by Guy Garcia
“Within the first ten minutes of us meeting,” Cara continued, “I had subconsciously capitulated to the relationship. Hormones were rushing into my brain, affecting my perception of you. What I didn’t actually know about you was filled in by the idea of you. That’s what everybody does. I was seeing what I wanted to see …”
“Wait a minute,” Duggan interrupted. “I want to make sure I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that we’re too compatible to stay together, that my feelings—and yours too—are just a biological convenience. I’m sorry, but if that’s what you learned in college, I think you should ask for your money back.” He took a bite of his food, which was flavorless. “If you want to break up, then so be it, but please spare me the bio-psycho bullshit.”
“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Cara said. “I know this must all seem bizarre and academic. But over the past few weeks, I’ve felt myself becoming dependent on you, feeling incomplete when you’re not around. It’s been a depletion of my independence. I don’t recognize myself.”
Duggan groaned and rubbed his face. Her last comment was like a final piece of the jigsaw falling into place. “Oh boy,” he said. “I didn’t see it coming, but now I get it. You’re threatened by your feelings for me because it means a loss of control. Your seamless hermetic shell has been breached, and now your only defense, your brilliant solution, is to back away, to run for cover and call it quits.”
“That’s too simple, Jake.”
“Excuse me, but it actually is that simple. You’re safer when you’re alone.” Duggan paused, almost choking on the words. “But what about me?”
“You’ll be okay,” Cara stammered. “You’re a sexy guy with a sexy job. You’ll forget me, and eventually I’ll forget you. That’s how it happens, right? You told me yourself that that is how it always ends. And then you move on to your next conquest.”
Duggan murmured an expletive, a curse on women and on himself. “I only told you that because I felt that this time was different. I still do. Or at least I did.” Women wanted guys to bare their feelings, to confess their deepest doubts and desires. Alcohol and sex loosened men’s tongues, but sooner or later, one way or another, the same words uttered in postcoital bliss came back to haunt them.
Duggan pushed his plate away. Dinner was over. He wordlessly paid the check and went to get the car. When Cara got inside, Duggan was gripping the steering wheel so hard his palms ached. “I’ll tell Wightman he can’t come to DC,” he said, “if that makes you happy.”
“Don’t be stupid, Jake. You need him there. Like you said, it makes sense.”
“Nothing makes sense right now.”
Duggan didn’t speak again until they were pulling up to Cara’s apartment. “The bottom line is that I can’t imagine my life without you,” he told her. “And if that’s just my enzymes and hormones talking, I really don’t give a fuck, because they’re the only ones I’ve got. Take it or leave it—it’s what I am. What you perceive is what you get. After this thing in Philadelphia is over, I’ll be back. And if you still think we should split, I promise I’ll get out of your life and never bother you again.”
Duggan stopped the car, but Cara wasn’t done surprising him. Without turning her head, she asked, “Want to come up and tuck me in?”
“Is this breakup sex or makeup sex?”
Cara put her hand on Duggan’s lips to silence him and then got out. He sat behind the wheel for a minute, thinking of all the good reasons he had to keep driving. Then he killed the engine, locked the car, and followed her up the steps.
26
JT was waiting in Duggan’s office when they arrived from the airport. He handed a temporary credential to Eric, who accepted it with a ceremonial bow, and briefed them on the meeting that was scheduled to begin in a few minutes.
“Be careful what you wish for,” JT told Duggan. “All the agencies that matter will be in attendance, and you know what happens when you put a lot of big dogs in the same room.”
“Mutual ass sniffing?”
Eric blinked and sniggered like a schoolboy.
“Not if we stick to the game plan,” JT said. “Koepp and I have your back, and so does the director, but our time flying under the radar is over.”
Duggan nodded. “I get it. This is prime time and everyone’s watching.”
