The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2)

by Updegrove, Andrew

  He started scribbling on a piece of paper.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m writing down a random sequence of log-on times that won’t be predictable. That way there’ll be less of a chance he’ll notice that one of my games is always at the top of the hour.”

  He logged on and upped the score by 100 points. Two minutes later, Zomboy out-scored him by 100 points as well.

  He pointed at the screen. Marla peered over his shoulder again and shrugged.

  “So what? That means he doesn’t know what’s going on, or he would have run the score up, right? Or maybe he’s just a gamer yanking your chain.”

  “Maybe. But it still means that every time we both play, it‘ll push the score up by another 200 points. And it gives his team another chance to monitor the action and figure out what’s happening.”

  She couldn’t think of anything else that might be soothing. Frank returned to staring at the screen and drumming his fingers on the desk. At 4:49 he triggered another sequence, and the game threshold crept up another 100 points towards the robot’s rapidly approaching upward limit. Zomboy immediately topped him by the same amount.

  Precisely at 5:00, Frank logged in and successfully claimed the next hour of control. The scoreboard would clear at 6:00, but he planned to play twice more before then to keep the opposition guessing. The robot only had 350 points of skill left, so that meant he was in danger of losing control as soon as the board cleared if Zomboy wanted to show off.

  But what else could he do? The answer seemed to be nothing, and the tension was beginning to wear on him. He checked in with George before playing his next camouflage round (no new news) and with Marty after he did to tell him to stay out of the game site (“Two years! But that’s it! That’s absolutely my last and final offer! Two years!”)

  He had saved the last game within the robot’s capability for 5:55, leaving the shortest interval so far between two rounds. He watched with grim attention as Zomboy topped his score by 100 – and the robot’s upward limit by 50.

  He felt numb. The election was on his shoulders alone now. Too late, far too late, he mourned his wasted youth. He should have spent it playing video games.

  * * *

  49

  Now is the Time for All Good Gamers to Come to the Aid of Their Country

  Frank was once again staring at the clock in the corner of his computer screen, one finger poised above the start key on the robot program. His heart was pounding, because he had decided to wait a minute after the top of the hour to keep the opposition in the dark. But what if the hacker had already guessed and intended to pick up the score where he had left off?

  After fifty seconds his anxiety got the best of him and he stabbed the key. He let the score run up into the fourth level and then, holding his breath, terminated the game and sent the signal. With an enormous feeling of relief, he saw the robot register a top score on the screen. Then he waited.

  And waited. But this time Zomboy failed to appear. At 6:30 Zomboy still hadn’t posted a score. Had his low score puzzled whoever was toying with him? He decided to take no chances, and continued to nudge his score up at random times and point intervals.

  He turned to Marla. “This is driving me crazy.”

  “You mean, everything going fine?”

  “Okay, you’re right. But the suspense is still driving me crazy.”

  “Let’s watch the news then. It’ll keep your mind occupied.” She flipped the TV to the liberal cable news station, where one of the evening political show hosts was speaking to a reporter in the field.

  So it sounds like this new technology we were all talking about isn’t doing so well, is that right?

  That’s right, Leah. There seems to be some sort of bug affecting all of the voting apps out there. And it doesn’t seem to matter what phone someone’s using, either.

  Does that mean everyone is voting the old fashioned way again this election?

  No, and that’s the funny thing. Some people step up to a voting station and everything works fine, but others tap away and nothing seems to happen.

  But Frank was hardly listening, keeping an eye on his laptop instead. With a sudden spasm, he cried, “He’s back!”

  He looked at the time: it was 6:55, and Zomboy had just logged in with a score 1,000 points above the robot’s range! Either Zomboy was on to Frank, or he’d simply tired of playing cat and mouse.

  Frank started sweating. “This is it, Marla. If I don’t beat that score, it’s all over. Dammit, why didn’t I write an artificial intelligence program that would learn the game faster!”

  “You told me you didn’t have near enough time to do that!”

  “Yes, but I could have tried!” He logged on using the robot’s player ID and settled the virtual reality helmet on his head.

  Sitting now in total silence, he settled back in his chair and tried to clear his mind of everything except the perfect trajectory attainable by a virtual Holstein. He had to loosen up. Become unaware of every sensation outside the helmet.

  He focused on the rippling, red lights of the game’s welcome screen trembling before him. Gradually, they gave way to the opening image of a herd of cattle. He imagined himself pacing warily forward, swinging one foot deliberately ahead of the other, arms akimbo, hands poised above imaginary, holstered Colt 45s. Like Wyatt Earp, approaching the OK Corral.

  Outside the infinite black depths of the virtual reality helmet, Marla watched her father anxiously: at first he seemed stiff, and raised his elbows out to a peculiar angle on each side. But then his shoulders eased, his arms dropped to his sides, and his hands began opening and closing, forming fists and then stretching each finger out as far as possible. Was he okay? Was he trying to loosen up, or having some sort of seizure?

