Seven Unholy Days (6 page)

Since that night, he had worked methodically toward the fulfillment of The Plan, and sought to recreate the ambiance of the Mirage Theater whenever possible. His passion was only fueled when he heard one of the majestic tigers had dragged one of the silly showmen off the stage by his throat. It all fit. Light. Dark. Power. Ferocity. The overwhelming predominance of the color black in the underground bunker/residence served as dramatic testimony to his effort to recreate that seminal room of inspiration.

His obsession with the paranormal, the supernatural, and everything in between was reflected in the trappings of the main room. Books and historical documents were everywhere. Nostradamus shared shelf space with a dozen other prophets of lesser notoriety but similar genre. A large group of works by and about da Vinci detailed the many years he spent in search of a hidden code in the text of the Bible. A much later publication by Michael Drosnin told the story of the code finally being found by Israeli mathematician Eli Rips, launching a series of the same ilk by numerous unknowns. No less than a hundred UFOlogy books were there.

More astonishing than all the other categories combined were the enormous variety of Bibles. Bibles from every era, ev
ery denomination, and every translation. One copy sat conspicuously in a lighted glass display case in the middle of the room, a thousand-year-old copy of The Torah in its original Hebrew text. The ancient version of the first books of The Old Testament would have been at home as the pride and joy of a Judaic museum. To be certain, it had been, but money in sufficient quantity can buy many things from a multitude of nefarious sources.

At the moment, while his followers above worked like drones, Hart sat huddled over a large King James Version of the Holy Bible. Though he knew them all by heart, he pored over the words of its apocalyptic final book, absorbing them into his very soul, becoming one with the prophecies.

Without warning, like an explosion inside his head, he thought of Matthew Decker. His stomach seethed with acid and bile climbed the back of his throat. Hardier North America, the U.S. subsidiary of Hart’s company, Hardier Enterprises, had been the early front-runner to capture the design contract for the power grid control infrastructure. Then Decker’s bought-and-paid-for politicians stepped in and cried foul because Hardier wasn’t a “real” American corporation.

Congressional hearings went on for months. Hart refused to attend personally but teams of lawyers argued on his behalf while lobbyists doled out his money in the backrooms of Was
hington. When the chicanery was done, Decker Digital had the contract. Monies spent chasing the contract were for naught. The loss in potential revenue was enormous. The humiliation of having the coveted contract publicly stolen from him was worse, and the delay it introduced into the master plan was unforgivable.

The infantile American media covered the progress of the a
ffair ad nauseum and treated Decker like a celebrity afterward. “Join us tonight, when our special guest will be technology wizard Matt Decker.” “Up next, Matt Decker. Will his name join the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates?” “Don’t miss Matt Decker tonight.”

Vile blather it was, even reliving it as a memory, but he closed his eyes and took deep relaxation breaths, shaping his hatred for Decker into worthwhile passion. Decker failed to comprehend what the Glorious Beginning was even about, much less stop it. Now it was time to toy with Mr. Decker, to enjoy his demise the way a beer-drinking American slob might enjoy a football game.

The irony was a thing of beauty: Decker would play the game, trying uselessly to stop the Distraction Events. And while he lost battle after battle, time would march inexorably toward the spectacular
real
conclusion.

9

10:20 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

GREAT CENTRAL ELECTRIC

             
Trying to break into my own code was an unnatural experience, like knowing someone was trashing my house while I stood locked outside. Abdul showed up about an hour after we got there and had been rattling the keys alongside me ever since.

Simple fixes wouldn’t work this time. The malicious code had been inserted and the system locked down through a s
equence of deep encryption routines, the very style of lockdown I had planned to implement as a security barrier.

“Maybe you should have constructed some back doors into the system,” Abdul said while he entered a flurry of keystrokes that resulted in another ACCESS DENIED message.

“Most people consider back doors unethical.”

“I am sorry, Matt Decker. I do not mean to say—”

“Don’t worry about it. I did, but somebody bolted them shut.”

“No one will know from me,” he said with a wink.

The telephone networks, even cellular, were holding up pretty well under internal backup power, but everyone was trying to call someone, and the result was a snarled tangle of congestion. “All circuits are busy” was the mantra. It took Tark hours to reach and cancel the incoming crew he had worked so feverishly to line up the night before. Around nine, I volunteered to keep an eye on things while he went home for a shower and a quick nap. He accepted.

No one had seen or heard from Brett Fulton, which was just as well since he was useless for the deep tech mission Abdul and I were working.

“Where can I find James Tarkleton?” a voice behind me said.

“Mr. Tarkleton is away from the complex at the moment,” I said as I turned around. “I’m Matt Decker.”