“One more thing, Jake.” JT handed Duggan a manila envelope. “It’ll take a while to shift through the hard drive on Ulrich’s computer, but here’s the message he sent right before he died, plus the transcripts of the Post-it’s on the wall in his office and some text from the memo utility on his smartphone.”
“Thanks.” Duggan nodded and put the envelope into his desk drawer.
JT focused on Eric. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Think you can help us catch this cyber creep before he does any more damage?”
“I don’t know if I can help you catch him,” Eric said, interlocking his fingers over this head. “But I think I can give you and your men some protection from any zeph.r beams bouncing around at the concert.”
JT turned his hand into a gun and pointed it at Eric. “I like this kid,” he said. “Let’s go. We can’t be late to the rodeo.”
Duggan led the way down the corridors that he normally found so dull and stifling. But Eric seemed wonderstruck when they passed a framed portrait of the Homeland Security director. “Will he be at the meeting?”
“The director usually attends by video feed,” JT informed him, “but he’ll be able to see you.”
Eric had been like a puppy on the ride to NCSD headquarters, staring out the window at the Beltway commuters, practically pissing himself with anticipation. The youthful alacrity of Duggan’s new sidekick made him realize how blasé he’d become about working as a federal cyber agent. It was a kick to see it all again from Eric’s dewy perspective. It must all seem to him like something out of an action-adventure video game, Duggan thought, except that the bad guy in this case was real and the fuse for his microwave bio-bomb was probably under construction on a farm somewhere outside of Philadelphia.
They entered the packed conference room and took their seats. Koepp nodded and called the meeting to order. Sharpe and Mansfield were there, as well as a dozen or so operatives from various federal agencies. “Thank you all for coming,” Koepp began. “As you all know, the apprehension of the suspect known as Swarm has been elevated to a national security priority. Agent Duggan, who is our lead field operator on the case, will give us an update in a minute. But first I’d like us to start with some important news from Deputy FBI Director Joseph Osheyack. The floor is yours, sir.” A man in a pin-striped suit cleared his throat and leaned toward the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m very pleased to tell you that one of our prime targets, Kenneth Ulrich, was taken down three days ago at a warehouse near Worcester, Massachusetts.”
“Were you able to question him?” somebody asked.
“The suspect is deceased,” Duggan interjected.
“There was gunfire as we approached the building,” Osheyack continued, “and FBI agents responded appropriately. Ulrich was already dead from a gunshot wound when we entered the premises. In addition, nine of his co-conspirators were killed.”
“They’re not talking either,” Duggan muttered, feeling Koepp’s eyes on him.
“I’m sorry about the collateral damage, but I think we have to look at this as a net gain,” Osheyack asserted. “Ulrich was a traitor and a dangerous criminal who has now been neutralized. We’ve confiscated some equipment and software that’s consistent with the zeph.r software design, proving his complicity.” He glanced up at the video feed from the director’s office. “I really don’t understand why Agent Duggan would have a problem with that.”
“The problem,” Duggan said sternly, “is that we don’t know anything more about Swarm’s plan, and everyone in the building who could have told us something is
dead. If Swarm feels threatened, it’ll only make him more dangerous and harder to catch.”
“Which is why,” the director of Homeland Security chimed in from the screen, “we’re giving Agent Duggan the full support of our agencies, including the FBI and NSA and DOD.”
“Mr. Director,” General Mansfield added, “Ditto that from the Fifth Army of the US Northern Command.”
Duggan’s gaze shifted to Eric, who was holding his hand up like a college student waiting for the professor to call on him. Koepp peered across the table. “Yes?”
“I was just wondering …”
“Could you identify yourself to the task force, please?”
