Power Trip

by Dom Testa

  Twenty minutes later everything was copied and back in the drawer. I relocked the cabinet, looked around to make sure I hadn’t left anything out of place, and started to leave. On my way out of Hash’s office I passed the cart holding the coffee maker. Sitting on it was a package of Chips Ahoy, the kind with the resealable flap. I helped myself to three of the cookies and quickly polished them off walking back to my car.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the morning I walked a couple blocks to a coffee shop for a tall wake-me-up and a croissant with sausage and cheese. The convict’s taste buds handled the coffee just fine but something about the sandwich tasted strange. I wondered if my host had suffered a mouth crisis in his life, perhaps a severe burn or something. Listen, when a croissant with sausage tastes like shit there’s almost no reason to live. No wonder the guy had taken Q2’s offer.

  Back in the room I checked the time. Quanta, Poole, and I were scheduled for a video conference in just a few minutes, at 8:30. They’d started going through the LoGo file from Brown’s Surplus and Supply at five o’clock, so I’d probably have new orders based on the contents. I brushed my teeth to get the rejected croissant taste out of my mouth and then logged on. The split screen showed the two women, Poole at HQ and Quanta in her home office. Both looked severe. Well, Poole always looked that way, but today Quanta had assumed her own heavy expression.

  There was no preamble. “LoGo has contracted with Brown to produce 20 specialized drones,” Quanta began.

  I scowled. “Wait. Twenty? Why would they need twenty drones?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Quanta said. “We have to assume at least two would be used for testing, which would probably be done in remote areas with little fallout. After that, we don’t know why they’d need so many.”

  There was silence for half a minute. “Quanta, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  She stared down at something on the table in front of her. “It’s possible they’re aiming for more than one target.”

  “Which changes everything. How many targets are conceivable? Five? More?”

  Poole spoke up. “Is it possible that they’d use several drones for one target? Just to make sure they covered everything?”

  Quanta said, “Yes, that’s possible. But our data suggests that wouldn’t be necessary. Given enough altitude, one EMP would do sufficient damage.”

  What a mess. Suddenly we weren’t thinking of one terrorist attack; what if the twins were considering something on a much larger scale? I thought this over. “Do we have any other clues from the computer I tapped in Colorado?”

  “Yes and no. The problem is we can’t distinguish between normal company research and what would be germane to a potential attack. We’ve seen grid data for about 70 metropolitan areas in the country. More than 50 of those have a population greater than 1 million.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “Is there enough evidence yet to have the government go in and shut down LoGo?”

  Quanta shook her head. “That’s the problem. LoGo is a company specializing in alternative energy, and their mission has been to flip the country from oil and gas to wind, solar, and hydro. They’re not only allowed to have all the grid data at their disposal, they should have it for their work. It’s part of their negotiations with traditional energy suppliers. There’s nothing illegal in that.”

  “And what about the drones and the research into EMPs?”

  Poole stepped in. “Again, defense against electromagnetic pulses is expected. They can always deny they’re planning anything offensive. It wouldn’t even seem suspicious, because lots of energy companies, big and small, have at least explored ways to defend against this.”

  “And the drones are all off the record,” Quanta said. “There’s really nothing tying the actual corporation to them. Sgt. Brown is a private businessman. Granted, these particular airborne devices are unusual and would seem to be built for attack purposes, but that becomes a subjective argument. What we found from our illegal search couldn’t be used in court. So no, there’s not one thing anyone could use to shut down LoGo. The backlash would be monumental.”

  “All right. So this is a confirmed Q2 special all the way. No help from the FBI, Homeland Security, or anyone.”

  “They’re quietly poking around. We’ll get help with some of the operation, but, as usual, there are some departments that aren’t convinced anything is amiss. We’ve shared everything with them, but you know by now there are always people who won’t see the threat until it hits them between the eyes. I’m working on something, I can tell you that. But, for now, it’s mostly you, Swan.”

  “I need a raise. Or at least a body that appreciates food.”

  “It gets better,” Quanta said. “Nobody can officially step in until we either find the actual plans for an assault, or—”

  “Or until it’s too late and they actually melt a few power grids,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  I gave a resigned sigh. “What did the files show about the drone delivery? I suppose we could find a reason to either intercept them or really play mean and destroy them. Unofficially, of course.”

  Poole looked down at her notes. “Delivery has been made. The locations for the deliveries — there were three of them, we believe — were coded. It would take a lot more information to connect the codes with actual locations.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “Why would anything be easy about this?”

  “Now that delivery has been made, we’re anticipating testing immediately. In fact, it could’ve happened. The EMP devices themselves are already perfected; all they need to do is confirm that the airborne units are capable of lifting them. That means LoGo could be ready to strike in a matter of days.”

  I let that sink in. A matter of days. We were already well into December. Something began to tickle at my memory. Then it hit me.

  “Christmas,” I said.

  Quanta said, “You think that’s the target date?”