  She watched the clock anxiously. Did he know what time it was? She didn’t want to disturb him, but the clock on his laptop said that it was only thirty seconds before 7:00.

  Just then, his arms began to rise slowly from his sides, until they were almost vertical. Entranced, she watched as the fingers bent forward until they were at right angles to his hands, extending like the talons of an eagle. Then she watched as they descended slowly to the game controller in his lap, like the expressive hands of E. Power Biggs majestically approaching the keys of a mighty cathedral’s pipe organ.

  When they reached his lap, his hands enveloped the game controller, fingers precisely positioned on the controls. Exactly at 7:00, his index finger touched the start button, and the game was on.

  Instantly, Frank was engulfed in a swirl of sight and sound. From the left, the Indians entered the field of battle. From the right, the heads of the Cavalry rose above the palisade walls of the fort, jeering like silly French persons in a Monty Python vignette. Yelling and screaming, the Indians stampeded the cattle amid a cacophonous storm of sights and sounds.

  In the world Frank now inhabited, the tiny, blocky game figures visible on a mobile phone had been transformed into enormous Lego-like creatures with unworldly, pixelated faces that stared blindly toward him, mouths gaping and shutting like zombies.

  Some had what looked like stakes jutting up behind their heads, only barely recognizable at this scale as feathers identifying the Native Americans. When several grabbed one of the hapless cows, its struggling legs rotated like pinwheels of pulsing squares of light. As it was catapulted towards the fort, his helmet magnified the tiny moo! designed for mobile phone use into the sort of reverberating, existential cry of despair that Edvard Munch must have imagined as he created The Scream.

  But Frank was ready. He had become One with The Machine.

  Marla watched in fascination as her father’s fingers cradled the game controller in his lap, alternately caressing or stabbing the buttons and joy stick as the moment required. Unbeknownst to her, he was imagining he was
floating invisibly above the prairie scene as the battle unfolded. No longer Wyatt Earp, he had become a mighty Manitou, helping his people achieve justice and avenge themselves for the White Man’s unforgiveable crimes.

  He pressed the attack mercilessly, through round after round of play, gleeful each time the fort disintegrated before his assault. Poor fools! The Cavalry always tried desperately to restore their defenses, but no matter! As quickly as they rebuilt a wall, he destroyed it again. He felt the rising joy of his people, saw them raise their Lincoln Log-like arms, heard them whoop with joy. His strength and theirs was as the strength of thousands, because their cause was just.

  And then, a cow sailed just over the fort. What had happened? Horrified, he watched the scene before him shimmer and then disappear. Suddenly, all was silent and dark.

  With a jolt, he returned to the real world.

  Trembling, he took off the helmet and pressed the button that would report his score. He had edged Zomboy’s last score, but only barely.

  “Here,” Marla said at his side, concern evident in her voice. “Drink some water.”

  He did as he was told, but his eyes remained fixed on the screen of his laptop.

  “You did it Dad! You beat him!”

  “No, Marla,” he said, his voice exhausted and quavering.

  “What do you mean! You just bought another hour! And the voting on the East Coast will be over when the game scores clear!”

  “But that leaves all the voting districts in all the other states still open. I gave that game everything I had. I’ve got nothing left. I can’t possibly score any higher than I just did.”

  He leaned back, shaking.

  “It’s all over.”

  She put her arms around his shoulders. “You can’t know that! So many people have already voted! Maybe you’ve already won! Maybe it doesn’t matter how many more votes are switched!”

  He shook his head.

  “No. There are just too many votes left. California has over 10% of the electoral votes all by itself. Most people there probably haven’t even voted yet.”

  She felt terrible for her father; his life had revolved around this contest for the past year. Everything now seemed to be dissolving in front of him.

  “Is there anything I can do? Can I get you anything? The first election returns should be coming in soon – we can watch them together.”

  “I can’t do that. I couldn’t bear to see the numbers come up on the screen, knowing they were manipulated. Look!!”

  She jumped as his arm shot out, index finger extended and trembling. “Look! Look! He just hit the ninth level! He annihilated me! He’s telling me he knows exactly what I was doing, and that the game’s over. Now there’s nothing to stop him from stealing the election!”

  Marla tried to hug him, but he pushed her arms away and stood up. “I need to get some air.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “No, I need some time alone. I’ll probably be awhile, and anyway, it’s getting cold outside.”

  “What about the election?”

  “What about it?”

  “Dad!”

  He picked up his coat. “Well, okay. If you want to go through the motions, push this button exactly at 8:00 when the scoreboard resets. Let the robot run through five levels and then push this button, and then that one. Maybe he hasn’t figured the timing part out yet. But after that, it’s no use – I won’t be able to beat him at 9:00, and that still leaves an hour of Mountain Time, and two hours of Pacific Time. Like I said, it’s over.”