The guy stopped in his tracks and stared. “I know who you are. Why are you here?”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Special Agent Bob Rowe, FBI.” He flashed his credentials. I guessed him to be about six-four, three inches taller than me. I initiated the handshake. His was perfect, eye contact intense and unwavering—a little too intense, something else was buried there. His face and frame were lean but solid. He looked mid-forties and made an impression.

“Mr. Decker, I’m sure you can appreciate the gravity of the situation we find ourselves in. For security reasons the onsite privileges of all civilians, including government contractors, have been suspended. You’ll have to leave now.”

“Like hell I will. I was left in charge of this facility and I’ll remain so until relieved by Tarkleton.”

“It’s not optional, Decker. Let’s not make more of a scene than exists already.”

“Agent Rowe, is it? I assure you I have the authority to be here. In fact, my clearance probably trumps yours.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“I’m Restricted Data, about a notch and a half above Top Secret. What are you?”

“Leave this place, Mr. Decker. Now.”

“You’re wasting your breath. I’m glad the Bureau is here, and I’ll be happy to work with you, but if you want me out of here you better start figuring out how you plan to do it. And you better go get some help.”

He reached to grab me and instinct took over. Inside two s
econds I had his arm twisted behind his back and was prepared to relieve him of his weapon should he be foolhardy enough to touch it.

“You know what the penalty is for assaulting a federal o
fficer, Mr. Decker?”

“Worst case? A slap on the wrist and a fine I can pay and never miss, Rowe. This case? Nothing. I’m not just any contra
ctor. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’m the man the United States government wants on this problem right now and I suspect you’ll find that out soon enough.”

I let go of his arm and turned him around to face me in as non-threatening a manner as was possible under the circu
mstances. I looked him in the eye and said, “There are a grand total of two people here to work on this problem right now, and I’ll ask you politely to step aside and let us go to work. If you have investigative questions you’d like to ask, you may ask them while we work. Is that a fair compromise?”

He didn’t blink or flinch, but in his eyes I saw that it had been a long time since anyone challenged Special Agent Bob Rowe.

Two more obvious agents walked in and were headed our way in a hurry. A stocky man with a trademark Bureau haircut and an anorexic-looking woman dressed in a navy blue power suit.

“Everything okay here, Bob?” Stocky said to Rowe while he glared at me.  Stocky’s wardrobe gave me pause. He was the first Bureau man I’d seen wearing twenty-five hundred dollars worth of work clothes. I wanted to see his file for sure.

“Under control,” Rowe said. Then he turned back to me. “I’ll let you stay, Decker. For now.”

“I appreciate that, Agent Rowe.”

“You can assist.”

“Excuse me?”

I heard a commotion at the door. The second wave of the FBI invasion hit, four scraggly-looking cracker types—hackers are legitimate wizards despite the misuse of the word in the movies—loaded down with computer gear. One of the Bureau’s teams of criminal techs performing “rehab” work for the government as a way to avoid jail time. I had no doubt they recognized me.

“My people will be handling the computer problems now,” Rowe said. I looked at Stocky, who was staring at me as if I were public enemy number one. Skinny was setting up shop in a corner.

“There will be hell to pay for this stunt, Rowe. These guys know nothing about these systems.”

“You’re a greedy fascist, dude,” one of the hackers said to me. “Information should be free.”

“Whatever,” I said, then turned back to Rowe. “You can’t be serious about turning this bunch loose in here. You could have at least brought genuine Bureau pros.”

“They’ll learn quickly enough. They may be a bunch of mi
sfits but they’re the best of the best, the real experts in this game.” The label didn’t seem to bother them. They were busy unpacking gear.

“You’re a real piece of work, Rowe.”

“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw rocks, Decker.”

“Meaning what?”

“The Bureau has a long memory. We don’t think you’re so much a technology wizard as a technicality wizard.”

“I see.”

“I thought you would.”

Abdul’s brow had scrunched up in a knot, his dark comple
xion reddening as he rose from his chair. “You are fools. Matt Decker is the—”

“It’s okay, Abdul. Let’s help them out,” I said with a wink only he could see.

“Yes, Matt Decker,” he said as he eased back down.

11:51 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

After seeing the crew the FBI sent, I was double-glad I hadn’t mentioned the email to them. I shuddered at the thought of the Pierced Nose Gang running roughshod through my la
ptop. No, keeping that message out of their hands and minds was working just fine, especially when there was nothing to gain from exposing it. For the moment, 69 was a dead end and there were more pressing issues at hand.

“Mr. Decker, Mr. Tarkleton on the blue line for you,” the secretary said over the intercom.

