Swarm

by Guy Garcia

  The pay phone rang. It was JT

  Hey, I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

  “Me too. It’s a war zone up river.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “No, but tell me.”

  “Kenneth Ulrich is alive.”

  “That’s impossible. I saw his body at the Meta Militia shootout. So did you.”

  “Yeah, I know, but we just got the report from forensics. They checked Ulrich’s dental records and fingerprints against the body we found in his office, and all the other ones too. None of them are a match. The FBI found a tunnel in the basement of the Militia’s hideout. That must be how he got out.”

  Duggan cursed. “I want you to put out an APB on Ulrich immediately. Go wide—national, state, and local. We can’t have another loose cannon running around with a copy of zeph.r on his thumb drive.

  “So is Ulrich with Swarm?”

  “I don’t think so,” Duggan said. “Right now I need you to send a security team to Washington to make sure that the president is fully protected from microwave intrusions of any kind.”

  “It’s already happening,” JT said. “A team from the NSA is on its way to the White House as we speak. I’ll be there too.”

  “Good idea,” Duggan said. “Make sure they all have protective earl plugs.” He pressed the handset against his forehead and closed his eyes. “Fucking FBI.”

  “I know,” JT said. “Don’t worry, Jake. We’ll get Ulrich.” There was a pause before Nutley spoke again. “I’ve got more news you’re not gonna like.”

  “Go ahead, make my day.”

  “That video of Westlake getting banged in the head by his best friend in Afghanistan?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s gone viral.”

  30

  Eric watched intently as PHAROH was unloaded from a C-130 Hercules military transport and moved to a secure building on the base, where it was carefully unpacked and placed next to a vehicle that looked like a tank equipped with a microwave broadcast dish instead of a gun turret.

  “MEDUSA, meet PHAROH,” he said.

  Never in a million years did Eric imagine himself trying to help the US Army modify a weapon designed to bake the brains of rioters and enemy troops. But here he was, surrounded by men in crisp fatigues, struggling to translate Defense Department jargon into a plan to build a supercharged mobile version of his resurrected anti-locust device. Working backward from the dish, Eric managed to isolate the amplification module that used brute electromagnetic force to disrupt the brain’s cognitive functions. He turned to the lieutenant assigned to assist him and asked for the schematic. Eric perused the documents until he found a transducer that would accept audio inputs. He was about to lower himself into the MEDUSA’s metal hatch when he heard someone call his name.

  The voices were from Cara and Duggan, who had been granted clearance to visit the army’s advanced weapons facility.

  “You look right at home with all this hardware,” Duggan observed.

  “Not so much,” Eric said. He held out his hand. “Good to see you, Agent Duggan. I was worried you might not get out of Pennsylvania alive.”

  Me too,” Duggan said. A couple of hours of sleep and a shower and shave at the hotel had restored him to a functional member of the twenty-first century. Cara had listened in utter amazement as he recounted the details of his nocturnal adventures among the Amish and Swarm’s growing legions. “Cara filled me in on how you and she managed to get the army to approve airlifting your PHAROH device to Washington. I didn’t know the CDC had so much clout.”

  “Doctors scare the hell out of people, even generals,” Eric said.

  “How’s the US Army been treating you?”

  “They’ve been quite hospitable,” Eric said. “They even let me see their drone lab. You wouldn’t believe what those things can do.”

  “How about the MEDUSA-PHAROH hybrid project?” Duggan asked.

  Eric crossed his arms and looked over at the jumble of tools, open boxes, and electronic components surrounding the two machines. “It’s a challenge for sure, kind of like getting two different species to mate, but I’m optimistic, sir.”

  “Optimistic isn’t going to cut it,” Duggan said. “Swarm’s army moves fast, and it doesn’t stop for naps. It’ll be here by morning at the latest. I’ve seen what these people can do, and it isn’t pretty. PHAROH might be our only shot to stop them from overrunning the White House.”

  Eric’s levity vanished. “I’ll get it done, Agent Duggan, but I can’t guarantee that it’ll work. These devices might look like cousins, but they run on completely different operating systems. But if I can hack into MEDUSA’s amplification node, I think I can get them to shriek the devil’s language.”

