by James Phelan
Walker scanned the room.
Nothing. No sounds. All the computer terminals seemed to be on, the screens each displaying different sets of programming codes, and a few showing news sites. This was their command-and-control center.
“Drop the gun,” a voice behind said. Webster’s voice.
89
Walker turned, slowly, immediately thinking, At least they didn’t just cap me, which means they want something from me.
Jasper Brokaw was there. As were the two remaining members of Team Black. One held a pistol to Jasper’s head. The other pointed a customized sawed-off shotgun at Walker.
“The gun,” Webster said. He was the man with the gun to Jasper’s head. “On the floor.”
Walker crouched and placed the Sig on the tiles.
“Kick it over,” Webster said.
Walker did so.
“Where’s Conway?” Webster said, still holding the gun to Jasper’s head.
“Outside,” Walker said.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You’re lying,” Webster said. He looked to his comrade. “Guard the stairs. Don’t kill Conway. We need him.”
The guy left the room, headed for the stairs that Walker had just come down.
“What do you want with Paul?” Walker asked.
“Get his gun,” Webster said, suddenly letting go of Jasper.
Jasper bent down, picked up Walker’s Sig, and took it to a terminal where he sat down and went to work at some code.
Walker looked from him to Webster, then back to Jasper again.
“Amazing, how little you know about what’s going on here,” Webster said, striding the few paces toward Walker, his pistol raised and pointed one-handed dead at Walker’s heart. “And how you’re never going to know.”
A gunshot rang out.
•
McCorkell was in the air, talking over a secure radio link to the Vice President in the Situation Room of the White House.
“The President wants to act,” the Vice President said to McCorkell. “And I have to say, I agree with him—we can’t let them shut down the national energy grid.”
“Give Walker some more time.”
“We’re entering the final hour any minute,” the Vice President replied. “And their threats so far have come to fruition. I’m sorry, Bill, but we have to shut this down.”
“If you shut the Net down, it’s down for weeks, you know that, right?”
“Shutting down the Net has just shifted to Plan B.”
“And what’s Plan A?”
“We’ve got a sortie of F22s headed for Ames. They can wipe the site in fifteen minutes.”
“Killing Walker, and Jasper Brokaw, and Monica Brokaw, and Paul Conway. Not to mention destroying billions of dollars of government—”
“We have to act,” the Vice President said with finality. “The President is making a call on it in eight minutes. Plan A. Then, if needed, Plan B. He’s not going to sit here and do nothing while a terror group cripples this country forever.”
“Give Walker more time.”
“I’m sorry, Bill. I really am. But we’re out of time and options.”
“Send guys in—you’ve got FBI and National Guard units—”
“And if they see that they’ll act early, crashing the power grid.” The Vice President paused, then spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. “Bill, America without electricity is a billion dollars a second down the drain. The site is being wiped in fourteen minutes.”
90
The gunshot Walker heard was from the shotgun, and its boom echoed through the computer lab. He closed his eyes.
Webster smiled.
Jasper’s fingers didn’t skip a beat.
Then, more gunshots sounded.
The pop-pop-pop of 9-millimeter pistols, at least two of them, shooting rapidly, then the louder boom of the shotgun, then once again, then another volley of 9-millimeter shots—and then silence.
Two things happened at once.
Webster’s finger tightened on the trigger of his Beretta.
And Walker dropped and dove.
The pistol belched out three rapid-fire shots and destroyed computer terminals as Walker landed behind a partition. Two more shots blasted holes either side of where he lay.
Walker heard the man run away, toward the stairwell, only turning to yell, “Jasper—cover him!”
•
Monica and Paul looked at Kent, who was dead, a close-quarters shotgun blast having turned his chest into a bloody pulp as soon as he’d opened the secondary door. Then Monica looked at the gun in her hand, and the form of the dying man with the shotgun.
Bang.
Paul put another round into the guy’s body, and he went limp.
“Wait,” Monica said, catching Paul’s arm. She pointed down the hallway, and aimed her gun.
•
“Jasper!” Walker called out. “Jasper—I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you can stop this. If you ever thought this was just an exercise, you can still get out of it. Paul’s here. Your sister’s here. Yesterday I was with your father. They all care about you.”
No answer from Jasper. No shooting either. He could hear that Jasper was no longer typing.
“Jasper—be realistic about this,” Walker said, speaking up toward the ceiling, loud enough to be heard across the room. “We’re here. And they know—the government knows, that you’re here. They’ll have cops and Feds and the military all forming rings around this place. You have to think about how you want this to end. It’s not too late to come out of this. But if you take it further . . .”
Nothing. Not a sound.
“If you turn off the energy grid, think of all the hospitals that will be without power. For how long? How long will their emergency generators last? What about the people at home who rely on power to survive on medical equipment? What about all the hell-raisers who are going to be combing the dark streets tonight? Or America’s enemies, deciding to make what they can of the situation. Think about it, Jasper. Think of it all, and of your involvement.” Walker paused, then added, “No one has to know. I can get these two guys. And we can get to General Christie. You help us out here, no one has to know of your true involvement. Jasper . . .”