“Oh, sure. Sorry. Eric Wightman, from the biomorphics department at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory at the University of California, Berkeley, ma’am.” He glanced at Duggan, who gave him the nod to proceed with caution. “I was wondering if there might be a way to use the government’s computing resources to design a predictive model of locust swarm behavior projected onto a crowd of, say, twenty thousand people. If we can identify the threshold of emergence, maybe your agency can work with local officials to restrict the numbers of attendees and prevent zeph.r from reaching critical mass…”
“Mr. Wightman,” Mansfield broke in. “As an expert in this field, do you really think that this de-centralized uprising is even containable?” Mansfield groped for the words. “I mean, what do you call a subversive movement that anyone can join anywhere at anytime for any reason, just by downloading an application?”
There was a lull as faces turned to hear Wightman’s answer.
“Open-sourced terrorism?”
A kind of psychic shiver rippled through the room. Then a man with a trendy buzz cut cleared his throat. “Michael Bragin from the NSA, sir. We concur with Mr. Wightman’s suggestion, and we’d be happy to work with him on building a predictive computer model.”
Koepp nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Wightman and Agent Bragin. Jake, will you make the introductions and so forth?”
“Happy to do it.”
After adjourning the meeting, Koepp called Duggan and Mansfield into her office and shut the door behind them.
“Jake, I think you’ve met General Mansfield.”
“Only remotely till now, but yes, of course.”
“We’re only a few days away from D-day,” Koepp said. “Besides the fifty armed agents you requested, you’ll have jurisdiction over the local county and state police; that’s another eighty or so men. I’ve also asked the joint chiefs to have the Northern Command on alert. As a precautionary measure, General Mansfield is moving a fully equipped force of six hundred men from the US Fifth Army in Houston to a concealed position a few miles away from the festival grounds.”
“And I’ve got a direct line to the joint chiefs and the president himself, if we need it,” Mansfield added.
“Excuse me, but did you just say the Army Northern Command is being deployed in Pennsylvania?”
“That’s correct,” Mansfield said. “Duggan, you’ve made a very convincing case that due to his customization of the zeph.r software, Swarm might already have the capability to control the minds of his followers.”
“I said that he might, but …”
“And if that’s the case, then by extension, those people have for all intents and purposes become enemy combatants who are subject to the same policies and actions that apply to all foreign terrorists.”
“And the president is okay with this?”
“The White House is in accord with the calibrated use of extreme force against terrorist threats on US soil. The way we see it, US citizens who do not have full control of their minds and therefore can no longer be responsible for their own actions are ipso facto no longer protected by citizens’ rights and privileges provided by the US Constitution. The governor of Pennsylvania agrees, which is why he has authorized the deployment of federal troops in his state, plus a few other surprises, like MEDUSA.”
Duggan and Koepp waited for Mansfield to elaborate.
“It’s an acronym for Mob Excess Deterrent Using Silent Audio. Whatever’s going on in those ravers’ heads, MEDUSA’s sonic beam will stop them cold.”
“And what if it doesn’t stop them cold?” Duggan asked.
“Then we’ll resort to more conventional weapons.”
“As in the US Army using lethal weapons against American citizens?”
“Correct.”
Duggan was incredulous. “So you’re saying that from a legal standpoint, anyone who comes under Swarm’s influence is by definition an enemy of the state and therefore fair game for US troops?”
“If we get to a point where that distinction has to be made, then the answer is yes.”
JT and Eric were huddled in deep conversation when Duggan got back to his office. “Sorry to interrupt guys,” he said. “You did well in there, Eric. But we need that predictive model. X-ist is just a few days away.”
“Did well?” JT gushed. “Hell, he was magnificent! I’ll bet you that before this is over, the NSA offers him a job.”
“I thought you said you liked him,” Duggan said mirthlessly.
JT was studying his friend with concern. “Jake, exactly what happened back there?”
Duggan waved off the question. “I’ll tell you later.” He looked at Wightman. “Eric, I want you to spend some time with the NSA and DOD tech guys. Find out what else they got at the warehouse in Massachusetts. Help them if you can, but mainly keep your ears open. JT, please take Eric over to NSA and introduce him to Bragin’s team, and while you’re at it, find out anything you can about a sonic crowd control cannon called MEDUSA. Meet me back here at six and we’ll all go for a good steak in Georgetown.”