  Cara noticed Duggan’s consternation and pointed to the boxy device on the floor. “PHAROH uses Selfridge’s Pandemonium model to ‘disrupt the demons.’”

  “Pandemonium is Latin for ‘many demons,’ Eric added. “In emergent theory and artificial intelligence research, the ‘demons’ are simple programs that respond to each other, or ‘shriek,’ in a distributed bottom-up hierarchy that mimics not just human learning but also reproductive DNA and Darwin’s theory of natural selection, among other things, including, of course, swarming locusts.” Eric paused, a smile creeping across his face. “I guess you could say that PHAROH disables MEDUSA by turning pandemonium into Babel.”

  “Let’s hope it does because the Army is prepared to use lethal force to stop Swarm’s rebellion,” Duggan warned. “There’s something going on out there besides zeph.r, something that might be even harder to contain.”

  “Are you talking about this?” Eric pecked at his phone and showed Duggan a photo of Donald Westlake wearing brain sensors and a link to the video that came from Ulrich’s computer.

  Duggan nodded grimly. “What about the danger of hurting bystanders if PHAROH-MEDUSA is deployed?”

  “It depends what you mean by ‘hurting,’” Eric answered. “My understanding is that MEDUSA isn’t lethal at lower levels, but the version of zeph.r at X-ist was like nothing I’ve seen before.” Eric held up a handful of zeph.r beam deflector headsets and gave them one each. “I brought these along, for me and anyone who needs them, just in case. Seriously, the PHAROH is just backup for a worst-case scenario, right?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping, Eric. I’ll be with Cara at the NorthCom field command outpost.”

  “Roger that.”

  Duggan and Cara left, and Eric returned to his task, feeling like a freshman pulling an all-nighter before the big exam. The best he could do in the time left was patch PHAROH’s processor into MEDUSA’s output circuits. He unscrewed the cover to the access panel and began mapping a strategy to link the machines without overloading the system. His biggest worry was that the unprecedented combination of zeph.r, MEDUSA, and PHAROH could create an uncontrollable feedback loop. The other possibility was that the whole thing could simply overheat and blow up.

  Eric’s tech assistant was patiently waiting for further instructions. “We’re going to need more wires,” he said.

  The black sedan approached the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the White House in the pre-dawn gloom and was immediately waved through when the guards recognized the man wearing battle fatigues in the backseat. General Mansfield saluted as he passed the checkpoint, steeling himself for a long, difficult day. He had spent most of the night on the phone with the joint chiefs, trying to find the midpoint between two crucial objectives. On the one hand, protecting the White House and the president was his top priority, but there was also the downside of unleashing excessive force against a civilian population in a climate of social instability. He had decided that political considerations were secondary to the safety of his commander in chief—and to hell with anyone who argued otherwise. Let the bureaucrats worry about public perceptions
and Sunday morning quarterbacking from the media. He had more important things to do.

  Mansfield got out of the car and stepped briskly toward the NorthCom control tower that had been set up near the West Wing. From there he could overlook the entire White House defensive barrier, a fortress of barbed wire, small artillery, ultrasound weapons, and five thousand battle-ready troops. On an elevated catwalk above the ramparts, snipers huddled behind sandbags with high-powered rifles at their sides. All wars had casualties, Mansfield reasoned, and anyone who attacked the White House was by definition an enemy of the state. Still, the ideal outcome, and what the general was essentially betting on, was that the mere sight of such formidable defenses would stop the mob in its tracks and deflect an attack without a single shot being fired.

  Mansfield saluted the soldiers at the gate and climbed the steps to the command post where his deputy, Colonel Andrew Swain, was waiting for him.

  “Good morning, General.”

  “Status?”

  “Troops are ready and in position, sir, as is plan B,” Swain said. “The first group of rebels is approaching the outskirts of the city.”

  Mansfield’s brow furrowed. “Two hours ago you told me there was no way they’d be here before noon.”

