“I wish it were so. But the fact is the power grid is the weakest link. The Initiative proves that we can generate all the power we need from coal—which we have plenty of—without screwing up the atmosphere. But the grid is having a hard time accepting power from any new facility, including Donna Marie.”
“I’ve heard some of that. Russian or Chinese viruses that can shut everything down. But what happened out here this morning is nothing like that.”
“No,” Forester said. “But maybe it was the opening shot.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” Forester said. “None of us do. We’re just guessing.”
“How about the CIA?”
“They’re on it, believe me. In fact the president has been told repeatedly that a serious attack could come at any moment, with absolutely no notice.”
“Nine eleven?”
“Worse. And the president will be told just that again this afternoon. He’s called a Security Council meeting for two o’clock.”
“Do you want Dr. Lipton to fly out?”
“Not necessary. We’re thinking this is an attack on the grid—a test shot—and not necessarily at Donna Marie,” Forester said. “But if she’s still with you, I’d like you to have someone take her back to the Initiative. I’ll feel better when she has some muscle around her. Just in case.”
“I’ll have one of my deputies come get her.”
“What about my daughter? How’s she doing?”
Osborne chuckled. “Well, she’s pissed off just about everybody down here. But she has her story. And it looks like the TV people are on their way, so you might want to give her the go ahead. She’d be real unhappy if she were to be scooped.”
“She can file her stories, but no mention of sabotage, computer hacking, or that this was probably a coordinated attack.”
“The lineman’s death could play as an accident, but how’s she supposed to explain the shooting deaths?” Osborne asked.
“A random event,” Forester said. “And I want your word that it’ll be reported that way.”
“I don’t have any control over her.”
“More than I do,” Forester said.
Osborne phoned Dave Grafton, one of his deputies back in Medora, to drive over for Dr. Lipton and take her back to the Initiative.
“Trouble?”
“Some, so I want you to keep a sharp eye.”
“I’m leaving right now.”
Osborne walked back to where Whitney was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the hood of his SUV radio unit.
“Bad habit,” he said. He felt sorry for her. She was a scientist, not a combat solider, and yet she’d been through hell the last few months. He’d smoked in Afghanistan to help calm his nerves. A lot of guys who hadn’t smoked back in the World, had started soon as they stepped off the aircraft in country. He couldn’t blame her for starting now.
“I think I should get back,” she said.
“One of my deputies is on the way. Sorry about the weekend.”
“Not your fault, but Jesus, won’t they ever stop?”
Osborne had wondered the same thing, but the only answer he could come up with—and one that General Forester had agreed with—was that we were at war. An energy war, in which the battle lines weren’t clear, nor were objectives, except we were taking casualties on American soil, and the purpose could be just as simple as the destruction of the U.S. Bring us down from being a superpower to just another western hemisphere country. But everyone, including Forester, was skirting around the possibility.
It was crazy, of course. More than crazy, even insane. But there were a lot of people in power around the world who wanted that to happen.
Ashley walked up from the Basin Electric cherry pickers, her eyes wide, her expression and demeanor bright. She was in the middle of a big story and she was loving it.
“Just talked to my dad, he says it’s your call,” she said. She nodded toward the crest of the hill where a remote truck from KDIX was stopped. “Cat’s out of the bag in any event.”
“It was an accident,” Osborne said.
“And the bodies? They accidentally shoot themselves?”
“A random act,” Osborne told her. “Someone shot out the insulator, that much we know for sure. When the lineman came out to fix it he was electrocuted. About that time another person or persons happened on the scene, and when Sheriff Kasmir tried to question them he was shot to death. As were the couple in the pickup truck.”
Ashley looked at him for a long beat. “Bullshit. This is me you’re talking to, Nate.”
“Nevertheless that’s the story you’re going to file. You can take my car back to Medora to get your truck. I’ll hitch a ride with Don soon as we finish here.”
“I’ll stick around.”
“Don’t you need to file your story?”
She held up her iPad. “Already have.”
Osborne’s anger spiked. “Goddamnit, Ash, you promised no story until I gave you the go-ahead.”
“Relax, I reported it exactly the way you and my dad wanted me to. But all of us know damned well that this was no simple accident. This was another attack on the Initiative. Most likely by Venezuela in retaliation for us hammering their important air bases. But it’d be the dumbest move Chavez ever made.” She glanced at the lineman’s body hanging from the bucket. “When are they going to take that poor guy down from there?”
“Soon as they’re ready,” Osborne said. And he thought that she was right about Venezuela on both counts; they were probably behind this attack, and they were as dumb as a box of rocks. Yet he didn’t think it was going to turn out to be just that simple. Another dictator gone crazy.
“Whoever did this was a professional. Not another nutcase like the ones over the holidays.”
“You’re right,” Osborne said, and Whitney shivered.
“Okay,” Ashley said. “So what’s next?”
“You’re not even going to speculate on anything like that in print.”