  “I’m sure of it. During our bizarre dinner Lucas Ormond made a point of mentioning the significance of that date and how it would always be somber for them, his word. Niall Ormond was killed on Christmas Eve. I think the twins are convinced it was at the hands of some traditional power moguls, people fed up with LoGo cutting into their profits, which I’m sure they are. And as we know, if it costs you millions of dollars, you sue. If it costs you billions or hundreds of billions of dollars, you really fight dirty. Now, after a few years plotting, what could be more apropos for their ultimate revenge than to destroy a large power grid on the same day Niall was eliminated. Almost like some karmic retribution.”

  It was Quanta’s turn to hypothesize. “That’s assuming just one target. But if it’s more . . .”

  Poole was deep in thought. I think she was, for the first time, envisioning a country’s power supply not only shut down but wiped out. Something like that is more than just the inconvenience of losing your lights for an hour and not being able to watch Game of Thrones. It’s a loss of everything you use to just get through the day. It truly would be apocalyptic, given our daily reliance.

  Another thought struck me. “It’s not just a matter of marking the anniversary, though. That’s only one of three reasons to target Christmas Eve.”

  “What are the others?” Poole asked.

  I held up one finger. “The anniversary.” Another finger. “Easily the busiest season of the year, with millions of people away from home and everyone relying on power.” Third finger. “Winter. In many parts of the country temperatures fall below freezing. Wiping out a city’s grid would not only cripple the country, but inflict the most pain and suffering. It’s a demonic triple play.”

  Quanta looked away. After a moment she said, “That has to be right. The timetable lines up and they’ll have everything in play any day now.”

  Poole said, “If you’re right about the winter element, then should we narrow our search down to cold-weather cities?”

  “Unfort
unately we can’t assume that for sure,” Quanta said. She looked back at me. “The key now is finding the base where they’ll control the operation. We can’t chase down almost two dozen drones in almost as many cities. We’ll have to pinpoint the location and then, Swan, you’ll need to take it out.”

  “We haven’t ruled out the Nevada headquarters yet as the base, I take it,” I said. “But it seems unlikely.”

  “Realistically they could manage it from anywhere,” Poole added. “Even outside our borders. The technology could be controlled remotely from any base of their choosing. For all we know they’ve could’ve simply rented a warehouse anywhere from Nova Scotia to Walla Walla.”

  This wasn’t encouraging. The nation’s security was in peril, thousands could potentially die before order was restored — if it could be restored at all — and if their goal was larger than just one target, with the grid down who knew how many other villainous organizations could move in to strike or simply plunder? And now there was a time deadline for us to prevent it all.

  Of course, this is why Q2 was founded in the first place.

  “Okay,” Quanta said. “We have people working on the electromagnetic pulse side of things. The twins couldn’t get their hands on 18 nuclear bombs, so they’ve developed something else that mimics the electromagnetic effect. Then we have the drones which will carry the devices. The files you found from Brown’s office really only detail the financial and deadline elements of that transaction. He’s not stupid; he doesn’t have anything in print about where the drones were actually built, nor does he list any names on that side.”

  “Keeps it all in his head,” I said. “We could pick up Brown and hold him for a while.”

  “On what charge? Again, we can’t do anything that will create a legal firestorm and potentially bring Q2 under the microscope. Besides, picking him up only confirms that we’re on their tail.”

  I grimaced. “I think we can assume they have a pretty good idea someone is on to them. Which means we have to pinpoint that base. I refuse to believe they’ve just rented a space for something this important. Security is everything for them, and they need a location where outside people won’t accidentally trip over anything.” I thought about that for a few seconds. “Quanta, other than the information on power stations around the country, what’s turned up from that computer tap I installed in Telluride?”

  “Not much. They’ve used it sparingly, and it’s obviously not the primary repository for the operation.”

  More time ticked by. I waited and pondered way more than I acted. Catching evil assholes isn’t just running around with a gun or holding on to the outside of a speeding helicopter, Mr. Cruise. It’s mostly trying to think of what the assholes are scheming and then moving your chess piece first to block them.

  Another big chunk of time was spent coming up with metaphors. It’s exhausting.

  On a whim I asked Poole: “Hey, where’s the mom?”

  She looked confused. “It’s not easy finding much on her. Why?”

  “Remember I mentioned how odd they acted whenever I tried to talk about her? She’s definitely off limits, but I’d like to have a chat with her if I could.”

  “I’ll keep digging.”

  “Please do,” I said.

  Quanta looked skeptical. “What relevance do you think that has?”

  “Maybe no relevance whatsoever. But I’d still like to track her down. Just a strange, gut feeling from my dinner date with the weirdo twins.”

  The boss gave a quick nod. “Well, we’re definitely at the point where any little scrap of information could reveal something important. I might also send you to Tulsa.”

  “I don’t want to go to Tulsa.” Her only response was a look of weariness. “All right, what’s in Tulsa?”