Silence. Nothing. Nothing but the gush of the air conditioning and the hum of a few hundred computers.
Walker got to one knee and looked up, over the partition, toward where Jasper had been seated.
Empty.
91
Monica followed Paul down the corridor. The floor was tiled with white ceramic tiles, the suspended ceiling clad in white acoustic tiles and lighting panels, and the walls either side were made of thick clear glass. To her right were rows of black servers, like library-book stacks, though these were all black and sleek and lit up with blue LEDs and labeled at each end with NASA logos.
“This is NASA’s Advanced Super-Computing Division,” Paul said, walking slowly and holding his pistol ready, as though waiting for another threat to emerge like the guy with the shotgun who had blasted Kent away as soon as he’d opened the airlock. “Their Pleiades system is in the top five most powerful super-computers in the world.”
“And they have Jasper in control of it,” Monica said, walking close to him.
Then, ahead, two figures emerged.
“Guns, now,” a deep voice said.
As they took another pace forward Monica made out her brother, next to a man dressed in the same black paramilitary gear as the others, and the same full-face ski mask. The man was holding a pistol to her brother’s head.
“Drop the guns!” the guy said.
Paul bent down and put his gun to the floor then raised his hands.
Monica held her pistol steady. She remembered how her father had taught her and her brother to shoot a 9-millimeter when they were kids. Like pointing your finger at the target, he’d said. Point and shoot.
•
Walker stood
. There was no sign of Jasper. He went to the console where Jasper had been seated. There was no pistol there. No weapon.
The screens were all running data that meant near to nothing to him.
He looked around the room. Nothing much of any use. On the desk opposite was a small tool-pouch. He took two small screwdrivers, put one in his back pocket and another in the palm of his hand. He slid off his boots, then crept from the room, his footfalls silent on the tiled floor.
•
“Monica,” Jasper said, the gun to his temple. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
Monica held the pistol steady. The 9-millimeter Sig was similar to the Beretta she’d learned to shoot with, but a little bigger and more plasticky. It had a three-dot sight system, and she lined them up at the head of the man who was pointing the pistol at her brother. They were maybe twenty paces down the hall. The target was small, his head partially obscured by her brother’s. She knew she could not guarantee the hit. Her finger pressure increased on the trigger.
“Mon,” Jasper said. “Please. Put the gun down. No one has to die here.”
Monica kept the pressure up. The man holding her brother was taking half-strides toward them, narrowing the distance, increasing her chances of a shot.
“Please,” Jasper said, his shoulders hunching. “Put your gun down. Please? There’s no need for that. We’re going to walk out of here—it’s nearly over. See? We can walk out and go home and go see Dad. Make things right. I—I can make things right. Once this is done—you’ll see. I promise. I’m . . . I’m—I’m sorry, Mon. Okay? Please . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Monica’s hands started to shake and tears ran down her face. She saw Paul watching her and nodding, and she lowered the pistol. He took it from her trembling hands and placed it on the floor, then stood up and held her.
The guy took the gun from Jasper’s head.
Jasper smiled. Then, he reached into the back pocket of his orange jumpsuit and pulled out a pistol of his own, pointed it at Paul and walked toward him. “Now, it’s time that you did the job you’ve always been preparing for.”
92
Walker moved quietly up the hall. He’d seen the back of Webster holding the pistol to Jasper’s head. They were twenty paces away, and slowly moving toward Monica and Paul. He kept crouched down, out of sight of Monica and Paul by the two standing bodies between them.
Walker watched them trying their play of hostage-and-captor again.
He saw it work on Paul.
Then Monica hesitated.
Then Jasper said the words that Monica had always been desperate to hear.
Then she passed over her pistol and Paul put it on the floor.
As Jasper headed for Paul, Walker knew he had a second, maybe two, until Webster turned.
Walker moved fast.
Webster turned, bringing his pistol up.
•
“You always were the better coder,” Jasper said to Paul, standing over him. “But you never were much use at chess.”
Paul was silent.
“I organized your new ID via that Tor site,” Jasper said to Paul, his pistol pointed at Paul’s head. “And I got you that interview and made them take you on at the security contractor that looked at the DoE and other government agencies. That’s been the exercise. Not this. Don’t you see? This was all preordained, by someone far, far smarter and much more insightful than you, and many, many steps ahead.”
Paul’s face fell.
Monica’s hands balled into fists and she screamed as she launched at her brother.
•
Walker jumped the final few yards, his fist outstretched.
Webster brought his pistol up to fire before Walker’s fist found its mark—against Webster’s head.
Walker fell.
Webster stood over him, smiled, and brought the pistol to aim.