“I already got that. I meant what’re they going to do next? Knocking out power for an hour or two, or even a day, from Donna Marie, doesn’t do a thing to hurt the project.”
“She’s right,” Whitney said. “It doesn’t make any sense. The Initiative’s a done deal. Permits for at least ten other coal-to-methane generating plants are already being fast-tracked right here in the U.S. And China will be on board pretty soon. Next month the Indian government is sending a team to talk to us.”
Christen got out of Kasmir’s radio unit and gestured for Osborne to come down.
“Question’s still on the table,” Ashley said. “What’s next?”
“When we catch the guy who did this, I’m going to ask him just that,” Osborne said. “Excuse me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Nope,” Osborne said as he walked down to Kasmir’s car.
“Get in, I want you to take a look at something,” Christen said.
Osborne slipped in behind the wheel. “What is it?”
“It’s Kas’s dash cam,” Christen said. He reached inside, past Osborne, and pushed a button. “I rewound it.”
The image of Kasmir came up on the computer monitor. He was walking directly toward the camera and then passed it. His body had been found lying on the side of the road behind his patrol car.
“This is probably just before he was gunned down.”
In the distance, a pickup truck was just crossing the creek bridge.
“The McKeevers,” Christen said. “And there’s nothing much after this. But look at it again, in slow motion and forget about what’s happening outside, take a look at the reflections on the inside of the windshield.”
Christen backed up the recording to just before Kasmir had walked past and out of camera range. A very faint image of something or someone moved across the screen and was gone. A minute later, the image of a man was reflected. He got into a pickup truck, made a U-turn, and was lost.
> “Again,” Osborne said.
Christen reversed the recording, and played it again. “I missed it at first, and the BCI people didn’t say anything about it, so I think they missed it, too. But that’s our killer. The sun was just right to make the reflection.”
They replayed it a third time. “Can’t make out the license plate, but it’s a Dodge Ram, dark blue,” Osborne said. “And the guy is short, slightly built, same as the man who flew to Denver.”
“That’s what I think, but I’m going to show it to the BCI people. They can take it back to the lab in Bismarck, maybe those guys can enhance it. I’d like to get the tag number.”
“Won’t tell us much, but have your people look for the truck. Be my guess it’s parked at the airport, and you’ll find the Barrett and the nine-millimeter pistol.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Won’t have left any,” Osborne said. He phoned Deb Rausch in Minneapolis.
“We missed him by about ten minutes,” she said, and she sounded bitter. “They’re using your description to search the airport.”
“I wouldn’t bother.”
“Our guys are pretty good.”
“He’s better. He changed his appearance, has a new ID, and by now he’s on another flight, probably to Europe.”
“You’re guessing.”
“Yes, I am. But if I were in his shoes, it’s what I’d do. And there’d be no way you’d catch me. Leastways not in the short run. But this guy will be back, and now that we know what to look for we’ll have a better shot at bagging him.”
“We don’t need any wild-ass assumptions, Nate. Let us do our jobs, you do yours.”
“Fair enough, but this is just the start, you know.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” she said.
Osborne rewound the recording and watched the faint images reflected off the inside of the windshield, and there was something just beyond his ken. Something about the man’s build, about the cold-bloodedness of his acts, something about his professionalism.
21
WYMAN WAS IN his study working on his third beer and waiting for Toby to call back when his wife, Delores, came home. She stood at the doorway, concern written all over her face. They’d been married twenty-five years.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve been suspended.”
“Why?” she demanded, looking pointedly at the beer bottle in his hand, and the solitaire game in progress on his computer screen.
She was the same age as he was, and she’d managed to more or less keep her same good looks and slender figure since he’d met her. But while he had the reputation at work of being a stickler for detail, she was ten times worse. She had to know everything, and she had an opinion about everything. They were of like minds, and their marriage was stable. Neither of them liked surprises.
“It was a technical problem that Remillard is convinced was my fault.”
“What kind of a problem? You’re the best they have, and they know it.”
“A line went down in North Dakota, so I sent a lineman out there to fix it. Told him it was safe. And it was. But he got electrocuted, and they think I was at fault.”
“Oh, dear God,” Delores said. She came the rest of the way into the study and put a hand on his cheek then on his shoulder. “But you couldn’t have made such a mistake. They have to know at least that much.”
Wyman was on the verge of tears. Earlier he’d been angry, but now he was incredibly sad that Tony Bartlett was dead and he felt as if the weight of the entire world was on his shoulders.
He looked up at his wife. “The order came from my console, but I can’t find any record of it.”
“Then how do you know where the order originated from?”
“I called Toby. He was the one who spotted it. And he’s the only one other than you who believes I didn’t screw up.”
She nodded, some of the worry ebbing from her face. “He’ll figure out what happened,” she said. “Have you had any lunch?”
He held up the beer bottle.
“I meant to eat.”
“No.”
“I’ll make us a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. Do you want some soup?”
