Not So Dead: A Sam Sunborn Novel

by Charles Levin

  “I…I…”

  “Let me help you out. You may not know the man’s name, but at about 10:00 this morning, you delivered a child for an ‘encounter’ with a Middle Eastern man somewhere nearby. Where was it? How did he contact you and how did you get paid?”

  The man, still upside down, told him everything he knew—the hotel, the contact and the payment. Little nodded again to the two agents. They let go of the man’s ankles simultaneously. The man landed on the wood floor head first. He crumpled and rolled over moaning.

  Little pulled out his phone and barked instructions.

  CHAPTER 40

  STATE OF MIND

  “Frank, how are you?” I asked with sincere interest. I adjusted my shoulder bandage and sling into a non-wincing position. Since I was still at the lab and had to wait for the FBI to act, I thought it would be good to check up on my good friend. I also wanted to learn more about what digital life was like.

  “I’m good, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I can think. That’s good, right?” He smiled mischievously. I missed Frank—the real Frank, but this Frank was pretty close.

  “That is good. How’s your state of mind? This is, after all, a pretty traumatic adjustment,” I probed a little farther.

  “Well, the interesting thing is that I occasionally feel bouts of anxiety or panic. I’m glad I can still ‘feel’ as well, but I obviously can’t take drugs. I have no physical body to absorb them. So rather than submitting to those feelings and being overwhelmed by them, I look at it as a solvable problem.”

  “Really? You’re amazing. If you figure it out, maybe you can help me with my occasional bouts of depression. Any progress on solving it?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve written a script that in a way handles it. If I feel anxiety coming on, I invoke the script and it turns the feelings off. It’s like magic. I feel fine. I call it ‘Xanzac.’ Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it, and you don’t even need FDA approval for this script.”

  “Your observation opens a whole other world of questions. If we ever get past this crisis and back to digitizing more lives, we’ll probably need to have labs, trials and an FDA to manage the safety of these scripts.”

  “Huh, I don’t get it. What can go wrong?”

  “Just like real drugs, Xanzac has side effects. If not handled carefully, it could be fatal. The first time I used it, it shut me off. Fortunately, I had set up a timed recovery procedure ahead of time to restore me from backup or you’d have lost me twice. You want a script like this to turn off certain activities and not others. I had to do 22,365 trials and tweaks to get it right. Fortunately, at digital speed on our Octa-Core Nano processors, it only took me a few hours to do the whole thing. I had to restore myself many times. One time I even felt like I was tripping on LSD. It’s pretty tricky being both the scientist and the subject at the same time. I wouldn’t recommend it going forward, but I don’t have any alternatives at the moment. I needed to do this or I couldn’t count on functioning. If I learned anything here, depression can be fatal and at a much faster rate than in the physical world.”

  “That’s both scary and fascinating at the same time. The ‘unintended consequences’ of our new technology continue to amaze, delight and terrify me. Oh well, I guess your scripts won’t help me with my sporadic mental issues.”

  “You’d be surprised, but that’s a discussion for another time. I think it’s only the beginning, my son. The question is whether we can anticipate, solve or damage control all the ripple effects of doing this. I’m just not sure whether a digital Black Plague will end it all or that we’ll discover new universes and forms of life or both,” Frank mused.

  “Well said, but right now, if we don’t stop the Leopard’s attack, we won’t even get that far. Let’s get back to work. Have you closed the loop as to how they’ll trigger the attack and if we have really shut down their communications?”

  CHAPTER 41

  CLEAR

  The address the pimp had given them was behind an old brick warehouse on 7th Street. SWAT and twenty-five FBI agents in full gear moved up the two alleys and the back lot. They surrounded the building and took up their positions. Four agents moved in a crouch to the front entrance—an old iron gate. Two agents pressed their bodies flat against the wall on each side of the door awaiting orders.

  One of the agents, Jim Pickins, held a portable battering ram. “I don’t think this butt is going to do that door.”

