by Todd McAulty
“Observing is sufficient for our needs,” Sergei said, taking the tablet from me gently. “For example, we can see that software agent has already failed to identify you from Venezuelan drone records.”
“Really?” I felt a surge of hope. “That’s great news.”
“Is minor victory only,” Sergei said. “Very soon, agent will expand search. It will request access to commercial surveillance data, such as data for this hotel.”
Sergei handed the tablet back to me. He’d opened another window.
He had already tapped into the surveillance data for the hotel. He’d collected about a dozen different images of me, walking through the halls, talking with the concierge, even eating breakfast. These were of much higher resolution than the high-altitude images from the surveillance drones. With the touch of a button, Sergei instructed a software agent to compare those images to a looping screen capture of my walk down the ramp at the museum.
Within seconds the agent had highlighted my jacket, shoes, fingernail length, and other matching characteristics. It summarized its findings with:
97.6% match
“I accessed only hotel records from last twenty-four hours,” Sergei said. “And used very simple software. Venezuelans will be much more thorough. Once high command accesses hotel data, they will identify you.”
“Can you delete me from the hotel records?”
“Nyet. But hotel camera data, deleted automatically after five days. If we destroy jacket and shoes, and delay search algorithm for four days, we can prevent algorithm from using hotel data to find you.”
I looked at the blinking number on the screen, then set the tablet back on the table, as calmly as I could.
“I would be delighted to entertain your suggestion,” I said.
“High command search algorithm is very stupid. Once it finds match, algorithm will cease.”
Sergei seemed to have a different definition of stupid than the one I was used to. “So it stops looking after it finds me. How does that help me?”
“We make certain algorithm finds you, before it searches hotel.”
I nodded, mostly to prevent myself from punching him in the face. “You’re going to have to elaborate on that a little.”
Sergei reached under the desk. He pulled a battered metal case into his lap.
“You are seen by surveillance drones, far from hotel. Tonight. And you wear this.” Sergei cracked open the case. Just a few inches, but enough for me to glimpse what was inside.
I stared at it, and then at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Da,” he said.
“Sergei, that is—”
I shut up. Two armed soldiers walked past us, deep in conversation. I held my tongue until they were gone. When I glanced at Sergei, he had sealed the box and was resting his arm on it, calm and unflustered as always.
“—that is suicide,” I hissed.
“No,” said Sergei. He opened the box again, wider this time.
Inside was a battered American flag. It had been many years since I’d seen one in Illinois. This one had seen better days and was worn and frayed in several places, but there was no mistaking it.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Souvenir.”
“From what?”
“From site where American fighters attempted to sabotage pumping station. Four months ago. Fighters abandoned attempt and retreated, but left this flying on pole. You must be seen in public again. Tonight, with this.”
“Sergei . . . there aren’t any American rebel fighters left in Chicago. The only ones still shooting at the Venezuelans are the loony American Union.”
“Yes. Union would be better,” Sergei admitted with a shrug. “But I do not have Union flag.”
“If I’m caught carrying this, every media channel in the disputed territories will go nuts.”
“Yes,” said Sergei. “Now you understand.”
“Sergei, you’re talking about—”
“Misdirection.”
For the first time, I realized what he was getting at. A civilian war criminal was an embarrassment, an oddity. But if the mystery man in the video appeared again, this time garbed as an American rebel . . . it would clarify the whole thing. It was a story that made sense. A fantastic and unexpected story, yes, but one that would certainly eclipse today’s bizarre narrative of an idiotic civilian martyr.
Sergei was right. The reappearance of American rebels would have the Venezuelans crawling all over the map, tightening up the border crossings, searching the old camps, looking in the wrong places. And meanwhile, they wouldn’t be looking for a Canadian, and certainly not one in plain sight in a luxury hotel.
“How can I make an appearance for the drones, and make sure they don’t actually identify me?”
“That is tricky,” Sergei admitted. “We must provide drone enough for high-probability match with museum intruder, but not enough for positive ID. You still have clothes from museum?”
“Sure.”
“And towel?”
“No—I threw it away.”
Sergei shrugged. “No matter. As I said, search algorithm is stupid. Easy to predict how much we need to give for match. Jacket, shoes, socks, shirt—should be enough. We will shield your face.”
“So what you’re talking about is having me make an appearance far away from the hotel, somewhere the drones are sure to spot me. I carry the flag, act like an American rebel. Then I get the hell out of there.”
“Da.”
“The Venezuelans shift their search from central Chicago to the border, and start looking for American fighters instead of a civilian. By the time they get back to searching hotel records, all images of me that could provide a match will have been deleted.”
“Da.”
“Okay.” I breathed out slowly. “That could work, if it’s convincing enough. There are a few things we need to work out, though. For example, handling the drones after they spot me. Once they make a match, they come for blood. I’ve seen those things in action—they can kill.”
“You still have device?”
“The drone-jamming thing? Yeah. You think it could still work after they’ve spotted me?”
“If it functions how I believe it does, yes.”