“Maybe later,” Wyman said. “I want to get this straightened out first. Toby’s supposed to call me back if he finds out anything.”
“When he finds out what really happened,” Delores said, and she went out to the kitchen.
Wyman felt a little better now that he’d told his wife. He had a tendency to blow things out of proportion when he was in a tense situation. He had a good imagination, and he could see the worst happening easier than he could see the best. Delores had a way of bringing him back down to earth.
He got back online and tried to get to the MAPP’s website, but he was stuck on the home page. None of his passwords worked, and he started to get worried all over again.
* * *
TOBY PHONED just as Delores brought her husband a sandwich and another beer—this one in a glass.
“How’re you holding up, Stu?”
“Okay, I guess,” Wyman said. “I’m putting you on speakerphone, Delores is here.” He hit the hook button and hung up the handset.
“Hi, Dee. You taking care of the old man?”
“So far so good, as long as you’re working on the problem for us.”
“This one’s interesting, but I’m making some progress,” Toby said. When something was interesting to him, it meant he was working on something very difficult. “Fringe,” he sometimes liked to say, but he loved it.
“I tried to get on to MAPP’s site, but apparently they’ve blocked my passwords,” Wyman said.
“I did it, not only to keep you out of here, but to keep them from tracking your computer searches. Your firewall sucks.”
“But why?”
“The FBI is taking a look at you, probably got your phone bugged, which doesn’t matter because we’re going to cooperate with them one hundred percent. We’re all on the same team anyway, right?”
“Right,” Wyman said, but he was stricken, and glancing at his wife he could see that she, too, was bothered.
“Okay, here’s what I’ve come up with so far. First of all it wasn’t a glitch in the system, but the order to re-energize did come from your board, but only after your program had been shut down for about a millisecond. Lets you off the hook.”
“A hacker?”
“Yeah, but that’s about the only good news so far.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know, but I’d say someone way off shore. Lots of remailers and blind alleys, just like when you’re trying to peel an onion and every now and then you uncover a peach stone. But it’s way cool, and I’m thinking it has the signature of a guy I knew back at MIT. Dutch or German, I think. Anyway, if it’s the same guy last I heard he was part of some commune of superhackers who screw with any system they can get their hands on, mostly for the fun of it. Sometimes they do it for money, but mostly I think they just hack into bank accounts if they need cash.”
“Just for the fun of it?” Delores asked. “How do you know?”
“Because I used to be just like them,” Toby said.
“Do you know where they are?” Wyman asked.
“Amsterdam, last I heard.”
“Can you get to them? Or at least prove it so the FBI backs off my case and I can have my clearance restored?”
“I’m on it,” Toby said. “Not to worry, Stu. But if I’m right, and I usually am, this is something a hell of a lot bigger than merely taking out some poor lineman, or getting you canned. I don’t know what yet, but I’m telling you, guys, this is damned interesting.”
22
THE AIR FORCE Rapid Response team from Rapid City was already in place by the time Billings County Deputy Sheriff Grafton brought Ashley and Whitney to the Initiative’s front gate. A pair of armed Air Policemen in combat gear had supplemented the lone civilian guard, and they refused G
rafton entry.
“This is close enough,” Ashley told him. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Happy to oblige,” he said.
Whitney was already out of the car but when Ashley got out, one of the APs, his rifle slung over his shoulder, stepped forward, blocking her way. His name tag read: YSTRIMSKY.
“Sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to leave with the deputy.”
“We can either do this the easy way or the hard way,” Ashley said.
Grafton just shook his head as he backed away, turned around, and headed down the long gravel road over to Highway 85, which connected with the interstate at Bellfield.
“Ms. Borden is our media rep, you do know that, don’t you?” Whitney asked. “She’s been cleared, and in any event this place is no longer a classified site.”
“Yes, ma’am, but we’re in lockdown, and my orders are to allow only essential scientific and technical personnel through the gate.”
“No cooks, no janitors?” Ashley asked. “Going to get a little hungry and messy in there.”
“Call Captain Nettles, tell him that we’re here,” Whitney demanded.
Ystrimsky turned and went back inside the gatehouse. The second AP stood his ground, watching her.
Ashley phoned her father.
“Are you back in Bismarck already?” he asked.
“No, I’m at the Initiative with Dr. Lipton, but Ranger Rick’s people won’t let me in.”
“You don’t have any business being there. Especially now.”
“Especially now is why I need to be here. If the project is going to come under attack I’m not going to miss it.”
“At least go back to Medora, sweetheart,” Forester said. “Please. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Ashley chuckled because she knew that she had won. “I got shot in the butt, not even worth a Purple Heart,” she said. “I’m a newspaper reporter, Daddy. This is where I belong. Anyway, are you telling me that you expect another attack?”
“I don’t know,” Forester said after a longish beat. “I’m briefing the president this afternoon on what we know so far. And it’s going to be up to him what happens next.”
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