by David Berko
Christophe laughed out loud. "This is kind of peaceful in here, no? Gives us time to talk."
Damion balked. "You're outta your mind!"
The other man shrugged. "....After you."
--
Chapter 23
Dreamland, Nevada
Howard knew a storm was brewing. In one ear he wore an earpiece: it was his connection to intelligence chatter between Scorpion monitoring agencies scattered all across North America. The Old Man almost felt like the borg queen with a hive mind. All the voices formed the collective...all working together for the forces of evil.
What the director-general knew...no man alive was so privileged (or cursed) to even approach the threshold of what Howard understood.
The Old Man was very selective on what flash traffic deserved his attention, much less concern. The FRN didn't worry him. In fact, the republic to him was a bug soon to be splattered on his windshield. All in good time though. What really occupied him however was the great deception of the nations that would bring about a one world order. It were his own evil designs that had been in the works for centuries before that would culminate in a great moment: the perfect storm.
Howard's eyes were slits, looking more reptile than human. His bony hands steepled under his chin. "Who can stand in my way?" he hissed. His executive office was empty and dark. No voice answered him. "I must go to the war room," he continued to talk to himself out loud.
An invisible force drove the old man to rise and deliberately head for the hall. He found a private elevator and took it to the basement of the tower. An armored personnel carrier idled there, waiting to take Howard wherever he directed.
The door to the backseat opened by itself for the Old Man who walked over to it and climbed in.
"To the war room, pronto," he ordered the driver.
The man without a face with an augmented voice croaked, "Right away."
The vehicle's acceleration wasn't sparing.
A large tunnel that led away from the Purple Zone and central command would eventually lead to a lift that would take Howard to the surface and his flight to Vandenberg AFB--Scorpion's war room location.
--
Eielson AFB: Fairbanks, Alaska
64°39′56″N 147°06′05″W.
At these precise coordinates a behemoth airbase served as North Pacific Command for the Free Republic of North America. The military base had a whole bevy of options to see action in any theater at any time.
In its arsenal were long range bombers that used stage rockets to take them to the outer edge of space and then back down to swoop in like a falcon for the kill; a special variant of the Mustafa X-plane co-developed by Lockheed Martin and Reelex (a subsidiary defense contractor under the umbrella of Westover Ventures) which could out-fox, out-maneuver anything else in the skies, period; and last but not least, the installation flew a heavy-lift capable aircraft inspired by the flying fortress bombers dating all the way back to WWII.
The last plane mentioned truly was a flying fortress. It had unsurpassed countermeasures to keep the juggernaut relatively safe despite its size that made it an easy target. This would be critical because of what the plane could bring to the front lines in battle. It could tip the scales in any conflict.
Up to four tanks could be fitted into its cargo hold in addition to twenty paratroopers and two UAV's. What's more, Eielson Air Force Base serviced 10 of these massive aircraft, which would be instrumental in the operation soon to be underway in Cali.
…
The peaceful foggy air of Fairbanks Alaska still lingered over the airbase. Its base commander, Abraham Steffords now waited for a call from the Ministry of Defense.
Everybody in and around Eielson began to stir after DEFCON 3 was declared over all frequencies across the republic.
Before communication came down from the top, Commander Steffords interfaced with FRN national reserve security forces stationed at Fort Wainwright, about 34 clicks up the Richardson Highway from Eielson Air Force Base. A mutual understanding existed between the brigadier-general at Fort Wainwright and Commander Abraham Steffords that the two bases would be participating together as an integral part in the three- pronged attack carried out by the massive coalition force that would fly into Sector Six.
In fact, the two bases were already positioning troops, mission packages, and planes on the runways for a quick takeoff. All they needed now was a little additional organization, mission orders, and the a-okay to join up with a massive air armada headed for the west side of LA where Westover Venture’s major complex was located.
…
The communications officer monitored the phone lines at Eielson as he eagerly waited for the all-important communique from Gene Barker. Tense moments passed before suddenly the switchboard operator held a finger up and motioned for his superior to come over to where he sat.
The dispatcher mouthed the word Barker.
It only took a millisecond to compute. The communications officer was already snapping his fingers and making a gesture to put the call through to the base commander's line.
(Abraham Steffords on the phone)
The commander breathlessly listened....
“Saddle up Commander Steffords, Operation Switchblade is a go. Repeat, it's a go.”
--
The Ozarks
Unlike hotels, Scorpion chose to turn the lights off when night came around. Then again, night and day were one and same to the prisoners of an underground penitentiary facility.
"I'd give this place half a star for comfort and friendliness of staff," Damion joked in the darkness. No immediate response came back which made Damion despair even more. He didn't feel like sleeping just yet. "Christophe?"