I took the call in the lounge, out of earshot of Rowe and his posse. “Decker here.”

“Matthew, any headway?”

“No. The FBI showed up with a bunch of cyber-thugs and put them to work. They’re giving me a pretty hard time about being here. Still haven’t heard from Fulton.”

“Are they crazy? Do they know who you are?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Why would they not want you on this case?”

“I’ve made a few enemies in the FBI over the years, Tark. Nothing worth talking about, but law enforcement grudges run long and deep.”

“I’m apt to make some enemies myself as soon as I can get back but in the meantime we have another problem. The admi
nistrator of the hospital in Tupelo is a friend of mine and he just called me on my cell phone. Their generator is still down and the part to repair it is two days away. They have patients who are going to die soon without surgery. We have to get this grid back up, even if we have to do it manually.”

“Tell them to expect power in thirty to forty-five minutes.” I hung up the phone. Maybe other hospitals were faring better with their emergency power, but I had to deal with what was in my face.

Back in the control room, the crackers were finding out they weren’t quite so sharp when faced with state-of-the-art code instead of the shoddy corporate servers they were accustomed to plundering. I managed a few moments of pride until I remembered I was locked out too.

I leaned over and whispered to Abdul, “Every power plant in our district is still operational, right?”

“Yes. The power is still available but simply cannot pass through the grid switches to be in delivery.”

“Let’s get ready to manually engage Central Grid One.”

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yes sir.”

“Dude, this is some radical code. You need to clue us in on this stuff,” the head cracker said. He had neon green hair and at least a pound of metal in his face.

“I don’t have time to baby-sit you. Besides, you’re the real experts, right?”

Stocky heard the exchange and plodded over to my station. “Honcho, I’d advise you to start cooperating with our people in a hurry.”

“We haven’t been introduced yet,” I said as I extended my hand. “I’m Matt Decker.”

“I don’t want to shake your damn hand.”

“Suit yourself.”

He bent down close enough for me to smell his foul breath. “I can’t wait for the day when I slap a pair of cuffs on your a
rrogant ass. And next time you won’t squirm away, you dirty bastard.”

He did an about face and left, his face in a blood-red snarl, the tail of his Armani jacket flapping in his wake. Abdul looked at me with a questioning look but I just shrugged and said, “Let’s get busy.”

It took us twenty-two minutes to make the checks and route all the circuit bypasses needed for a manual override grid engagement. Impressive work. I’d have to speak to Mr. Abidi about a more lucrative future for him when this was over. If he checked out straight, he’d be a bargain at triple his current salary.

It was a risky move but people were in danger and I couldn’t sit on my hands. I sounded the countdown: “Five ... four ... three—”

“Exactly what are you two counting down over there, Decker?” Rowe said.

“While your boys were jacking around, we were getting ready to turn the power back on. That okay with you?”

“You got it fixed?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“How’d you pull a bitchrod move like that? We can’t get past the first layer,” a cracker said.

“Imagine that. Go play solitaire, son. Abdul, let’s go. Five ... four ... three ... two ... one—”

The secretary burst through the door waving a piece of paper.

“This better be important,” I said.

“I think you’ll want to read this, Mr. Decker.”

The fax was a printout of an email, forwarded to us by none other than the White House. The sender’s email address was all too familiar:

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

To the President of the United States:

For too long, the United States’ arrogance has offended the world. Now you have only begun to pay. Your country will now be subject to a series of retributory occurrences as punishment for your transgressions and your iniquity. For what you have wrought, you will tremble mightily.

I trust the reach of my power has been aptly demonstrated to all concerned. Any circumvention of my Decree of Darkness will result in consequences more harsh than those you already have in store. Ye have been duly warned.

By the way, what do you think of your splendiferous power grid now?

Rowe was dialing the phone by the time I stopped reading. He apparently had some priority codes that moved his calls through the phone system. “Bob Rowe onsite at Yellow Creek. What information do we have on that email ... yes ... I see ... come again ... well, there’s no need to go looking for him, he’s right here ... hold on.” He cupped the phone. “Decker, seems you were right. The Director just put out a bulletin for you to be located and brought in on the case. They’re patching this call through to him now.” He handed me the phone.

“Matt Decker here.”

“Hold for the director.”

Ten seconds later, he was on the line. “Mr. Decker, this is Keen Brandon, director of the FBI. Have you been briefed on the situation?”

“I haven’t been briefed per se, but I’ve been here at Central since it all began yesterday. I saw the three states drop, I’ve seen two murder victims, and I’ve been here nonstop since shortly after the main drop last night. Unless there’s something different going on elsewhere, I’m as up to speed as anyone.”