Whack Job (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

“WTF?”

Vernon Price smiled at the young couple from Maryland. He was a lean, gray man who radiated competence. “Okay. We’re twelve miles from Tweedy State Park where there’s a little lake. Or you can put into the James right here on the property. You can put in anywhere. We’re seeing a lot of kayakers around here lately.”

The young man handed Price his credit card. “Do you get HBO?”

“HBO, Showtime, every major league game, you name it, plus an extensive collection of movies on demand.”

Sudden movement drew Price’s attention to the window. Darling’s delicious dumpling ran barefoot and half-naked toward the office. A prickle of alarm marched down Price’s spine. Something in her desperate pumping told him she wasn’t exercising. He flashed an apologetic grin at the young couple.

“Folks, if you’ll excuse me one minute--it’s just one thing after another around here.”

The young man shrugged quizzically. “Sure.”

Price bolted from behind the counter and exited the front door, taking the three front steps in one leap. He had to intercept her before she reached the office. Whatever had happened was not for tourists.

Price jogged toward her, hands up, palms out, stopping her twenty meters from the main house under a dogwood tree. “Whoa, Sally, whoa! What’s going on?”

She collapsed into his arms wild-eyed, unable to speak, a peculiar smoky odor clinging to her skin. She gestured back down the road. Price looked up to see Day Lilly burst into flames. Poof, like a stunt out of
Fast and Furious
.

Gripping Sally by the shoulders, he marched her quickly to the nearest bungalow, Snapdragon, opened the unlocked door and led her inside. “Are you all right? Are you injured?” he said examining her carefully. She didn’t appear to be hurt, just stunned and in shock. Price sat her down on the bed.

He pulled out his secure phone, the one the agency had given him, and hit the speed dial. Seconds later a man picked up.

“Contingency and planning, Baumgartner speaking.”

“This is Vernon Price at Vern’s resort, retired Service Contractor serial number 879002LP. Do you know where this is?”

“Yessir. What seems to be the problem?”

“I have a cottage that’s burning out of control. Senator Sam Darling is trapped in the cottage.”

“Sir, I’m dispatching a rescue team with medical personnel and fire fighters but it will be…approximately seventy-five minutes before they arrive. Can you hold out?”

Price looked out the window at the bungalow, now completely engulfed in flames. Fortunately it was a hundred feet from the nearest structure and the humid summer meant little chance of the fire spreading. As Price watched, the young couple with the kayaks drove quickly away.

Nothing he could do about that.

It was all Price could do to stay put and not run for the fire extinguisher and the garden hose but he knew from painful experience they would be of little help against such a conflagration. Priorities. First order of business: control the narrative.

Price went into the bathroom and filled a glass with water. He came out and handed the glass to Sally who had curled up on the bed and was weeping. She sat up and drank thirstily. Price knelt before her.

“Sally, I know this is difficult but we have to get our stories straight before the police arrive. What happened?”

Sally looked up, mascara running from her eyes like mudslides. “He seemed a little jumpy when we drove out and in the cabin he seemed feverish--he was sweating and smoke was pouring from his mouth and ears.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds crazy! I swear to God he started smoking like a chimney! Then he blew up.”

Price knew who Sam was. And he knew who Sally was. With the fracking bill before the Senate next week it seemed unlikely the senator’s death was a coincidence.

The high wail of a first responder penetrated the bungalow. The Appomattox County Rural Fire Department was the first to arrive.

“Sally, can you stay in here until we get this straightened out? If they find out who was in the cabin there’s going to be a big media brouhaha.”

Sally swallowed and nodded. She knew how to play the game.

With a sigh Price went out to meet the fire department.

***

CHAPTER SIX

“A National Crisis”

Sunday.

The White House Situation Room was on the ground floor of the West Wing. Two Secret Service Agents stood at the entrance. A Secret Service agent guarded the White House elevator hidden in a pantry off the renovated kitchen, which led to the Secure Room, two floors below street level, lined with lead and designed to withstand a 50 megaton hit.

Adjacent to the Situation Room was the computer room housing a Cray XT5 with over 224,000 processing cores. A wall of monitors cast the only light in the climate-controlled op center, manned 24/7 by a staff of five including two West Point graduates, a Yalie, and two scruffy hackers who’d been recruited by the CIA. The President’s, indeed, most of Congress’ e-mail accounts were subject to unrelenting cyber-warfare.

There were hundreds of malware cells around the world whose sole goal was to disrupt the communications of the United States government. Iran alone sponsored thirty. China had an unknown number. The Russkis were said to have sixteen. Even allies such as Israel, Brazil, and Saudi Arabia tried to look up Uncle Sam’s pants.

