“That’s great,” Susan said.
“This morning, they analyzed all of the cars that moved in and out of the suspected site and found who was driving there and how often. We examined other places where the same cars traveled, and the AI’s found a pattern.”
“Yes. What pattern?”
“There are several women who live in the area who shop for home goods about forty times more than the average. Nearly all are driving trucks, and they all have one other spot that they go to nearly every time they shop for home furnishings.”
“Why do we care about home furnishings?”
“Well, they all stop at this woman’s house. Her name is Debbie Corning, and she was an Episcopal priest who was very outspoken against the FPA. She is also suspected of helping the UR movement.”
“So, what are you saying? Why are they buying home goods and taking them to this woman’s house? Can you put her house on the screen?”
“Sure. Here it is.”
Susan looked at the house. It was a medium sized home on a farm. It was nice but not ostentatious.
“Why would this woman want all of the home goods? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“If you are thinking that she has a big basement, then we are thinking the same thing,” Stephanie smiled.
Susan pointed at the house on the screen. “Gotcha.”
“So, what should we do now, Susan?”
“Stand down for right now. We don’t want to tip them off that we know what is going on. I’ll get Margaret’s authorization to run satellite surveillance on the area. Send me the GPS coordinates, and I’ll start on it immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Stephanie?”
“Yes.”
“Once I call Margaret on this, things may happen quickly. I may be flying out there soon to work with you in person. I know that it is unpleasant work that we’ll have to do, but I want to make sure that you are with me on this.”
Stepanie didn’t hesitate. “I’m with you, ma’am. A hundred percent.”
“Excellent.”
54
MARGARET WAS SITTING in her office at the Pentagon. The secure video conference with Susan was about to begin. It was Friday late afternoon, and her thoughts were on her date with Maxime later in the evening. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep seeing him.
Susan appeared on her screen. “Madame Secretary, we have good intelligence on a site where the escapee is hiding.”
“You have my attention.”
“It’s a small town in southern Tennessee, near the border with both Georgia and Alabama.”
“How many people do you estimate are living at the site?”
“Maybe 50.”
“How sure are you that he is there?”
“80% confidence level,” Susan said.
“Not great, but good enough. If I wanted to do a trial run with the Soldier World software, is it ready?”
“The head-replacement software still has glitches, but the rest of the software is ready.”
“And we can pipe them into the drones in Nashville?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve given all the security codes to Emily. They have verified access. Stephanie can move the drones to an isolated location near the sites. Routine practice run during the day with a skeleton crew of officers. Then we’ll get the officers drunk at night and give them the next morning off. The team can hack in at night and run an attack.”
“We’re just going to do this one site, right? Our trial run?”
“Unless you want to do more, ma’am.”
“No,” Margaret said. “One is more than enough for now. If we do this, there will be 50 bodies or more to be cleaned up. How are you handling that?”
“I was going to fly to Nashville and handle it personally with Stephanie.”
“I like that. Fewer loose threads to deal with. Talk to Harriet. You worked with her before, right?”
“Yes,” Susan replied.
“Get the chemicals she used from those missions. You have to handle it very carefully, but the chemicals will eat through the skin and bones. I don’t want there to be any evidence of this. It should look like everyone ran away. Make sure the drone people have precise hits so you don’t have much blood to clean up. If we strike at 10 pm, you and Stephanie will be working until dawn.”
“We can handle it, ma’am.”
“How many gamers will this mission use?”
“I asked Emily to limit it to one. Pick the person least likely to put anything together. The head-replacement software is still a big risk.”
“Especially with 50 people. It will be a blood bath. The software will be very glitchy with so many people running around.”
“I agree,” Susan replied.
“We need to test this process once. Make sure it is going to work on a bigger mission. Or maybe we should do a bunch of smaller missions like these?” Margaret questioned.
“That’s your decision, ma’am.”
“How will we control the media on this?”
“Well, the site is isolated. The people in town won’t hear the gun shots. As long as there are no surprises and we can clean up the bodies, I was going to plant some stories about the whole group fleeing to South America.”
Margaret considered the idea. “I like it. Find somebody you can trust and give them the scoop. If the story gets out early, it can be helpful for us. Less likely for a hometown investigation. Plus, it will likely become a national story. Let me think about how that plays.”
“Our thought, ma’am, was that a national story is good for us, especially if we play up the illegal activities of the group. We know stuff about a woman who runs a truck driving company that is smuggling. They were housing a bunch of men illegally. They ran away to South America. Other groups may get the same idea and leave on their own.”
“I don’t want too many to leave on their own. I don’t want them organizing in some other country and trying to come back at us later.”
“Understood. But if they start planning, then they will start talking, and we can find them more easily,” Susan said.