Duggan shut his door and tried to shake off the anxiety from his conversation with Mansfield —too many variables on a potential collision course. Then he opened the envelope that contained Ulrich’s files from the Meta Militia raid. Inside was a printout of the text on the Post-its and a USB thumb drive with the contents of Ulrich’s last e-mail. He scanned the Post-it transcripts, which were in a jargon that made no sense to him, and downloaded the contents of the thumb drive—a single high-definition video, some photos, and a text file from Ulrich’s phone memo app. The photos showed Donald Westlake in a bare-walled room sitting shirtless in a chair under a bright light. A plastic mesh dotted with brain wave sensors was wrapped snugly around Westlake’s shaved head. Wires dangled down the side of his face toward a metal box with dials and switches and a strip of masking tape with a single word in black Sharpie letters: ZEPH.R. One of the photos was a close-up of a fresh scar about one inch long right behind his left ear.
Look for what isn’t there.
The text file was an unaddressed draft of a memo to Ulrich’s superiors. The document was clotted with technical jargon, but the gist of it was clear: Ulrich was asking his bosses for permission to discontinue the zeph.r tests. After several weeks of promising results, the high bandwidth treatments and a subsequent increase in the intensity of brain activity and performance was becoming counterproductive. Ulrich was worried that the zeph.r treatments were beginning to cause permanent degenerative damage to Westlake’s brain. The memo closed with Ulrich stating that if his request was denied, he would have no choice but to tender his resignation, effective immediately. The memo was dated six weeks before Westlake opened fire on allied Afghan troops in Kandahar.
Lastly, Duggan played the video and watched as his screen became an eyewitness documentary of the last two minutes of Donald Westlake’s life. The clip, which seemed to have been taken by a GoPro camera attached to an airman’s helmet, began with the jerky movement of soldiers roused from their barracks by sudden gunfire, half-dressed and stumbling over each other as they scrambled for their weapons and rushed outside, expecting to confront the enemy and instead finding one of their own robotically gunning down Afghan
allies. The camera must have been on Martin Fisk’s helmet, because Duggan could hear him yelling over the clamor at his buddy, begging him to stop, over and over, before shooting him dead. The last few seconds of the video showed Westlake turning to face the camera and, in a flash of recognition and agonizing self-awareness, grabbing Fisk’s rifle, holding the muzzle to his forehead, and waiting for his drone sensor and best friend to pull the trigger. The final seconds showed Westlake, his eyes bottomless black holes, silently mouthing the words Do it, Marty. Help me do it, before the rifle round sent pieces of his skull corkscrewing away from the back of his head.
Duggan vomited into his wastepaper basket and stayed in a crouch for a few minutes, waiting for the nausea to pass. Then he wiped his mouth, picked up the phone and dialed Peter Palladino in Spokane. The psychologist took the call right away. “I thought I might be hearing from you,” he said somberly.
“Really? Why’s that?”
“I figured you must have heard,” Palladino said.
“Heard what?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Marty Fisk is in the hospital. He took an overdose of tranquilizers and alcohol a couple days ago. It looks like he’ll pull through, but it was a close call.”
Duggan thought about the feisty and fit veteran he’d encountered at Priest Lake and how determined he seemed to stay alive. “Doctor, I know he was your patient, but the man I met didn’t seem the least bit suicidal.”
“Look, Agent Duggan, off the record, I agree with you. But as I explained before, these cases are very complicated. There’s no way to predict, no way to be sure. Sometimes the healing doesn’t go deep enough.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“Yes, to his wife, Laura. It basically said how much he loved her and how sorry he was that this was the only way he could protect her.”
“Protect her from what?”
“I really don’t know,” Palladino said. “He won’t talk to me.”
“Do you have Laura Fisk’s home number?”