“That’s reassuring. Second, where do we do this? How do I act like an American rebel, exactly? I’d really prefer to only have to do this once, so it has to be convincing.”
“Da. I have been thinking about this.”
Sergei brought up an image of the Sturgeon Building on his tablet. I recognized it immediately. If his map was correct, it was nearly twenty blocks away, a significant hike.
“You know what this is?” asked Sergei.
“Yes. Everyone knows what that is. It’s the Chicago headquarters of Venezuelan Military Intelligence. When people go in, they don’t come out again. Parents use pictures of this building to frighten children.”
“This is best target,” said Sergei.
“You’re crazy.”
“Geographically, is perfect.”
“Says the guy who’s not going to have to hike twenty blocks in the dark to get there.”
“Even a close approach to Sturgeon Building by an American rebel will be newsworthy. There is no need for you to penetrate offices.” He played with the image on his tablet and then turned it toward me to show me a close-up of the roof.
“You fly flag from roof of building,” he said.
I didn’t say anything for a moment. That would be a pretty gutsy statement. The flag would probably be spotted and removed in a matter of minutes, but that was irrelevant. It’s exactly the kind of stunt the Americans had done in the last few months of the war. Courageous raids against impossible odds, dramatic statements just like this one.
I took the tablet, stared at it thoughtfully. “You can guide me into the building, make sure I avoid the guards, same as the museum?”
“Nyet. I have no remote access. Sturgeon Building, totally sec
ure.”
“Do you have friends on the inside who could assist us?”
“Nyet.”
“Have you ever been inside? You have blueprints, anything?”
“Nyet.”
I put the tablet down. “Forget it. This is suicide.”
Sergei was unperturbed. “Is best plan.”
“It isn’t a plan at all! I’m not walking up to that building with my face wrapped up like a bank robber. I’ll be shot before I get within a hundred yards. And even if I got inside . . .” My head filled with images from the Canadian press, stories told about the cruel crackdown on dissidents in the first few months of the occupation. The conjecture about what happened to those who were taken to the Sturgeon Building. Conjecture, because no one in the Canadian press could find an American who’d come out of the building alive. “And even if I get inside, I’ll never get out again.”
Sergei pulled a small black notebook out of his desk. Not a tablet or device, but an actual book. He handed it to me.
It was filled with tiny, neat handwriting. I flipped through a few pages. All the entries were dated and written in black pen, in Sergei’s neat script.
“What is this?”
“February twenty-seventh,” he said simply.
That was scarcely two weeks ago. I found the entry for February 27th. Sergei’s tiny script was in English.
Sergei spoke so softly now that I had to strain to hear him. “Simple precaution. When keeping personal log as AGRT duty officer, is best not to use digital storage.”
I scanned the entry quickly. On the afternoon of February 27th, Sergei’s team had treated two AGRT contractors, both Cuban nationals. The contractors had attempted to make an unscheduled delivery to a Venezuelan office in the occupied zone. Sergei’s log noted that both men had a blood alcohol level above 0.10.
I read the full report, more carefully this time. Then I looked at Sergei. “Is this true?”
Sergei didn’t bother asking which part. He simply said, “Da.”
“You’re sure?”
“My office corroborated report.”
“Let me make sure I understand. Two contractors were late delivering documents to the Sturgeon Building, tried to enter the wrong door, triggered some kind of alarm, and . . . what? Made a drunken run for it?”
“Da.”
I tapped the notebook. “This says there were no guards on duty.”
Sergei nodded. “Correct. From nine p.m. until five a.m. every day, Venezuelan Military Intelligence locks down all access to Sturgeon Building. Outer perimeter is patrolled entirely by drone fleet.”
“So drones shot them?”
“Da.”
“But there must be cameras, soldiers, watching from the inside.”
“February twenty-seventh incident was not reported to internal security for twenty-two minutes. There was substantial blood loss before guards arrived to investigate and assist contractors. One contractor very nearly died.”
I read the report one more time. “So there’s no one watching the approach to the Sturgeon Building. No one but drones.”
“Da.”
“And if I use the drone jammer, the drones can’t see me. I can make it all the way to the lobby undetected.”
“Da.”
“And if I can get to the lobby, you think I can get to the roof?”
“There is direct access to roof from lobby. Perhaps one minute in elevator.”
“And what about military intelligence? Won’t the building be crawling with soldiers?”
“No. Building has skeleton staff only. Majority of soldiers dispatched to Indiana, to deal with situation in Columbus.”
I thought it over. Thought about the long, exposed walk from the front door through the lobby, to the elevators. One minute to the roof, maybe five minutes to fix the flag. Then turn off the jammer, wave to the drones, make sure they positively ID me as the Field Museum bandit. Turn the jammer back on, and then get the hell out of there. Say twelve to fifteen minutes in the building, tops.
It could be done, I realized.