“So you think the American public will see this group as criminals? Or will they see them as victims and feel sorry for them?”
“Well, we just need to focus the media on the criminal activities of the people. Especially the woman with the truck fleet.”
“Anybody in the group that is well known or would contradict the story?” Margaret asked.
“The suspected leader was an Episcopal priest. She seems to be well-liked in the community.”
“Do we have any dirt on her?”
“Only that she was opposed to the FPA.”
“Use that. It could be enough. But plant the story that the truck fleet woman was the kingpin. That helps our story, I think.”
“I agree, ma’am,” Susan replied.
“OK. I like it. What else?”
“Do you want us to move forward then, ma’am? And if so, when?”
“Yes, move forward. When? Well, next week is Thanksgiving. If we do this the night before, then when the news stories come out, most people will be eating big lunches and dinners and watching parades with their daughters and granddaughters. Nobody wants to see bad news on Thanksgiving.”
“So then Wednesday night?” Susan asked.
“I think so. 10 pm is a good time too, like I said. You’ll need time to clean up everything.”
“Agreed. One thing we haven’t discussed is if something goes wrong in the mission.”
“If something goes wrong, you should have an alibi in San Diego,” Margaret replied. “I tell you what. Use the black ops money and one of the dummy corporations to book a flight for yourself. Charter a private flight and go under a fake name. We don’t want any record of you being there. Fly into somewhere near Nashville but not Nashville, so nobody sees you and Stephanie together there. Take a car and meet her in this town somewhere. Travel separately. Talk to Harriet. Tel
l her where you want the chemicals and anything else you need. We have almost a week, so there is plenty of time. If something goes wrong, this can’t look like the NSA was involved.”
“The first line of defense is the Nashville police, since it is their drones,” Susan said.
“Yes. And there will be plenty of evidence that they were hacked into. Make sure that our friends at Soldier World use the South American accounts to do the hacking. Make it look like foreigners did this.”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure if that is wise,” Susan stated as diplomatically as possible.
“OK. Give me another idea then.”
“Well, the media wouldn’t buy that South America attacked a UR site. I was thinking that maybe we need some kind of hate group that we can pin this on.”
“Maybe an extreme feminist group,” Margaret said. “But I don’t like that because it could fall back on us. People start thinking in that direction and then they start looking at our party.”
“How about an extreme Muslim group attacking a Christian site? We spin it that the Episcopal priest was very active against Muslims? And some group of hacker men in the middle east attacked them?”
“I don’t buy it. The media wouldn’t either. If Muslim hackers were going to attack, they would pick a juicier target than small town Tennessee,” Margaret said.
“The problem is that the hate groups would come after Washington, DC, and not after a UR site,” Susan replied.
“Exactly. So maybe we just own it. If something happens, we plant a story immediately. Have it already written and ready to give out if the mission fails,” Margaret told her.
Susan considered and then said, “What about something like: the Tennessee police were conducting a man hunt for a dangerous man escaped from a high security grid camp. When the authorities came upon a UR site protecting the man, shots were fired at the officers. A bloody battle ensued.”
Margaret smiled and replied, “That could work.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Susan said.
The two women talked a bit longer before Margaret ended the call. Several hours later, she was dining with Maxime.
55
TUCKER WAS PREPARING for the big game. Some of his friends from the league, other SEC coaches had sent him warm wishes. John, the coach from Ole Miss, actually visited him in person. The two were sitting in Tucker’s office.
“You gotta beat this fucker,” John told him. “It’s not just Alabama here. It’s the SEC versus the Big Ten.”
“I know it,” Tucker said.
John was a good guy. All the SEC coaches in Tucker’s league were cool. They would sometimes hang out together on a big yacht in the Resort World bay. Tucker would sit on a deck chair and sip on Jim Beam. They would all talk football and watch for the occasional shark or whale.
The coaches in the other leagues were a bunch of idiots.
Tucker had no respect for them, especially the Big Ten people. They just didn’t know football the way Southerners did, and he loved to dominate them in games. Since becoming the head coach of Alabama, his record against the Big Ten was 87 and 3. The 87 wins were totally expected. Gimmes, you might say. But the three losses… On the rare occasion that his Alabama team lost, he was in a sour mood for at least four days.
“Losing to the Big Ten is like losing to a high school team,” John said.
“I know it,” Tucker repeated. “But this is Ohio State from Urban Mayer’s coaching days. They are tough.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“John, listen. I’ll get ‘er done. Just leave me be. I need to focus.”
THE GAME ENDED, the final whistle blew and Tucker was exhausted. He took his goggles off and wanted to throw them on the ground.
“I can’t believe it,” he mumbled to himself. “Who goes for two when the extra point would tie it?”