  He pulled his coat on, and stepped outside. Overhead, a crescent moon flickered through the black branches thrashing in the wind. He shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged up the long dirt track that ran from the cottage to the main road. Behind him, waves crashed on the granite ledges that ran up to the bayberry and tamarack edging the yard of the cottage, sending wind-borne spray splattering on his back like rain.

  From the window of the camper, Marla watched as his silhouette glided across the lawn, and then disappeared from the knees down as he crossed the meadow beyond. Finally, his outline dissolved into nothingness as it entered the shadows of the forest.

  * * *

  Hundreds of miles away, Zomboy was exultant. It had been cruel fun toying with his adversary before putting him away for good. What a fool – this was Zomboy’s game, and nobody was going to beat him when he was ready to make his move.

  He savored the moment when he ran out his score. His recent setback had been galling, but it hadn’t held him back forever. He’d waited for months for this day to come, and victory was just as sweet as he had hoped. By tomorrow everybody in the world who knew of this battle of wits would know who had won.

  He heard a rap on the door behind him.

  “Zack?”

  He ignored the sound, but the rap came again.

  “Zack?”

  Damn it all, he knew they wouldn’t give up. He gave a grudging “Yeah?”

  “Zack, are you doing your homework?”

  He crossed his arms and said nothing.

  “Zack, you’ve only had your gaming privileges back for one day. If you don’t want to lose them for another three months, you’d better open this door right now!”

  His mother stared at the door, but still there was silence. She rapped again.

  The lock clicked and the door opened.

  “Give it to me.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “You know you have to! Now hand it over.”

  Slumping from the weight of all the burdens of the world descending upon his thin, adolescent shoulders, he took his time walking over to his bed, unplugged the game controller from his laptop, and handed it to his mother.

  “Good boy! Now you come work at the kitchen table where I can see you.”

  With a single, decisive exercise of parental determination, the presidential election had been saved.

  * * *

  Marla was watching the first returns from the last states to finish voting when she heard the door open behind her.

  “I’m sorry I left you alone so long. But I couldn’t help it. I had to get out of here until the polls closed.”

  He took his coat off and was about to throw it on the bed when he caught himself. He hung it up in the small closet instead, and then moved into the kitchen area. He didn’t often drink anything stronger than beer or wine, but he recalled seeing an unopened bottle of scotch among the random provisions included in his Care package.

  “Can I pour you a scotch?”

  “No thanks, Dad.”

  He shuffled in, sat down in his desk chair and took a sip. “So I guess now we find out. We may not know who the hacker is, but at least we’ll know who they were working for. Have they called the winner yet?”

  “I thought you said it didn’t matter?”

  He sighed. “Of course it matters. It just matters in a different way now.”

  “Don’t you want to know Zomboy’s highest score for the evening first?”

  “Not really. If you want to tell me, go ahead.”

  She gave him the score, and he took another, deeper sip of his scotch. He looked up at the screen, where the first numbers were starting to flash on the screen. Yazzie was leading, but only 8% of the precincts in California had reported in so far. Most of the other western states hadn’t returned any results at all yet.

  Then he put his glass carefully down on his desk, fingers trembling.

  “Wait a minute, that was his high score before 8:00. What was his last score?”

  She gave the same number again.

  He picked up his glass and emptied it in one gulp before grabbing her shoulders.

  “You mean that was his last game?”

 
“That was his last game. He never came back.”

  His face turned white as he stared wide-eyed into her face, still clutching her shoulders. “Please God tell me you triggered the robot every hour after I left!”

  “Of course I did,” she said softly, as she drew him in and gave him a hug. “You see? Everything turned out all right.”

  * * *

  50

  Many Happy Returns

  Back in Washington, Frank had some explaining to do. When he finally got around to listening to his voicemail, he found a series of unrequited messages that escalated rapidly from chiding through anxiety to barely suppressed rage before, thankfully, his voicemail box was full. Authors, he learned, were not expected to disappear the day before their books were released.

  There was no avoiding his publicity duties now, so the day after his return to Washington he dropped by his co-author’s apartment, where he received a warm greeting.

  “Hey man! Great to see you! And how about those book sales, huh? We got ourselves a best seller! Just like I said we would! High five!”

  “Well, you get all the credit. Other than providing the facts, I didn’t add much.”

  “Ah, don’t sell yourself short. Without a story, you got no book, right?”

  “I guess. But still.”

  “Whatever. The important thing is that we got ourselves a hit. And hey, I’m really glad you were okay with my final edits. I think they made a really big difference.”

  “What final edits?”

  “You know, the ones I sent you a few weeks before the launch date. The ones the publisher insisted on. I sent them off to you and never heard back, so I figured you were okay with them.”

  Frank had paid no more attention to Dan’s email than his publisher’s after the first draft of the manuscript was in the can.

  “Yeah, I’m sure I got them. But I got really busy on other things. How many changes were there?”