Whack Job

by Mike Baron

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Otto said.

  Alvarez pushed the door open. “You want to grab a beer?”

  Otto looked at his watch. It was five-thirty.

  “Sure.”

  With Steve in harness, Otto donned a pair of sunglasses and carried a cane. Alvarez didn’t comment. They rode in the black Denali to O’Leary’s Pub, maps of the Emerald Isle, pictures of Dublin and Belfast on the wall. They took a booth in the dark back, Steve curled up at Otto’s feet. A middle aged waitress in a tight black skirt, frilly white shirt and Tam O’Shanter took their order.

  When she returned with their beers, they ordered dinner. Otto ordered two cheeseburgers. After the waitress left he emptied a white ceramic bowl containing packets of sugar, poured half his beer into it and set it on the floor. Steve slithered his tongue over the rim and lapped without getting up.

  Otto held the glass up toward Alvarez. “Skål!”

  Alvarez clinked and drank. He opened his briefcase on the bench next to him and withdrew a manila binder. The binder held a half-inch wad of papers including many graphs.

  “Spectrographic analysis of Pawnee Park indicates anomalous electromagnetic spike activity when camp is in session.”

  Otto took the graphs and examined them. Activity versus time and date. Maybe all that brain power was causing them to spike.

  “Has no one ever noticed this before?”

  “No one was looking. We don’t have the resources to process all the petabytes we record.”

  Their cheeseburgers came. As the waitress left Otto set one cheeseburger on the floor next to Steve.

  “I saw that,” the waitress said but did not return.

  They ate in silence. Otto set down a half cheeseburger.

  “Could we obtain a warrant on the basis of these graphs?”

  Alvarez chewed and swallowed. “Doubt it. There’s no crime involved, not unless we find causality between these readings and some glitch in the system. You sure you want to go that way?”

  “No, I’m just thinking.”

  “On the other hand, there’s nothing stopping us from asking their permission. Given the Club’s history I don’t see how they can turn us down.”

  Otto shook his head. “That’s not the way to go. I need to get up there and do a little digging without disrupting their normal functions. We don’t want to tip our hand.”

  “I see,” Alvarez said.

  Otto told him about Gabe Winner. They went over the latest data. There were now thirty-four confirmed cases of SHC and twelve possibles. Twenty of the confirmed had visited Pawnee Grove. Of the remaining sixteen, all had interaction either with a Park attendee, or someone who was close to someone who was close to an attendee.

  “If I go up there,” Otto said, “can you take care of Steve?”

  Alvarez looked up surprised. “Not a prob if he can get along with Molly and Barkley.”

  “Steve’s a sweetheart,” Otto said ruffling the dog’s hair.

  At the bar, their waitress talked to a short, bald-headed man in a polo shirt who kept glancing over. He came out from behind the bar and approached.

  “Gentlemen, can I see a license for that service dog?”

  Alvarez reached for his wallet. “We were just leaving.”

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “A New Element”

  Friday morning.

  After their run through the park, Otto and Steve returned to the motel. Otto showered and they drove to the Full Throttle in Arvada where Otto bought coffee, bottled water and two blueberry scones and took a prime location at a round metal table on the sidewalk beneath a Barclay’s umbrella.

  What did he know about Gabe Winner? Very little, save for having enjoyed the actor’s performance in Detonator. Since then there had been two highly successful sequels neither of which Otto had seen. He rarely went to movies. Maybe once a year. The last time had been with Stella. They’d seen the re-release of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.

  The only reason Otto knew about Winner was because The Detonator was playing in the rec room aboard the USN Enterprise a few years ago in the Persian Gulf. The Detonator was just the latest in a long line of tough guy franchises including James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Rambo. In the movie, Winner played an ex-Special Forces demolition expert who finds himself the lone force for freedom during a communist purge of a small Caribbean island.

