by Leslie Wolfe
Dunwood went to the cart and came back with binoculars. "Here, this will help."
Through binoculars, the bunker was visible in detail. Nothing more than a prefab concrete cube, set on the ground, marked with lettering in white paint.
"What's the lettering for? What does it mean?" Alex asked.
"It doesn't mean anything, per se; it's an identifier," Dunwood said. "Drones acquire targets in multiple ways. One way is to preload images of the target object or site into the self-guiding software, and then send the drone searching for targets. In this case, the target image has to be distinctive enough to allow the drone to differentiate clearly between the intended target and other buildings that are not to be harmed, such as those." Dunwood pointed toward a set of bunkers, to the left of the target bunker. These bunkers had different lettering on them, but it was a similar font, color, and letter size.
"Why are there doors to these bunkers?"
"They are reinforced doors, able to withstand the blast just as well as the concrete walls do. We set measurement equipment in there, devices that capture and analyze the force of the impact when the missile strikes, so we can perfect out approach techniques. The same type of structure is being used to design anti-missile defense systems."
The drone was roaring above their heads. It was large, carrying multiple Hellfire missiles. It circled the area for a few seconds, identified the ground target with unbelievable precision and released the missile without any delay. The missile took out the bunker in a deafening explosion, throwing debris and dust high in the sky. By the time the dust cleared, the drone had already left the area, scouting farther away for new targets to hit.
"Wow," Alex said, numbed by the shock of the explosion. Even from this safe distance, she felt the shockwave in her chest and stomach. "It didn't take much, did it?"
"Nope, they are incredible weapons, taking significantly less time and hesitation than any human-operated aircraft."
"Well, weren't these human-operated from the ground?" Alex asked.
"Not this one. This drone is in testing for self-guidance and targeting. It's the software that's been causing us a bit of trouble lately, if you remember our last meeting."
"Yes, I do remember, and my team is also looking into the software on our end. I thought that regardless of human or self-guidance, no drone could possibly release a missile without human intervention. And this happened so fast, no human could have had the time to validate the target and approve the launch."
"Good observation," Dunwood said, "but this is a forward-thinking research-and-development environment, and we test and break boundaries every single day. No drone in service today can launch a missile without human intervention; that is correct. There are safeguards put in place to ensure exactly that. Maybe in the near future, we'll be able to achieve automatic, precise, yet safe missile launches. Today, we're not there yet, but we are developing technologies for that future. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?"
...70
...Tuesday, July 13, 9:28PM
...Alex Hoffmann's Residence
...Carmel Valley, San Diego, California
Still processing the vast amount of information she had gained while touring the NanoLance plant in Alpine, Alex was slowly going about her normal evening rituals. These rituals encompassed checking the cloned emails, her own work email, logging in remotely to check on her work systems and servers.
She took the clone laptop in the quiet, now almost dark, backyard and powered it up. It took a few minutes to download from the network the numerous emails she needed to check, but among the first one that caught her eye was yet another intriguing email from Walker to Prescott.
From: Benjamin Walker (COO)
To: Angela Prescott (VP HR)
Subject: Request
Sent: Tuesday, July 13, 3:17PM
Angela,
I would love to watch the news, or read something or other in a newspaper, but there's nothing out there of any interest for me to watch or read, now, is there?
I wonder why that is . . .
Thanks,
Ben
The weirdest thing about Walker, she thought. He was obviously involved with Angela. Alex had almost believed they had a romantic involvement, but what she had witnessed in that conference room was anything but romance. Nevertheless, they were involved somehow outside work. Still, he sent her such emails on the work email account. Was that a proof that nothing was wrong about that email? Or that Walker was just becoming careless? Was that email a solicitation of media pressure of sorts? Or quite the opposite? Asking Angela to work her magic and get favorable media coverage for them? They definitely need it, she thought, remembering how low the stock was trading these days. However, if this was a positive call for action, why be so cryptic about it? Something was definitely off about that email.
She took her private cell phone out of her pocket. Before calling anyone, she looked at the time and grunted. 10:12PM. Too late to make calls, but Steve would understand. She found herself cheering up at the thought of hearing his voice.
Two short rings, then voicemail. Damn it! She still wanted to get someone's opinion about this, and fast. In seconds, she printed a copy of the email, grabbed her wallet, and left.
...71
...Tuesday, July 13, 11:46PM
...Tom Isaac's Residence
...Laguna Beach, California
She quietly approached the house, engine idling, and low beams off. She didn't even pull into the driveway, afraid she'd wake them up. She took the printed email, scribbled on the back "What do you think?" and walked toward the front door. She was crouching to slide the paper under the door, when nearby she heard a cat purr. She turned left and looked for the source of the sound.
"Good evening," Tom said.
She gasped. "You scared me to death," she said, standing.
"I scared you? I was sitting here, on my lawn, drinking my tea, petting my cat, when you came around behaving like a burglar. You scared me!"
