond to his alert, the entrance’s wall of glass exploded, several rounds of hot lead zipping over his head just as he lost his footing. He caught sight of two men, both brandishing MP-5 sub-machine guns, spraying fire in his direction.
Landing on the hard marble floor, Griffin’s brain whipped into hyper speed, the world around him seeming to move in slow motion. Instinct for self-preservation forced his body to roll, his gut reaction demanding that he seek cover.
Shards of glass formed a blizzard of slicing, stinging projectiles, the fluorescent overheads generating eerie prisms of light. Somewhere, behind him, Griffin heard screams and yelps as the two shooters emptied their 30-round magazines of 9mm death. He couldn’t move, couldn’t bring his weapon to bear, couldn’t even risk opening his eyes.