  The Detonator cobbled bombs out of chemical fertilizer, bleach, baking soda, gasoline, even a grain elevator at one point, taking out the bad guys in spectacular fashion. Before that, Winner had been nominated for a Best Supporting Oscar for his role as quadriplegic Vietnam veteran Lt. Stan in Little Orville. That movie really put him on the map.

  Winner shunned the Hollywood scene, lived in Santa Barbara, and spent considerable time playing rock and roll for the troops. The more Otto learned the more he liked him.

  Otto’s phone buzzed. Barnett. He picked it up. “White.”

  “Lon Barnett. We got the autopsy back on the Senator.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Twenty minutes later Otto wheeled the Denali into the underground parking garage. He showed his badge to the agent inside who consulted a clipboard and waved them through. Barnett was waiting on the sixth floor landing. They shook hands.

  “Let’s go. We’re meeting with Billups.”

  Billups’ secretary waved them through. Alvarez was already there with his laptop open on the coffee table before him. Billups rose from behind his desk, came out and shook their hands. He picked up a manila envelope from his desk and sat on the leather sofa next to Alvarez. Otto and Barnett sat in upholstered captain’s chairs facing them over the coffee table.

  “You boys need anything?” Billups said. “Coffee? Water?”

  Otto held a hand up. “I’m good.”

  Billups tossed the folder on the table with a slap. “They recovered twelve grams of charcoal at the scene. That’s what they autopsied. Nothing surprising except traces of some unidentifiable element.”

  Otto picked up the folder and opened it. He flipped through graphs and charts until he came to a geometric construct of a molecule over a big question mark.

  “What is it?” Otto said.

  “No idea,” Billups said. “They’re trying to recover the remains from some of the previous burn-outs. This was found through spectrographic analysis, which is not a normal autopsy procedure.”

  Otto and Alvarez exchanged glances. Steve got up and licked Billups’ leg.

  “Steve. Lie down.”

  The dog obeyed.

  “What does that mean, an unidentifiable element?” Otto said.

  “It means it may be a new element,” Billups said. “To add to the 118 we already know.”

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “The Pawnee Connection”

  Friday afternoon.

  The President met with his national security team in the Situation Room.

  On the President’s left sat National Security Advisor Margaret Yee, FBI Director Howard Lubitch, and CIA Director Luther Brubaker. On his right sat Homeland Security Director General Rolf Panny and Joint Chiefs Chair General Arthur MacCauley. At the far end of the table sat WH Chief of Staff Murray Compton.

  “You’ve seen the autopsy report,” the President said. “What about the others?”

  “We’ve recovered Froines’ remains from his widow,” Lubitch said. “About fourteen grams. We should have the results sometime today.”

  “The question is,” the President said, “whether we share this information with other countries, particularly Russia. Margaret?”

  “Deputy Minister Sokolov has been less than forthcoming, Mr. President. We know that Dmitri Yakovitch, an oil millionaire, self-combusted in his dacha on the Black Sea. There’s allegedly video but they’re not confirming or denying. My sense is that they’ve made a similar discovery and don’t want to share it.”

  The Pre
sident steepled his fingers. “But you don’t know for sure.”

  “No sir. That is just my gut feeling. I expect fresh intel shortly.”

  “Can you expand on that?”

  “Not yet, Mr. President.”

  Brubaker, the éminence grise of the intelligence community, raised his hand. The President nodded toward him.

  “Luther.”

  “Mr. President, we’re inclined to believe this is some type of weapon that can be trained on a person from a distance, possibly through walls. The Army’s microwave program cooks your skin from a distance.”

  “Yes but Luther,” Lubitch said, “the microwaves can’t cause combustion and lack the amount of energy necessary…”

  “I offer the microwave merely as an example of what can be done from distance. The Army is conducting experiments with different wavelengths, I believe. It is possible to broadcast energy through the air.”

  “Through walls?” Lubitch said. “That would require a tightly focused beam like a laser. If anything came between the source and its target, it would be instantly obliterated.”