Hence the NSA’s Advanced Networks Operations (ANO) team, a group of mostly young computing experts assembled in 2006 to hunt for suspicious activity on the government’s secure networks. Their office was a nondescript windowless room in Ops1, a boxy, low-rise building on the 660-acre campus of the NSA.

Each of the twenty-one computers in the White House computer room was shielded by a metal box and had no connection to the internet or to each other. The shielding was to prevent their disruption by an electro-magnetic pulse. The system ran on a small nuclear reactor unconnected to any outside power grid that had been installed in Spring, ‘02, at then-Presidential advisor Dick Cheney’s direction. There were no wireless mice and no wireless keyboards because those signals could be intercepted and the data captured.

Those entering the room had to surrender their cell phones, laptops, even their remote control car door locks because those devices were all capable of sending and receiving signals. Data was gathered at numerous CIA/HSA agencies around the country and thoroughly laundered through redundant systems before it was allowed to enter the secure room.

Inside the Situation Room, the President sat grimly at the head of a carrier-shaped mahogany table with a Sony iBook softly glowing at his elbow. Each of the seven others seated at the table had a similar laptop tuned to the news feed about the shocking death of Senator Darling in an automobile accident. He was alleged to have been driving alone when he went off the road, rolled down a bank and the car burst into flames. It was possible he was distracted by talking on his phone. The world waited for the autopsy report even as the Appomattox County coroner hinted that there might not be enough left to autopsy.

In reality the senator’s remains had been transported to Bethesda Naval Hospital.

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, Dr. Hayley Gross, a communicable-disease expert from CDC with a Level 5 clearance, and General Arthur MacCauley, head of the Joint Chiefs. At the far end of the table sat WH Chief of Staff Murray Compton.

The room was dimly lit by sconces set low to the lush cocoa pile rug, which along with the insulation removed all sharp objects from the ear. For a moment the only sound was General Panny clearing his throat and the gentle susurrus of the air conditioning. A funk of anxiety permeated the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the President said, “As you know Senator Darling did not die from an automobile accident. He spontaneously erupted bringing the total number of these events to six this year. I don’t know how much longer we can keep the lid on. Once this gets out we can expect a firestorm. We don’t know if it’s a disease or a new form of terrorism. We have videos of two of the immolations. These will be issued on a locked disc. They are disturbing.

“I have instructed the NSA and HS to issue a heightened alert.” He paused as if searching for words. “We’re trying to find out how far back these go. I don’t know if you remember--that radical cleric in Cairo two years ago, went down in flames? Al Qaeda took credit.”

Yee raised her palm and let it fall to the table. She was a diminutive Asian woman and had served three Presidents. “Mr. President I learned only moments before this meeting that Dmitri Yakovitch the oil magnate died in a sudden blaze at his dacha on the Black Sea. From the press blackout I assume he spontaneously erupted. That makes seven.”

The President hunched as if expecting a blow. With his rugged face and mane of silver hair he looked like Pixar’s idea of the ideal Commander in Chief. “Margaret will head up this task force. Anything you need just ask. I want you to identify the source of these attacks and neutralize them. Not a word to anyone. If this gets out we will have panic.”

No matter whom he named to head up the task force, some were bound to be disappointed. But there was no objection. Those seated at the table had all long ago learned to mask their feelings behind a diplomatic face.

The President turned to Hayley Gross. “Dr. Gross, is there anything in your experience that would explain this?”

The model-thin Gross, designer glasses perched on her ax-shaped nose, consulted her PowerBook. “John E. Heymer in his book
The Entrancing Flame
advanced the theory that the victims all suffered from depression and fell into a coma shortly before they combusted. Heymer believed that their subconscious released hydrogen and oxygen molecules within the body setting off a chain reaction.

“Arthur C. Clarke wrote, ‘There’s one mystery I’m asked about more than any other: spontaneous human combustion.’ Some cases seem to defy explanation, and leave me with a creepy and very unscientific feeling. If there’s anything more to SHC, I simply don’t want to know.” She closed the laptop.

“I have been interested in SHC my whole life, but I have yet to find any scientific evidence that the body itself can spontaneously combust. The human body is mostly water. Moreover if your source is correct, Sen. Darling was hardly depressed. Just the opposite.”

The President turned to General Panny who seemed too small for his dress uniform. Pale gray stipple formed a skullcap on his narrow face. “Rolf?”