Alex laughed. "OK, I guess we're even, then."
"What brings you here in the dead of the night?"
"This," Alex said, handing him the paper.
"It's too dark to read, what's in it?"
"Hold on, I've got a flashlight." Alex went to the car and returned with a small light. "I need your first impression of the message, not through my conveyed version of it. Here you go."
Tom read the email message in the flashlight's dim beam.
"I see," he said, "interesting."
"What do you think?" Alex asked. "Is this foul play? It reeks of foul play to me, but why would he take this risk and send this by email, rather than tell her?"
"He is getting high on the fumes of power," Tom said. "People like him cannot conceive that they could be less than perfect, or that someone could not be awed by their power and charisma. They are the sociopathic narcissists, those who combine the total absence of conscience with absolute conviction they are God's greatest gift to humankind. It's an intoxicating combination, likely to lead him to make mistakes."
"So, do you think my gut was right to make me drive all the way here?"
"Definitely. This is not a benign email message. This email demands action and is riddled with poisonous sarcasm, the type of sarcasm someone like that would reserve for those who have deeply disappointed him. This email is manipulative and punitive, and at the same time, demands immediate action."
"What should we expect?"
"I would expect a seriously negative media exposure incident. Whether a TV newscast, a press article, or who knows what other media vehicle they might choose, this exposure will probably take place within two days," Tom said, hitting the page with a finger. The noise made Little Tom open his eyes for a minute or so, while silence fell in the dark garden.
"What should I do?" Alex asked, in a whisper.
"I think the time has come to cut Dr. Barnaby's losses. We need to move in for the kill. We need to close this case in the next forty-eight
hours." Tom's hand was stroking Little Tom's back, causing his legs to stretch with every motion. His purrs were louder than their voices.
"Are we ready? Do we have enough?"
"Well, get what more you can in the next couple of days, then that's it. Be more visible in your inquiries, start making some noise. Ask uncomfortable questions, scare them a bit."
"Won't that get me in trouble?" Alex asked.
"Not if you're careful. Plus, we'll have your back."
She looked in his eyes, with a flicker of doubt.
"This time I really mean it," Tom said. "You know, I'm also smart enough to be able to learn from my own mistakes." He smiled sadly. He had beaten himself up numerous times about the error in judgment that caused him to abandon Alex in jail. He was determined to never let it happen again. Not ever. Alex read that determination in his eyes, although he didn't speak a word.
"But what's the benefit of making noise and raising potential questions?" Alex asked. She was missing Tom's strategy, could not grasp his thinking.
"Well, for some of these executives, we have enough incriminating evidence to recommend termination of employment and maybe even involve the authorities. The final call belongs to the client, because such court cases can tarnish the company name and public image. That's an aspect we need to manage carefully. As we move on to address the ones we can, those who know they did something wrong will start fearing exposure and will disappear on their own. Or they will make an incredibly stupid mistake."
"We're betting on scaring them off?" Alex asked. "It doesn't seem like a foolproof method to pull all the bad ones out of this mix."
"You're thinking like an honest person again," Tom smiled. "What if you were one of these crooks? What if you saw all, or most of, your partners in crime eliminated from the company, and you'd never be able to hear from them again? Wouldn't that scare you just a little bit?"
"More than just a little bit, I get it. You're right, this might work out just fine," Alex said. "Then we should be done and wrapped up in two days. I'll need your help figuring out my exit strategy, so we don't raise suspicions and cause the client any issues. I only wish I could find out which one of these bastards set me up."
...72
...Wednesday, July 14, 10:06PM
...NanoLance HQ—Information Technology Floor
...San Diego, California
Louie liked testing software—testing the limits of software, understanding how a particular piece of software can interact with other pieces of software—leading to new results for him to discover.
He had started playing with the self-guidance software a while ago, forgetting about time, dinner, and his favorite TV show. He had validated several modules of the software, exploring the configuration settings, and the simulated functioning. So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary. He took another sip of cold coffee from his giant travel mug, and then moved on to the next module—target acquisition.
Based on image recognition, target acquisition was a simple module. If the drone captured an image that matched a preexisting, preloaded image from its library of targets, the drone would acquire the target and ask ground control for permission to fire. Curious to see who had most recently made Homeland Security's shit list, he started browsing through the images. A number of well-known terrorist figures paraded in sequence, some he recognized, some he didn't, but they all looked equally dangerous.
As he was quickly browsing through a relatively vast collection of images, comprising residences, hiding places, vehicles, helicopters, and wives of wanted terrorists and enemy leaders, his eye caught an image of the front view of a Toyota 4Runner with California plates.
"What the fuck?" All his weariness disappeared in a second. He clicked the mouse again, and the next image displayed. It was a close-up head shot of Alex Hoffmann, his boss.
He froze for a minute, thinking. No other target images involved any targets on American soil. Foreign soil only, in countries unfriendly to the United States, faces of known terrorists. He paced the room for a few times, nervously examining options. Who would want Hoffmann killed?