  “We are looking into the possibility,” Brubaker said, “that whoever is doing this is above their victims directing the beam down.”

  “Do we have people in Russia?” MacCauley said.

  “There are agents in place.”

  “Can you explain that?” MacCauley said. “We only put the pieces together a week ago.”

  Brubaker rolled a fifty cent piece expertly down his knuckles. “A good scout is always prepared. Five years ago we didn’t know what we were looking for. Now we do.”

  “No we don’t,” Lubitch said.

  The President cleared his throat. “What about the parking garage, Luther? How would someone on the next level up even know where their victim was through a foot of concrete?”

  “They didn’t need to shoot down in the garage. It was deserted. They could have targeted Froines from behind a pillar or vehicle. I have a team working on this. They have discovered irregular waves.”

  “Excuse me?” said Yee.

  “A type of wave that only appears in solids as it passes. Sort of a wave within a wave.”

  “How long have you known about this?” Murray Compton said softly.

  “The team first discovered the solid wave in September of ‘10 during Ventriloquist, which as you know is a program to develop secure communications. We’ve been conducting experiments ever since. It’s all in the intel report.”

  The President had majored in physics. “Can the wave transmit energy?”

  “Minute amounts but the team believes if they can tune it, it would open up enormous possibilities.”

  “And how far are they away from doing that?” the President asked.

  Brubaker shrugged. “Could be days, could be years.”

  “Margaret?” the President said turning his face like an arrow in her direction.

  “Twenty of the victims visited Pawnee Grove in the past six years. The remaining sixteen interacted with those who did or with someone who knew someone who had been a guest. As you know, President Gilman was a guest.” Gilman was the President’s predecessor.

  She had their attention.

  “I’ve already assigned extra Secret Service personnel to President Gilman,” the President said. “Mr. Lubitch, what is your take on these escalating incidences?”

  “They appear unrelated save for the unbelievable odds of a handful of fairly important people suddenly going berserk and bursting into flames. Al Qaeda has taken credit for the Perrignon immolation, by the way. They claim to have invented a virus that only infects infidels.”

  Brubaker snorted. The President turned his hand. “What do we do?”

  Silence hung in the air.

  Finally Lubitch cleared his throat. “If we make an announcement there will be panic.”

  “The public isn’t stupid,” Yee said. “Sooner or later they’ll catch on, if they haven’t already. The internet is foaming with conspiracy theories.”

  “And?” the President said.

  “Otto White is going up to Pawnee Grove and should have some answers for us shortly.”

  Brubaker frowned. “I hope he doesn’t cause an incident.”

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Denial of Service”

  Friday afternoon.

  In his windowless office Otto pored over the Secret Service dossiers on Emil Witherspoon and his crew. Witherspoon appeared to be sexless. There was no mention of wives or girlfriends, no children, nor any hint of scandal. His Head of Security was an ex-CIA spook named Bob Casey. The fifty-five year old Casey was a fire-hardened veteran of Afghanistan with an outstanding service record including a Bronze Star. He came highly recommended by the Board of Directors.

  Casey supervised a staff of fifteen, all men, all ex-military, all thoroughly vetted by the Secret Service. All with nearly spotless records. They included five African-Americans, four Hispanics and two Asians.

  The Board consisted of twelve good men and true, chosen by vote every twelve years. As Pawnee Grove was a conservative institution, board members remained ensconced until they passed. It was an interesting list: four CEOs, four former diplomats and Cabinet secretaries, a boxer, a talent agent and two scholars, all notable figures with lavish biographies. The board included two Nobel Prize winners, two National Book Award winners, and the former heavyweight champion of the world. The youngest was sixty-two.

  Not the type of people you interrogated.

  There were no SHC victims among the board members who were often in attendance throughout the summer. Otto worked the list of board members like a Rubik’s Cube searching for patterns and connections. There were many. Four were Yalies. Nine were veterans. Four had been Rhodes Scholars. Eight had been Boy Scouts. Five had played college football. All twelve subscribed to the NYT and the Wall Street Journal. But nothing sinister, nothing to indicate a pattern of deceit.