•
Paul caught Monica and held her back. He could see commotion over Jasper’s shoulder, and recognized Walker.
“See,” Jasper said, a smirk on his face. “That’s the girl. Always needed a little . . . direction.”
“The hell with you!” Monica screamed. “This was all you! You’re attacking your own country? You’re pathetic! A monster!”
Jasper shook his head. “You have no idea. This will make us all so much stronger—so much stronger. We need a Cyber Command that is equal to the other branches of the military—and this will bring that, you’ll see. People will thank me. Play your part, and they may even remember you.”
•
“This is where you—”
Webster was standing over Walker, pointing the gun at him, and stopped mid-speech. His left hand went up to the side of his head, where Walker’s right hand had landed the blow. He felt the impact point, and touched the end of the screwdriver that had imbedded through the temple, that point where the skull is at its thinnest. Webster’s mouth opened and closed, once, twice, three times, then he fell back and landed with a thud.
Dead.
The sound alerted Jasper, who turned around and took in the scene. Webster on the floor, killed silently but for the fall. And Walker, on his back, scrambling away, toward the door to the server room.
Jasper shot at him. The glass wall shattered but held—huge panes of laminated tempered glass, each sheet an inch thick and made up of plastic sandwiched between layers of lead-free glass.
“No!” Monica yelled.
Walker got to his feet behind a server. He ran down the row, took a right turn and doubled back. It was dark in here, and Walker thought he was onto a good thing until he realized it was about as bad as he could imagine: the lights overhead came on as he ran, motion sensors lighting the way. Wherever he ran in this room, it would be lit up for a predetermined period of time. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Another gunshot rang out.
Then—darkness.
93
Team Blue’s sniper was at the power plant and realized that it was not deserted. With billions of dollars’ worth of technology on the Ames campus, unless there was a severe natural disaster or emergency, there was no way every staff member would leave.
There were two staffers in the power generator, a gas turbine unit with a couple of wind towers recently added. He had been fully prepared to use his two thermobaric explosive grenades, and if that didn’t work he was considering piloting the drone into the place to shut the power down.
He didn’t need to do either. What he did do was point his rifle at the two NASA contractors, who were only too willing to follow his orders to shut down all the power on the base. Within a second of seeing the streets and buildings go dark, he saw the emergency generators kick in, with muffled dim lights springing up here and there. Figuring the worst, he tied up the staffers and ran back toward the super-computing lab.
•
The emergency lighting lit the room at intervals.
Walker was still. He was listening. The sea of tiny blue lights of the servers were on but the sound of the air conditioning had disappeared. He moved two rows over, closer down the hall to where Monica and Paul and Jasper had been. He peered down the row and saw beyond the glass wall that the emergency lighting in the hall had kicked in, and that Jasper, Monica and Paul were there, and that Jasper was herding the other two at gunpoint toward the computer lab.
Walker crept down the alley between the servers, his footfalls still silent on the tiles. The room was already heating up, and he wondered if there was a thermostat that would override the system and shut the computers down once they had reached a peak temperature. But even if this were the case, it was no kind of fallback plan, not in the time frame that was now upon them. He had to get to Jasper and stop what was coming.
•
Jasper sat Paul in a chair at the terminal he’d been using and held the gun to his head.
“Enter your code, and start your RAT,” Jasper said. “Get into the DoE’s server and shut the grid down.”
“I
can’t,” Paul said. He looked across to Monica, who had her arms crossed over her chest and was shaking her head.
“You can and you will and you have one minute,” Jasper said.
“Why?” Monica said. “Why are you doing this?”
Jasper pushed the pistol hard into the back of Paul’s head, so that he was stooped closer to the computer screen.
“Just do it.”
Monica said, “It’s not too late to change, Jasper . . .”
•
Walker stayed in the shadows, near the camp cots and the camera on the tripod, watching the scene. Jasper still had the gun to Paul’s head; there was no way to get in there and disarm him without Jasper painting the screen with Paul’s head. But Jasper needed Paul, for his end game, which meant that as long as Paul stalled, Walker had time.
Paul was typing commands.
Walker moved to the camera, flicked it on and pointed it at Jasper, all without making a sound. He zoomed in to capture the scene: the three of them; the gun to the head; the microphone picking up the conversation from ten feet away. Broadcasting the scene to the world.
94
“You can’t do this,” Monica said. “Take a higher road. For once in your life, be a better—”
“Shut up! Of course I can, I can do whatever I want!” Jasper replied without looking at her. “Well, he can—but I’m the one with the gun, right? And look, it’s really quite easy. Right? People make mistakes, Mon. Have I? I don’t know. But you know what? It was human error that caused the blackout in August 2003—more than fifty million people without power for two days. That was a high-voltage powerline in northern Ohio that brushed against some overgrown trees. It shut down and caused a fault. Normally that problem would have tripped an alarm in the control room, but the alarm system failed. You know why? It was hacked.”