The elder man snorted. He had indeed been snoozing. "When you get to be my age son," he spoke to the billionaire like he was his grandson, "you'll realize the need for sleep. It'll be your best friend."
"Well, unfortunately you're the only friend I've got at the moment," Damion retorted.
Christophe was wide awake now. "Misfortune you call it?" He was sure Damion rolled his eyes. Just the thought of that made him smile. "You wanna talk?"
There was a rustling noise. "I suppose that'd be harmless. You pick."
"Sorry?"
"A topic," Damion clarified.
This pleased the scientist. It didn't take him long to choose. He felt like God had put him on a mission all along to witness to the billionaire. What more perfect opportunity than prison ministry? "Have you thought about the future much Mr. Westover?"
Damion made a face. "Future-future?"
"As far out as you dare go."
The other man put himself into a contemplative posture. He hemmed and hawed. "I've thought about settling a new frontier. I can't stand this place anymore."
Christophe understood the man to be talking about space colonization. He knew Damion had a flare for that sort of craziness. "Your problems would chase you there, you know," he quietly said.
"Meaning?"
"Well, you didn't discuss your plans for after death."
"Oh, I've got plans. I have my funeral all planned out even. It's quite something Gerard," Damion facetiously said.
"That's lovely," Christophe sounded bored. "When are you gonna get serious with me?"
"We have all the time in the world for that, my friend. Don't expect to convert me in our first night together, k?"
That effectively took the wind out of the scientist's sails. He wouldn't quit the topic though. "I used to be like you when I was young and it seemed like life would go on forever."
"Oh?"
"M-hm. And you know what?" "What?"
"You ain't got forever!"
--
Howard wiggled around with the bouncy suspension of his ride. He muttered a few profanities under his breath. "It's 2041 and we haven't perfected comfortable transport yet?" He wanted the driver to have something clever to say.
The humanoid chauffeur thought up a response that would
put him in the director-general's good graces. Not like it mattered much anyway...android robots didn't have emotions--they only did what they were programmed to do.
"Comfortable transport. Accessing."
"Pardon me?" Then Howard remembered who he was talking to. "Forget it Frankenstein. Just get us to the launch pad. I have a schedule to keep."
The robot terminated his search query to the earlier question and answered affirmatively to the latest directive.
A niggling thought chewed at Howard suddenly. "Who's your father?" he asked point blank.
"Desmond Alakart, 2032."
Shock came first, then anger. So I've got Tommy's killer's creation driving me around?
Truth be told the Old Man had used the programmer to remove Scorpion's last director-general. However, he didn't feel right to be the occupant of a vehicle driven by the perpetrator's own handiwork.
Why?
An age-old maxim from the Bible that went a little something like "avoid the appearance of evil" was reason enough. He didn't want to make it seem to any thinking person that he was in bed with conspirators to overthrow leadership at Scorpion, even if that's exactly what he was doing.
In a split second the cunning old man had leapt into the front passenger seat in an acrobatic movement they couldn't teach anywhere.
The robot automatically switched to attack mode because of the perceived threat that sat next to it now.
Too late. Howard had already popped open the driver's door via a command on the central console. Now the eighty- five year old was standing in a crouch on top of his chair, his strong fingers looped through the hand holds on the ceiling. His body coiled like a snake...ready to strike. His feet landed such a vicious chop to the side of the humanoid that there was no way the driver could stay behind the wheel of the moving vehicle.
Seconds later a metal body jettisoned out the side of the runaway personnel carrier. Howard felt the crunch in the rear suspension of his vehicle that he now commandeered. A quick glance in his rear-view mirror confirmed the road kill. He had no idea how to drive the thing though, but he figured it had autonomous features that would prevent him from wrecking before he ever got to his destination.
There was a big microphone button on his dashboard’s eyebrow-level display. It only seemed intuitive to punch it. A voice sounded in the crew compartment. "How can I help you?"
"Take me to the lift."
There was a brief pause as the software connected to servers before it came back with its reply. "It will be done."
"Why couldn't you have been my driver in the first place?" Howard smiled as he let the on-board computer take the wheel and guide him home.
--
Central Cyber Corps, Washington building: Honolulu, Hawaii
On B30, thirty floors below ground zero, Ben Cremly, the operations director over S6 for CCC (Central Cyber Corps) was rallying the troops to launch a big attack against Scorpion from the hundreds of computer terminals that were on floors B26-30.
…
The iceberg of a building had thirty floors below but only a few above. It truly was a modern marvel of human engineering, providing the best environment for hackers and programmers to work side by side, unencumbered, with relative peace of mind.
What’s the best part about being a cyber warrior for the Free Republic of North America?