  A second agent, Saul Stein, on the side near the door latch said, “I’ll put some putty in the lock and around the latch.” He removed some C4 from his vest and molded it with his left hand into the keyhole and around the latch.

  Pickins: “Did anyone actually try the door in case it’s unlocked.”

  Stein: “Funny. You think we’re in a movie like Lethal Weapon 2?”

  Pickins: “Just try the handle. Don’t be a jerk.”

  Stein was already plugging in the det cord to the explosive putty and stretching out a length of wire. All the agents had MP5s, safeties off, in their left arms, butts wedged into their armpits, fingers on triggers. While Stein fiddled with the wires, Pickins reached across the door with his free, right hand and gently pulled on the iron handle of the door. It seemed locked or maybe just stuck. Pickins pulled harder and the door creaked and slowly opened a few inches. The C4 fell to the ground.

  Stein: “Damn. I really wanted to blow the door.” He picked up his putty and stuffed it back into his vest.

  Pickins cocked his head and whispered into his shoulder mic to Pete Wilson in Command, “We’ve got access. Front door is open. All entrances and exits secure. Await your GO.”

  Minutes seemed to tick by. SWAT was just settling into position on a four-story stone building across the street, pointing their .50 caliber sniper rifles at the three mesh-covered windows of the target warehouse. They’d normally use M14s or Remington 700Ps, but this was considered an “intense” situation. Hence the 50 cals.

  Wilson and his crew were in a white, windowless Ford Econoline two blocks away. He and three techs sat in front of monitors, fed by sixteen cameras on the surrounding buildings and atop two three foot mini-drones hovering a few yards from the roofline of the warehouse. Wilson knew this could be the biggest takedown of his career, and he wasn’t leaving anything to chance. He’d gotten a call from Director Tibbet himself, filling him in on the target and emphasizing the critical nature of the mission. “The future of our country is literally riding on this.” No pressure, he thought.

  Wilson squeezed the button on the side of his mic, almost slipping from the sweat on his hand. “On my 3 count, 3…2…” Before he could get to “1,” Pickins, Stein and the rest of the team burst through the front and rear doors, sweeping weapons with mounted flashlights and laser sights back and forth through the open entry space. There was a small waiting area and a wooden door just to the left of a sliding glass window that a receptionist might use.

  Pickins: “Clear.” He grabbed the wooden door’s brass handle and swung it back. He and Stein entered in a crouch and split right and left. They were in a large open area. It was dark, except for the daylight fighting its way through the second story windows. Their eyes adjusted and Pickins could see the warehouse appeared to be empty. He looked up toward the ceiling and saw rusted steel beams and water dripping from the two-story ceiling. The only sound was the drips hitting puddles on the floor. It smelled dank, like wet books had been stored there.

  The warehouse wasn’t completely empty. There were some boxes, a few barrels and some partitions haphazardly arranged on the far side of the warehouse. Just then Pickins heard automatic gunfire. Stein and three other agents fell to the floor moaning. Hopefully their vests protected them. Unless they were armor piercing rounds or they got hit in the head, they could recover.

  Pickins: “Shit. Down, down, down…we have shots fired.” Then all chaos broke loose. Pickins rolled and came to a crouch. He and the four other agents who ha
d come through the back door returned fire shredding the boxes and partitions on the other side of the warehouse. Suddenly, all the glass from the windows shattered inward as SWAT sprayed for targets. Pickins instinctively covered his face. Then a thought occurred to him, “Don’t shoot the barr…” he was going to say ‘barrels’ when the four agents in the rear unleashed another volley hitting the blue barrels near the now shredded partitions. The explosion was louder than anything Pickins had ever experienced. More than mortar fire, more than flash bangs. He was thrown hard against the wall. The roof was literally blown off and shards of wood and asphalt rained on the interior.