  “Yes, sir, that was the original estimate for the main group coming from Pennsylvania.”

  “There’s another group?”

  “Affirmative,” Swain said. “Helicopter and UAV surveillance spotted large numbers of demonstrators streaming in from the entire mid-Atlantic sector, sir. The front end of that force will be here in about ninety minutes, with the rest arriving not much later.”

  Mansfield grabbed Swain’s binoculars and scanned the horizon. “Are these people civilians? And how many are we talking about?”

  “Well, sir, we have to assume that anyone coming to the White House at this hour is aligned with the cyber terrorists. We’re trying to get a count now.”

  “I want an update every five minutes. Make sure the media stay in their designated area behind the Washington Monument. And get me a line to the White House chief of staff. I told him to evacuate the president, but the damned fool refuses. What’s he going to do, ask the cyber zombies to vote for him?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Mansfield turned to the northwest, showing an elevated degree of concern. “Is Agent Duggan here yet?”

  “He just arrived, sir.”

  “My God,” Cara said as she and Duggan approached the White House defense perimeter. “It looks like they’re expecting a siege.”

  “It just might be,” Duggan said. He pulled out his phone and dialed JT. “Did you get a double selfie with POTUS yet?”

  “Maybe later,” JT responded. “He’s a little busy right now arguing with his chief of staff, who wants him to transfer to the fail-safe bunker.”

  “Thinking about his legacy, I guess. What about the football?”

  “It’s secure with the vice president.”

  “And the NSA anti-microwave squad?”

  “They’re setting up their equipment in the West Wing.”

  “Okay, keep in touch.”

  “You too.”

  Duggan and Cara reached the command post and shook hands with General Mansfield. “Thank you for authorizing transportation for PHAROH, sir,” Duggan said. “We’ve done our best to integrate it with a MEDUSA mobile unit. They’ll be setting it up any minute now.”

  “Don’t thank me, Duggan. Agent Nutley explained to me that DHS and the CDC have been involved in research along these lines for some time now. The approval for the airlift came from Homeland Security with the President’s blessing.” When he saw Duggan’s expression, Mansfield chuckled. “You didn’t know? Looks like somebody’s been keeping you out of the loop.” He turned to Cara. “Dr. Park, do you really think this contraption of yours will work?”

  “Honestly, General, I hope we don’t find out.”

  Mansfield peered across the metal catwalk elevated above the perimeter, where Eric was making final adjustments to the PHAROH-MEDUSA array overlooking the White House South Lawn. “Agent Duggan, those brain-rave demonstrators took out a hundred of my best men in Pennsylvania. The MEDUSA beam didn’t stop them there, and frankly I’m skeptical that it’ll do much good here either. But I can tell you right now that I’m not taking any chances with POTUS on the premises. Am I clear?”

  “Very clear, sir.”

  “I understand that you spent some time among the rebels as their captive.”

  “Yes, sir. I managed to escape by swimming to safety during the Susquehanna River crossing.”

  “Impressive. My officers say that the rebels displayed superhuman powers. Do you know what they were referring to?”

  “I wouldn’t say superhuman, sir. It’s more like post-human. The rebels are extremely organized and fearless. It would be a mistake to underestimate them.”

  Mansfield’s mouth tightened. “That doesn’t sound like a bunch of drugged-up cyber punks to me. Do you think they could be motivated by a religious or political ideology?”

  “Sir, most of the people who walked here from the X-ist concert are under the influence of an experimental weapon based on stolen DOD technology. We think the enhanced MEDUSA cannons might neutralize or at the very least disorient them, but the weapon might also kill them.”

  “Duggan, I won’t bullshit you,” Mansfield said. “The only way you’re going to get a chance to try out your microwave gizmo is if the demonstrators get inside the defensive perimeter, which I assure you is not going to happen. But you’re welcome to stick around and keep the device powered up and ready go, just in case I give the order.”

  Swain handed Cara and Duggan flak jackets and put his hand up to his earpiece. “General, both rebel groups will be here in about thirty minutes, one from the northeast, the other from the southeast. I think you’ll be able get a visual after sunrise.”