  “Gillian Ormond was spotted there. Granted, there’s a LoGo office in Tulsa, but it’s not a critical outlet. We’re thinking her trip might have something to do with the pulse generation.”

  I didn’t stifle my groan. Nothing against the good people of Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. But I’d already wracked up almost 6,500 miles in air and road travel, dined with psychotic sibs, seen a young woman strangled, and been sorely tempted by deep-fried cornmeal balls. That’s enough for anyone in a month, let alone five days.

  Besides, what I really wanted — but couldn’t tell Quanta — was to spend 48 hours with my wife. I missed her. And, dammit, I wanted to sleep in my own bed. Or at least next door in Christina’s bed, the one with more pillows per square inch than any bed in existence.

  And then there was her cooking. I would force the shitty body to tolerate every single dream dish she created.

  I shook the thoughts from my head. If I didn’t help stop this EMP attack, there might never be any more cooking in the Stadler Building in D.C., or anywhere else. If stopping the assault meant a detour to Tulsa, well . . .

  We spent the next five minutes making sure we weren’t duplicating work. Poole had a handful of research projects to dive into, so she signed off. The boss and I discussed how I’d now handle Hash Brown, and we agreed I’d just call him to say things were on hold for the time being. He could keep the $1,000 for his trouble and I’d be back in touch. That should make him happy.

  The last thing I asked about was an update on Richter. Given his proclivity for eliminating our sources of information I kinda wanted to know where he was going. If he suddenly had a trip booked to Houston, I’d like to know why. Quanta said it was a blank right now. Richter’s whereabouts were unknown.

  We agreed to touch base again later in the afternoon. I disconnected and stretched. Another long walk sounded good, especially since the day looked sunny and warm. I opened the curtain on the motel room window to see if there were any clouds on the horizon.

  And immediately pulled the curtain back, leaving a sliver of opening to peer through. There was a man standing outside the motel’s office, talking on his phone. He was wearing a baseball cap, but his sunglasses were perched up on top of it, revealing his face. Big mistake.

  It was the man who’d been wearing the hotel manager’s jacket in Oregon, the man enquiring about water pressure. Richter’s little buddy. One of the killers. Possibly this Parnell character. Standing 75 feet away from me in central Georgia, casually sticking a piece of gum into his mouth as he continued his call.

  Well, well, well. Once again it was showtime.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I kept an eye on Richter’s buddy while everything began to click into place.

  The brains behind this deadly operation at LoGo were even more security conscious than we’d thought. Every single element was protected. Marty had squealed based on his suspicions, and they’d eliminated him. When it came out that he had a girlfriend who knew too much, she was erased.

  We’d assumed a simple request of Sgt. Brown would seem to be just another business transaction. Not LoGo. Apparently Hash had been paid to not only provide the goods, but to be acutely aware of anyone requesting similar supplies. He was probably on the phone before I’d left his parking lot.

  Dammit, and I’d dropped Shelley’s name, the server at Racey’s. I hoped they hadn’t gone to her for information, but it was likely they had. Would that have been an innocent interrogation, or had Shelley been reluctant to say much? That wouldn’t have ended well for her.

  After that it was only a matter of finding this guy ‘Eric’ who’d been curious about specialized drones and tossed around some cash. I’m sure the security team behind LoGo’s operation thought it might be nothing, but with so much on the line they took no chances. Anyone who prompted so much as an ounce of suspicion would have to be removed from the equation. And there weren’t that many motels near the Surplus and Supply.

  And there also was no back door to this motel room.

  Richter’s associate was still there, talking on the phone, but he’d lowered the sunglasses and was looking back down the road. I took my own phone from my pocket and called
Poole. When she answered I said, “One of the killers from Portland is here. At the motel.”

  She may have had very little experience so far, but I had to admit Poole had the makings of a great team member. After just three seconds of processing, and without any gasps of surprise, she cooly said: “Not Richter, but the other man?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no sign of Richter?”

  “No. But he’s either here or checking out other motels. I’m going to work. Just wanted to let you know the situation. If I don’t call back within 30 minutes, things have gone poorly.”

  “Understood. I’ll be here.”

  I hung up. The guy stepped back into the motel office, which gave me a chance to get outside. I slipped on a jacket to cover my holster, made sure I had extra clips on me, and opened the door. A quick glance in each direction revealed no one standing outside the sleepy motel or sitting in a car. My target was still out of sight to the right. I slipped outside, leaving the door open a few inches, and moved to my left until I reached the end of the building. Once there, I pulled out the Glock and held it to my side while peering back around the corner.

  There was laughter and the man came back outside with the manager, the same older woman who’d checked me in. They were having a good time about something. Shit, this guy was good. He could get anyone on his side quickly, probably oozing trustworthiness and charm. He even had a hand on her shoulder. The woman had no clue that just a few hours earlier that same hand was crushing the throat of another trusting woman. In minutes he’d become the manager’s best friend and she’d have no qualms sharing what she knew.