He tried to access the image upload details. The images of Alex and her car had been uploaded on July 8, at 6:57AM, by Dustin Sheppard.
"Uh-oh . . . That's strange, he's never here that early," he muttered. "Well, maybe he would be, if he was planning to do this . . ."
He felt a chill down his spine. The self-guiding software's library of images and general settings were common to all drones in operation. He suddenly realized that this image was on every drone, distributed by the central system. He tried to remove Alex's image. The screen prompted him to enter a username and password. Hesitating a split second, as he knew he was about to leave a trail of his actions, he entered his credentials, but the system rejected them. Insufficient authority level. Authority level needed: L1.
He started thinking who could help with this. There were only a few L1s in the company. Only Barnaby was above them, as L0, but grapevine had it that Barnaby was semi-retired already, not caring about much of the business anymore. HR? Definitely not. Cops? He thought of what his top secret clearance level meant, and how unlikely would it be to find a cop with a high enough security clearance to be allowed to see the software and its imagery. The Feds? Too slow to get them to listen.
A split second of hesitation, then he cracked his fingers and started his attempt to break the security codes of the self-guidance system.
...73
...Wednesday, July 14, 10:33PM
...Alex Hoffmann's Residence
...Carmel Valley, San Diego, California
Her throbbing headache wasn't going anywhere.
Alex had struggled with the insufferable pain almost all day long, despite the need to be extra alert and perceptive in her activities. She had one day left before closing this case, and she still had a lot more questions than answers. Wednesday had yielded little gain from that perspective, bringing zero new data. Maybe that had triggered her headache, the frustration of not being able to nail all the sons of bitches involved in this mess. But the thought of leaving this assignment with a half-done job caused her stomach to churn. Not acceptable, she thought.
She grabbed a jacket and her wallet and stormed through the front door. She needed a fistful of painkillers to do away with the obnoxious migraine and restore her critical judgment.
She opened the rear door of her car to throw the jacket on the back seat and saw the bomb-dismantling robot sitting there, forgotten on the rubber mat between the seats.
"Oh, crap," she muttered. "Forgot all about you," she said, slamming the door. Now she had to drive by the plant again and drop off the robot—probably tomorrow.
The drugstore was just a mile away.
She came out of the drugstore within minutes, grasping a bottle of Double Strength Motrin. Walking toward her car, she became aware of another set of footstep noises behind her. As she turned to see whom it was, a stranger grabbed her arm in a painful grip.
"Hey, there, pretty face, what are you doing out so late? Looking for me?"
She tried to free her arm, but the man's grip just grew tighter and more painful. She whimpered, trying to set herself free. The man was leading her away from her car, toward the back of the building, where a residential construction site was deserted at that late hour and almost completely dark. With half-built houses cloaked in darkness, it resembled a ghost town.
She turned to look at his face. Eyes of steel on a bony face, partly covered by long hair, huge Adam's apple, pulsating with his heartbeat. Somehow this face seemed familiar, but Alex couldn't place him at all.
"I can give you what you need," she started negotiating, hoping he would settle for some cash and let her be.
"Oh, I know you can, and you will," he said, continuing to drag her toward the unfinished houses. "I'm not going anywhere until I get everything I want." He tightened his grip even more, and shoved her over a small ditch at the edge of the construction site.
/> She gasped. "I can scream, you know." She could try, but chances were no one would hear her in this deserted construction site. She remembered clearly how the night pharmacist had a TV on, watching the game reruns at high volume.
"Go right ahead, scream, knock yourself out." The man was unperturbed.
"What do you want from me? I have money, lots of money," she said, thinking hard.
"I don't need your money, although I might clean out your cash after we're done. We're just going to have some serious fun together," he said, in a coarse voice filled with lust," before I finish you off."
Finish me off? Alex thought desperately. Oh, God . . . She kicked her shoes off and lunged in a desperate attempt to make a run for it. He didn't loosen the grip on her arm, and grasped her hair with his other hand, bringing her down to her knees.
"Nowhere to go, bitch."
Alex started whimpering and sobbing, unable to control herself. I need to think, she kept repeating to herself, but she was unable to stop crying. Oh, God, please don't let this happen!
The man dragged her into one of the houses, shoving her on the floor.
"Have you ever been fucked by a real man? Real hard? You'll die screaming tonight, I promise you that." He unzipped his pants and undid his belt, removing it completely. He used it to tie her hands above her head and secured them against a two-by-four structure that was going to become someone's kitchen wall.
She whimpered, feeling the cold belt cut into her flesh.
"I have lots of money, more than you'd think. You can get plenty of women, and better looking than me, for the kind of money I could give you," she pleaded, trying to get him interested in anything else.
"You think you're so smart, trying to talk your way out of everything, huh? This should be a lesson for not minding your own business. Too bad you won't live long enough to apply what you learn here tonight."