  “There are two groups?” Duggan asked. “Where did the other one come from?”

  “We’re not sure,” Swain told him, “but at this rate, we could be looking at another fifty thousand or so demonstrators.”

  “Jesus.” Duggan felt his belly tightening.

  “Relax, Agent Duggan.” Mansfield had his binoculars trained on the multitude approaching from the southeast. In the dawn’s misty light, they seemed to extend all the way to the horizon. “They’re carrying American flags,” Mansfield said with evident satisfaction. “Those people are patriots. It’s pretty obvious they came to help us defend the White House.”

  “Fifteen minutes away, sir.”

  They all watched as the two groups came together like converging tributaries, mixing and swirling as they consolidated into a gathering mass in the National Mall, surrounded by a second circle of reporters with cameras and GoPro-toting tourists making videos of something so mesmerizing and strange that it left them wordlessly gaping in amazement.

  Cara pulled her Kevlar vest tighter as she watched. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Me neither.”

  “It’s almost like they’re trying to recompress to achieve more physical density.”

  “Which is the last thing we want,” Duggan said.

  “Okay,” Mansfield said. “They see us and they’ve come to their senses, assuming they have any. This is all just a show for the six o’clock news.”

  Duggan watched as the crowd clotted and heaved, drawing the protestors from the fringes into the pulsing core and then pushing them out again, like cells dividing and realigning. There was a brief lull, followed by a roar of grunts and shouts from the mobilizing mob. Duggan cringed as the magnified mass flexed and bristled and began advancing toward the White House. There was also something else, a low, almost subsonic rumble, like the vibration of tectonic plates churning deep under the planet’s crust.

  Mansfield’s s
mile curdled. “What the hell?”

  “Sir, our latest estimate is a combined total of at least a hundred thousand,” Swain reported, “and people are still coming out of the woodwork.”

  “Why are the terrorists dressed in white?” Mansfield groused. “It looks like a godforsaken holy war.”

  “Jake,” Cara said. “Maybe we should get out of here.”

  “It’s too late for that, Dr. Park,” Mansfield said. “You’re safer up here with us. The army invented crowd control. Just stay out of the way and let us do our job.” He looked at Swain, who barked orders into his radio. Loudspeakers stationed along the perimeter warned the demonstrators to desist and disperse immediately or face lethal consequences, but the mob kept advancing.

  Mansfield looked mystified. “Why won’t they stop, dammit? Don’t they know they’re committing suicide?”

  Swain looked at his commander. “At your signal, sir.”

  “They were warned,” Mansfield said ruefully. “Fire at will.”

  The first tear gas canisters exploded along the front line of the throng while they were still crossing the National Mall. Each time, the crowd adroitly dilated into a circle around the point of impact, escaping the brunt of the blast. Those who stumbled and fell were carried away as others stepped up to take their place, closing ranks and increasing their speed as a veil of smoke wafted across the Washington Monument. A barrage of concussion bombs kicked up a shower of divots and felled hundreds more. But instead of dispersing, the males in the vanguard broke into an accelerated trot. They raised their arms in a signal of solidarity and unleashed a thunderous howl, the birth cry of a colossus taking its first exultant breath.

  “Mother of Christ!” Mansfield muttered.

  Storming the first line of defense, the rebels threw themselves across the bramble of barbed wire, layer upon layer, making a clear passage for the hundreds behind them who rose against the rampart by climbing over each others’ shoulders, linking arms into human ladders so that those behind could continue the ascent. The army snipers, trained to eliminate high-value targets, scoped the unarmed rebellion fruitlessly for a kill. Only slightly more effective were the high-speed mini-guns mowing down the attackers, their screams mixing with the terrified shouts of soldiers watching their comrades being annihilated as their own captured weapons were turned against them. The insurgents fought as a single entity, hurling themselves on grenades, flipping jeeps, and overrunning machine-gun nests, using the growing pile of bodies as a ramp until they penetrated the defensive barrier and poured onto the South Lawn of the White House.