  The fireball from the barrels billowed out, seeming to crowd out all the smoke and darkness. The flames stopped inches short of Pickins, but the intense heat and strong odor of sulfur washed over him. He was dazed and deaf. All he could hear was an intense ringing in his ears. His nostrils filled with acrid smoke and he could not see. All he could feel was a coolness coming from his right and he rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward it. With his nose two inches from the floor he could at least breath. It felt like 200 degrees. The vest had protected his torso, but his arms were badly burned. His black sleeves hung in tatters still smoking.

  He kept crawling toward the cooler air. It must be an exit. Then two men rushed in, grabbed him under each arm and dragged him out onto the street. They put him down gently. While one man held Pickins’ head and neck, they slowly rolled him onto his back. “Help is on the way. What the fuck happened in there?” Wilson said.

  Pickins’ ears were still ringing and he couldn’t hear a damn thing, but he saw Wilson’s lips moving and he understood the question. “Bad guys. Back corner,” was all he could murmur and then he passed out.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE BARBEQUE

  Wilson stood amidst the emergency vehicles and blaring sirens. He was singed but upright and functional. Smoke and fire. He had only minutes to act. He needed to know if he had gotten the target. He had dental records and other ID info, but how the hell could he recover a body, much less identify it. He grabbed the Special Unit Fire guys in full fire blast gear. “Guys, on the back wall of this place, there should be one or more bodies. I need them and I need them right here now.”

  SUF Rodriguez spoke first. “These suits are rated to 800 degrees Celsius. If we get there without our temp sensors exceeding that, we’ll do it.” He looked at his partner. “Let’s go.” His partner nodded and they entered the building.

  Wilson had ordered the special ME lab vehicle to the site. This was a new unit that had all the tools of an ME lab but on mobile for fast analysis. They were fighting the clock and Wilson had authorization for absolutely anything he needed to get the job done. Wilson walked over to the MELV and greeted the ME, John Chin. “Are you ready to do this?”

  Wilson had known Chin for twenty years. He was a great ME but could be a pain-in-the-ass. He was known for his gallows humor. “Other than spilling my coffee on this crispy’s medical record, I’m ready. What’s the big hurry?”

  Wilson didn’t have time for his usual dance with the ME. “Terrorist. Imminent threat. You’ve got five minutes. No, make that four when SUF brings the guy out.”

  A few minutes later, Rodriguez and his partner stumbled out of the building carrying a stretcher. Smoke seemed to be rising off them like steam. They dropped the stretcher at Wilson’s feet and ripped off their gas masks, gasping for air. “Shit, that was bad,” Rodriguez said. “But there’s the only body we could find.” The charred remains of a human lay askance on the grounded stretcher.

  Chin ambled over, sipping his coffee. “This your barbeque?”

  Wilson turned six shades of red trying to contain himself. “Just get on it. You now have three minutes.” Chin got the message just by looking at Wilson’s face. He waved a patrolman over and the two of them lifted the stretcher into the MELV. Chin lowered a body scanner attached to a mobile arm. He flipped the switch and slowly moved the scanner over the body from head to toe. The scanner emitted a purple light and as Chin moved it, body images began to appear on three flat panel screens along the wall.

  Wilson stepped into the van and slammed the door behind him. It startled Chin, who was now seated at a keyboard feverishly typing. “Anything yet?” Wilson asked in a restrained voice.

  Chin spoke without taking his eyes off the screen. “I’m comparing the skeletal and dental scans to the records NSA provided. Give me a minute.” Wilson considered barking at Chin again. They were all under a lot of pressure. Chin was good when he was focused. Now was no time to break his concentration.

  Chin looked up with a smile. “I can’t tell anything from the skeleton, but the dental records are a match. It’s your guy, LaSalam.”

  CHAPTER 43

  SPY VS. SPY

  Frank’s image blurred on the screen as if ripples of water were passing over him. I got used to this and knew it meant Frank was either thinking or working. Still, it was a kind of spooky-looking screensaver. The screen snapped clear.