His Alabama Crimson Tide team had just been beaten by Ohio State by one point in the semi-finals. It was too much to deal with. The shame of losing to the Big Ten conference.
I let down Nick Saban. Bear Bryant is spinning in his grave.
Tucker looked on the kitchen counter and saw the large package for tomorrow. He’d be eatin’ pretty good. Probably go out to the lounge area and celebrate Thanksgiving with the guys. Mix a little Jim Beam in the egg nog and try to forget this embarrassing defeat.
He laid down on his bed. He wasn’t depressed. Real men didn’t get depressed.
Jesus too. I dishonored Jesus.
“Wall screen, silence all messages,” he said aloud.
“Done, sir,” the wall answered back.
I don’t wanna hear all the bullshit those SEC coaches will be sending my way.
He was seeing red, and it wasn’t beautiful Crimson. It was an angry red.
He put his head on the pillow and took deep breaths, counting from one to a thousand. Within minutes, Tucker was asleep.
The urgent message from Soldier World went to his inbox, but the audible notification was muted by the wall screen.
56
ALEXANDER SIPPED ON his boiled custard. Most people in the country would be drinking egg nog, but Alexander had always preferred boiled custard. He had practically begged Debbie to make him a batch ahead of the Thanksgiving celebrations, and she had obliged.
Fresh milk and eggs from their farm, mixed with sugar and vanilla extract, and prepared just right. It was a true southern delight. He liked to sprinkle in a dash of cinnamon. At night, he would add some rum to help him fall asleep.
Tomorrow was a big day. The whole community would come together at Debbie’s and celebrate Thanksgiving. The food would be the best cooking of the year. Debbie would play her piano and people would sing the songs of yesteryear. Many of the songs had a religious bent, but the primary purpose was to spread joy and hope through the group. They would give thanks for their many blessings, including finding each other. They would pray for a better future where they weren’t forced to live in the shadows.
Alexander finished his drink and stood up. He walked over to his bed, leaving the door to the kitchen open behind him. He kneeled in front of his bed and began the same prayer from his childhood. He had prayed it nightly since he started living in the little house.
“Our Father in heaven,” he said. “Hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”
He heard the sound of copters in the distance.
“For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”
Alexander raised up and rubbed his legs.
The old knees aren’t what they used to be, he thought.
He got in bed and slipped under the covers. The sound of helicopter rotors didn’t bother him at all. He had gotten used to hearing them his entire life. He thought about Thanksgiving day and fell asleep.
57
MAXIME WAS CONFLICTED. On the one hand, he didn’t really like Margaret. She was old, completely self-centered, and could be very cruel. On the other hand, she was his meal ticket.
Joey had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he had a big debt to pay off. Every date with Margaret took a big chunk out of the loan. Which is why Maxime was worried that she didn’t seem to like him as much as before.
The first date had been a breeze. She was like butter, melting in his hands. The second date had been more of the same. But as time went by, their conversations would take strange paths and Margaret would ask him about things that he didn’t know how to answer.
He tried to study up on things between dates, but a few weeks of cram studying couldn’t compete with all of her years of experience. He knew that he was good looking. He knew that he was charming. But she wanted a man that was more intelligent, and Maxime couldn’t fool her.
He tried. Even Joey admitted that he studied more than any
of the guys there. But there were so many topics. There was law, where Margaret had a doctorate. The was international politics, where she was an expert. She was fluent in French and knew so many details of French literature and culture. Meanwhile, Maxime was trying to build on the foundation of a ninth grade education. In three months, he couldn’t possibly learn all of the things that she knew.
Inevitably every date had moments where he felt like an idiot. She would ask him something. He would try to sound like he understood. She could tell that he was faking and make that face. That face of disapproval, like he wasn’t good enough. Then she would change the topic and within minutes the whole sequence would repeat itself. It was humiliating.
He looked at the goggles in his room. No reason to sit around and mope. She either likes him or she doesn’t. What was the worst that could happen? He might go back to the grid camp. That’s not the worst thing in the world.
And then a thought occurred to him. A scary, dangerous thought.
The worst thing that can happen is really, really bad.
Margaret was a powerful woman engaging in illegal activities. She would be afraid of him going back to the camp and maybe telling somebody. Joey was running a criminal operation where Maxime may already know too much. Neither Joey nor Margaret would ever trust him to go back to the camp.
But if that is true, then what about going to South America?
He shuddered. Maybe nobody went to South America. Maybe Joey took them out back and shot their brains out. Who would know the difference? Joey was nice to him, but that was because Maxime was earning for him. He seemed capable of murder. Maxime could see it in his eyes. Joey had definitely murdered before.
Shake it off. Can’t think this way.
Escape The Grid: Volume 1 Page 25