“What worries me, Mr. President, is that this seems to be some new kind of technology. There hasn’t been enough left of the victims to fill a matchbox, much less provide for an autopsy. Human flesh is hard to burn. Crematoria require a sustained heat of 1,700 degrees Fahrenheit for up to three hours. These combustions appear to generate from the inside out and are complete inside ninety seconds. This requires an incredible source of energy.”

Luther Brubaker cleared his throat. He might have played a kindly family doctor on television but his reputation was of a no-nonsense take-no-prisoners executive who got things done while irritating as many people as possible. He’d been a field agent and had firsthand experience with black ops. “Mr. President, we have been conducting experiments with microwaves, as you know. We have been unable to achieve anything like this and we’ve been at it for twelve years.”

“So have the Russians,” Panny said.

“So have the Chinese,” MacCauley said.

The President fixed his piercing green eyes on Lubitch. “Howard, could there be a connection between Darling’s role as Chairman of the Energy Independence Committee and these attacks?”

“We’ve been looking into this since we got the directive,” the FBI Director said. “These other victims have only a peripheral relationship to the energy industry, if any. Petrovich--that’s new. He was oil. The problem is there’s nothing left after these immolations to autopsy. We’re hoping to get a break on the next one.”

“Mr. President,” Yee said in her soft but perfect voice. “As you know, we employ the Project Genesis system to select the appropriate personnel. We initiated a search pursuant to your directive last night. This morning the program identified the contractor most likely to succeed with an 89% probability, Otto H. White, a retired CIA operative.”

Brubaker’s lips formed a grim line. “Aardvark White? Seriously?”

***

CHAPTER SEVEN

“An Unlikely Choice”

The President turned to Brubaker. “What about him?”

“Otto White was given a medical discharge last year after displaying symptoms of paranoia and acute schizophrenia. He was part of a six-man team inserted into Libya in April ‘11. Due to faulty intelligence they walked into an ambush. White was one of four survivors and managed to escape into the desert where he survived eating ants.

“White had an excellent record. He’d been in the field for nine years--that’s too long for anybody. We should have seen the signs. He never should have been sent into Libya.” Brubaker would know. He had been in the field ten years.

“Was that Operation Firebrand?” the President said.

“Yes sir,” Brubaker replied.

“Mr. President,” Yee said, “White has an uncanny ability to think outside the box and do the unexpected, often with very positive results. That’s why he’s the best man for the job. He’s also an arson investigator. And lucky.”

“What do you mean, lucky?”

“Just that. He’s phenomenally lucky. He wins at slots. He wins at roulette. It’s not something that can be taught. You’ve either got it or you don’t.”

The President turned to his right. “Rolf?”

“It’s Margaret’s call.”

Chief of Staff Murray Compton said, “I’ll have his casebook and profile on your desk this morning, Mr. President.”

Brubaker pushed the bridge of his glasses up with a forefinger. “There’s a good chance he’ll turn us down. If we can find him. My understanding is that he went off the grid. Lives in the mountains somewhere like Liver Eater Johnson.”

“After his return to the U.S. and until shortly after his discharge,” Yee said, “White had an affair with Senator Darling’s daughter Stella. I’ve been in contact with Stella and she’s willing to bring him in.”

“Stella Darling,” the President said. “Why does that ring a bell?”

“She’s defending the Below the Beltline Sniper, Mr. President,” Yee said.

“That’s right.”

The sniper, so-dubbed because he’d committed most of his crimes just south of the 395, had murdered six people in a week-long shooting spree, most of them in their cars. The victims had all been persons of substance: lawyers, lobbyists, venture capitalists. Two of their vehicles had burst into flames and incinerated their occupants. The police believed shots had ignited the fuel tanks.

When apprehended Lester Durant claimed that he had been aiming at “the spiders.”

“Isn’t she in the middle of a trial?” Brubaker said.

“Court’s adjourned until next week.”

“Do you know the daughter?” the President said.

Yee gave a tight little nod. “I’ve met her. I liked and admired Sen. Darling despite his rebarbative political predilections. I’ll ask her today.”

Compton, who resembled a dot-com millionaire with his Beatle hair and tinted glasses, cocked his head as his headset spoke softly. He looked up. All eyes were on the President. He caught the President’s eye and tapped his headset twice.

“Murray?”

“Folks, if you’ll tune your laptops to the in-house feed.”

All turned their attention to their computers. Within seconds they had tuned to the Situation Room news feed. On screen: dozens of police and first responder vehicles arrayed in front of a nondescript office building in a commercial strip. One end was ablaze as firefighters maneuvered their hoses.

The news scroll along the bottom streamed: “Office attack leaves four dead…building set on fire…Volt Media President Lewis Stark allegedly pulled a gun and began shooting his employees…developing…”

***