  Otto put in an RFI for the board members.

  He switched to Drudge to cleanse his palette. A box of flame appeared front and center over the flashing red/blue crisis strobe and 32 pica red lettering:

  TERROR ATTACK?

  Otto clicked the link.

  “A source close to Brainiac founder Bryan Ayres claims that he recently began to behave in a paranoid manner. ‘He appeared jumpy and started carrying a gun. I was shocked. I mean here’s a guy who was a life-long progressive…he hated guns.

  And then he started wearing baggy pants and hoodies.”

  At GENCON 2003 Brainiac came out of nowhere to take the computer gaming world by storm with Untamed Savagery, a sword and sorcery fantasy so real People For the American Way wanted it banned due to its addictive qualities. The First Lady inveighed against it on The View.

  Brainiac made computer games: Tear the Roof Off the Sucker, Lourdes’ Landing, Kill Or Be Killed, and Marine Sniper. Marine Sniper had been made with the cooperation of the USMC and was used as a training tool at numerous ROTCs and in basic training.

  Lester Durant had used it.

  Even Otto had played it.

  It was scare o’ the day, freak of the week.

  Otto’s phone vibrated. Winner.

  “Can you meet us in Estes Park Sunday? Ralston and I are flying into Denver tomorrow to go up to Estes. We should make it to the park by noon.”

  “That’s quick, Gabe,” Otto said.

  “Well I’m off this weekend and it so happens that the next Pawnee Grove Chautauqua starts Monday. I don’t know how Ralston did it but he got me an invite. You’re a screen writer with whom I’m collaborating.”

  Otto was secretly relieved that Winner wasn’t spending the weekend with Stella followed almost instantly by shame that showed itself as a creeping red tide on his neck.

  “Okay.”

  “No sweat. I’ll teach you how to fake it. Can you meet us at one at the Stanley?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Otto called Stella, got her
machine.

  “Hey. Winner just called. I’m meeting him and his agent Sunday.”

  Otto was online when the screen went blank. The gray nothing. Seconds later a white dot appeared in the center of the screen and expanded into a black screen with a black stylized black widow spider, red hourglass on its back. And below in the type of gothic lettering you’d find on a Hell’s Angel, THIS DISRUPTION IN SERVICE BROUGHT TO YOU BY BLACK WIDOW!

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Black Widow”

  Friday afternoon.

  Present in Billups’ office were Otto, Steve, Barnett, Alvarez and Hornbuckle. It was six-fifteen, two hours and nineteen minutes since their computers went down. The IT guys working with the central office and the Strategic Initiative’s Internet Emergency Response team succeeded in restoring service after forty-five frantic minutes.

  Billups had come out from behind his desk to take a seat on one of the two leather sofas. They sat in a circle sipping coffee from plastic cups and water from plastic bottles.

  “Ryan?” Billups said.

  Hornbuckle consulted his clipboard. “We traced the attack to a computer in Esfahan. Needless to say, we can expect no cooperation from the Iranians but this is a smart operator. He probably bounced it all around the globe.”

  “As you gentlemen know,” Billups said, “Black Widow began right here in our back yard.” Billups raised his eyebrows in unspoken accusation.

  “It’s just a matter of time, chief,” Hornbuckle said. “I’m closing in on him. I can feel it. I know how this guy thinks. He likes to hang around and view his handiwork.”

  “Him would be Randall Kleiser,” Billups said flipping an eight and a half by ten glossy black and white mug shot on the table.

  Alvarez grinned toothily. “Looks like Otto.”

  “He’s my brother from another mother,” Otto said. He could be fired and worse for withholding what he knew. But there was something in his nature that clung fast to Kleiser. It was the pain he saw in Kleiser’s eyes, that sick at heart feeling you get when you’ve lost your reason for living. Otto often felt it circling just beyond the firelight.