For some it was the lax dress code and accepting attitude towards a disparate, diverse crowd of young people that labored in the terminals night and day. Another perk to working for CCC... the creative work spaces on almost every single level of the Washington building. These havens comboed work and play in a sensible way to mitigate the stressers that went with the high stakes, pressure cooker job description that everyone had to accept the terms and conditions of before they even made it in for an interview in the first leg of the process to becoming a six-sigma cyber warrior.
To meet its high recruiting quotas to get the cyber command center off the ground and ahead of the curve, the FRN went to great lengths to find talent wherever it existed. Recruiters went into the slums of cities, into the forests of the wild, untamed Alaskan territory, or simply the universities for the best and brightest they could entice to work for CCC.
…
It was quickly moving on 00:00 hours in the Hawaii- Aleutian Time Zone (UTC). Whereas where Operation Switchblade was about to get underway in Sector 6, the time almost stood still at 01:45:59 hours.
Half an hour earlier...
Email communication was the preferred method of contact in the republic's cyber command structure. Phones weren't banned--neither were they popular though.
One email that wound up in operations director Ben Cremly's inbox had a sender's address anybody would get excited about.
To: Ben Cremly April
25, 2041 11:15 PM
From: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected]
Subject: Operation Switchblade: Cyber Warfare Orders
Director Cremly,
I've got a new directive for you and your warriors. Assign a team to InfoSec (information security), but I want the majority of your floors tasked on Sector Six to lock and load...we're going to exploit our attack surface using the established attack vectors to bring down the electric grid in the LA metroplex. This is critical because it cripples Scorpion's air defenses against our air power that needs to avoid a war of attrition which ultimately leads to a hot LZ. This operation's success rests heavily on you and your people.
Sincerely,
Director of CCC Donald Holiday
Ben Cremly sat on the information he just read for all of .2 seconds. He shot up from his desk in such haste that his chair fell over backwards. Taking both hands, the director reached into the 3D vortex created by the holo emitters to grab the digital file that hovered in midair. The man snatched it and went through the act of literally flinging the electrons towards a printer that sat on a table ten feet away. A millisecond later a hot piece of paper exited the tray with the email he had just finished reading.
The thirty-five year old practically tripped over himself snatching up the freshly pressed communication.
It doesn't get much better than this, his young mind thought as he picked up steam for the nearest exit. He was headed towards Cyber Warfare Center 30A where he would address the cyber warriors that he had oversight over: all two hundred men and women on the lower five levels of the Washington building.
--
The Ozarks
Just when it was getting hot and heavy with the spiritual discourse, Damion changed topics on the scientist without his permission (not like he needed it anyway). He was an authority unto his own, or so that's how he had operated most of his adult life.
"What do you think is going on with FRN and Scorpion right now?"
Christophe made a show of thinking real hard before he fielded the dodgy communication. "You really know your way around hot button issues such as the state of your own soul, don't you monsieur?"
"Aw, cut it out old man!" Damion's lack of deference for his elder was more transparent than ever. "I don't give a hoot about that right now."
"But you care about FRN? This is news to me."
Damion honestly felt hurt by his friend's words. Even if there was some truth to them...or a lot of truth. In all honesty he had lived a life largely for self gain with almost zero loyalty to anyone. There were only customers and non- customers. People with money and those without.
His business footprint had one toe in the enemy's affairs meanwhile conducting business as usual with the good guys like nothing was ever wrong. He sold blueprints and schematics on cutting edge future technologies to the highest bidder. Often that would be Scorpion. The most amazing story though was his conscience. Damion became so entangled in his deals with the devil that he could no longer discern right from wrong.
"I met with the president at his lodge in Anchorage a couple days ago," the billionaire began. “Alexander trusted me, even
with his life." His voice dropped off as he actually reflected on what just came out of his own mouth. For the first time he saw the foolishness on anyone's part in putting their trust in a double-dealing, two-timing crook he lived up to be.
“It's not too late to change your stripes, young man,” Christophe gently communicated.
There was silence. Then a brief start at forming syllables on Damion's part. He cut himself off midway, however, resigning to a world without words where troubled thoughts abounded.
Christophe knew what was happening. He would be patient for when Damion was ready to come out of limbo.
Meanwhile the scientist's own thoughts were captivated by something too. It was his wife, Kathy. He missed her dearly. The scent of mangoes she liked to wear filled his senses for an unbearably long period of time. A lump formed in his throat...tear drops flooded his lower eyelids. Oh how it hurt to be separated from his wife of over thirty years.
--
Chapter 24
LA, California
Strange power outages blacked out entire sections of one of North America's largest cities. The throngs of patrons who had the lights turned off on their nightlife in the various entertainment districts throughout the city were furious. Local municipal government had no explanation for the outage. Utility trucks were out in force vainly looking for the source of the problem. What they didn't know wouldn't kill them though: it only soared above them.