“Okay,” I said at last. “I concede it’s possible. I need a way to get past the lobby guards, maybe some plausible reason to be there, and I need to make sure I’m long gone before the drones alert security. We need a few days to plan this, Sergei. At least one night to watch the movement of the guards in the lobby, look for weaknesses. And it wouldn’t hurt to learn everything we can about the drones around the building, look for patterns—”
Sergei pulled a lab timer out of a drawer. He punched some buttons, then tossed it at me.
I caught it before it hit me in the chest. It read 17:59:53. While I watched, it ticked off the seconds to 17:59:51.
“That is how long we have until search algorithm digests surveillance data and turns to civilian sources. Very shortly thereafter, you will be found and shot.”
“Jesus Christ, Sergei.”
“Unless you have better suggestion, we need to put flag on roof of Sturgeon Building in next nine hours.”
I spent the next few minutes in silence, racking my brain. But I had nothing. Nothing that was half so certain to work. The only thing that came to me was a memory of Sergeant Gunther, my drill sergeant during the three summers of officer training at CFB Borden in southern Ontario. Gunther had us working in teams, tackling impossible problems with limited resources and learning to lead.
“Courage and smarts, these are cheap,” Gunther used to tell us. “But on this range, the key to success is audacity. Show me audacity, gentlemen. Let me see it.”
Audacity. I’d always liked Sergeant Gunther.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s do it. You have a plan to get me to the roof?”
“No.” Then Sergei smiled. “But I will soon.”
XIII
Saturday, March 13th, 2083
Posted 10:54 pm by Barry Simcoe
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“What’s the count?”
There was no answer. I trudged through dark streets in silence.
“Sergei, what’s the count?”
“You should be quiet,” Sergei said. “If drones record your voice, could be used for positive ID.”
“Come on, Sergei. Humor me. What’s the count?”
Sergei sighed. I heard him stretch as he reached for the lab clock.
“Seven hours, twenty-nine minutes,” he said.
“That’s impossible. It was over nine hours, last time you checked. And that was, what, half an hour ago?”
“I have updated time to reflect current progress of algorithm. It is more efficient than I expected.”
“Venezuelan piece of shit,” I muttered, cursing the algorithm. “You need to keep me updated on this stuff, Sergei. Don’t hide it from me.”
“Agreed. How close are you?”
I glanced up at the Sturgeon Building. It was at least fifty stories tall, and it towered over its nearest neighbors in the skyline. That wasn’t the only reason it stuck out—it was also the only building with power for two blocks. Architecturally it was different as well. It was very thin, and thrust into the night sky like a shining blade. The buildings nearest to it had been demolished, probably for security reasons, and the combined effect made it look like a brilliant beacon of civilization in a strange, dark, postapocalyptic cityscape.
“About half a block,” I said.
“Quiet now,” Sergei said, and I shut up.
I walked the last two hundred yards to the Sturgeon Building, with the crowbar on my shoulder and my pack bouncing on my back. It was very dark, and there were entirely too many shapes looming in the darkness on all sides, but it seemed that Sergei’s information was correct. Venezuelan Military Intelligence depended entirely on drones for external security. There were no soldiers anywhere in sight. I kept expecting a command
ing voice to call out “Halt!” from a shadow-filled alley, but it never happened.
I was wearing what I had come to think of as my American terrorist outfit: everything I had on when I was captured on-camera at the Field Museum, plus a cap, a scarf over my face, the backpack, and a pair of commercial night-vision goggles Sergei had given me.
Not for the first time tonight, I wished Black Winter were with me. This undertaking would be far less daunting with him at my side. But I hadn’t spoken to him since the night we found Croaker and he’d had that alarming moment of semiconsciousness. And even if we had spoken, it would have been foolhardy to include him. The fewer who knew about my transgressions tonight, the better. Black Winter had sent me a brief handwritten note this morning, asking if I was free for breakfast Tuesday. I’d written back that I would be delighted. I just hoped I wouldn’t be having breakfast with Venezuelan intelligence officers instead.
Although most of the Sturgeon Building was well lit, the bottom few floors were unexpectedly dark. Even the lobby was darker than I expected. A few office lights broke up the gloom on the fifth and seventh floors, but the lowest floor to be fully lit was the eleventh. Below that, it looked like every other abandoned building in Chicago. Dark and deserted.
Except, that is, for the concrete barricades blocking the road, funneling traffic down side streets and preventing vehicles from getting closer than about a hundred and fifty yards. I crossed the street, threading my way around the barricades, a scant sixty yards from the building. Perhaps it was all of Sergei’s talk about drones giving me a hyperactive imagination, but as I was gazing up at the stark image of the Sturgeon Building against a backdrop of moonlit clouds, I thought I could make out aerial drones around the roof. A surprising number of them, in fact, though most only became visible for a fraction of a second as they passed in front of a bright filament of cloud or hovered close to one of the brightly lit comm towers jutting out of the roof.
They didn’t seem to have noticed me; at least, not yet. The jammer device was still working. But all the same, it was probably good advice to keep the conversation to a minimum from here on in. I adjusted the scarf around my face for the hundredth time, and loosened up the night-vision goggles. They may have shielded me from prying eyes, but after wearing them for almost two hours, I was itching like crazy.