  Frank began. “I think we’re clear, but I can’t be 100% sure. He could have some inactive server or network that he could activate just to execute his plan. So I put a script out there that should detect and block this possible scenario. But again, I can’t be sure.”

  I felt like we were living in that old Mad magazine cartoon, Spy vs. Spy. Don’t know why that came to mind. The war on terror has really been more like an endless game of Whack-A-Mole. Sometimes you’re ahead and sometimes you’re behind. Despite what Frank said, I had the uneasy feeling that, at the moment, we were behind.

  Frank’s face lit up. “I just picked up a report that there was a shootout and explosion at a New York warehouse on 7th Street. Positive ID says we got the Leopard.”

  One mole down, I thought. “I’m going to reach out to Little and report. Let’s see if there is anything more to do or just wait.”

  Frank then surprised me. “I think the smart thing would be to ground the planes anyway—at least for a few hours. Then we’re not risking lives while we play the odds. We’ll know in a few hours if the coast is clear.”

  I thought about this for a minute, “Apparently, it’s a big deal to get the planes out of the sky. Besides the cost and disruption, this action just might cause widespread panic in itself.”

  “It’s a matter of what’s the best alternative. Inconvenience and fear or thousands dead. Take your pick,” Frank said.

  CHAPTER 44

  WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

  The Situation Room was standing room only. Seated at the table were the president, joint chiefs, secretary of defense, and heads of all seventeen intelligence agencies. Rich Little, and counter terrorism chiefs for New York and San Francisco, were pictured in small squares on a video conferencing screen beside the president.

  The president began. “Thanks for getting here on such short notice. You all should have been briefed on the ride over. So let’s not waste time with questions. We’ve got to deal with the live situation on the ground and in this case, the air. Little, what have we got?”

  Little’s image jerked to life on the screen. “Madame President, by now you know we have a positive ID on a dead LaSalam. We believe the Voyager did its job before the unfortunate accident. Sunborn and his team believe we have stopped the ‘active’ threat but can’t be sure we have or can stop an ‘inactive’ threat. There could still be a snake in the basket, ready to strike, but we just don’t know.”

  The president considered this. “Give me your number.”

  Little replied, “Eighty percent to ninety percent sure.”

  The president went around the room asking for each key player’s assessment of how safe they were.

  Sec Def: “Seventy percent.”

  NSA: “Fifty to sixty percent.”

  Joint Chiefs: “Not enough data for us.”

  “Freakin’ data. We’ve got to make a decision,” the president snapped. “What are the recommendations?” She listened intently as the various i
ntelligence heads painted the scenarios. Finally, she turned back to Little. “What do you guys think? After all you started…I mean discovered this thing.”

  Little coughed and cleared his throat. “They think it’s not worth the risk. You should ground all planes for a few hours and make sure the threat is cleared. They realize the cost, disruption and potential panic, but thousands, maybe tens of thousands of lives are at stake. I concur.” The room burst into shouts, questions and overall chaos.

  “Shut up!” Longford shouted and the room quieted down. “Shit, that’s not what I wanted to hear either, but I get it. I need a minute.” She left the room to a murmuring crowd of men. She went to the private bathroom at the side of the Situation Room and locked the door. She looked in the mirror. Despite the makeup, she could see the puffy gray circles under her eyes. Being president takes its toll on us all, she thought. She took a few deep breaths and teased her hair with her hands. Like that’ll make a difference. She smirked at her mock vanity, turned abruptly and went back into the room.

  She stood at the head of the table and scanned the room, meeting all the eyes that were upon her. “Ground the planes. Do it now.” Turning to her press secretary, she said, “Arrange a press conference in five minutes.”

  CHAPTER 45

  STOP THE PRESSES

  You may wonder how the president can call a press conference in five minutes. Since the White House is often the center of the news universe, there are usually over 100 reporters clicking away at their cubicles in the White House press room. Like mice, they wait for a morsel of food to hit the floor and they pounce. When word hit that there was a press conference in five minutes, they all knew something big was afoot. They usually got more notice.