Whack Job Read online

  “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 Presid
ent 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…”

  ***

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “A Favor”

  Sunday night.

  Yee chose the restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton, The Brigadoon, for its anonymity. The intel meeting had gone well although she could feel the disdain rolling off Brubaker and MacCauley like cold off a glacier. The military mindset always wanted a military solution. Which was why terrorism existed--to deny the military solution.

  Brubaker had lost his only son in the Gulf War, which conferred on him a certain moral dimension. He had also been black ops. He was not one of those men who jumped from desk to desk until they reached the top. MacCauley saw Red Chinese under his bed. Panny was a good soldier and had no dog in this fight. Lubitch was in over his head.

  Yee had issued a memorandum last winter containing disinformation that eventually turned up on Wikileaks. Somewhere in the complicated cortex where NSA, FBI, CIA, and Homeland met there was a leak. Yee had taken it upon herself to track it down. The next couple of days would be interesting.

  She was seated in the back in a corner banquette sipping Merlot when she saw the maitre’ d escorting Stella Darling her way. An overweight tourist seated with his wife and two fidgety kids could not prevent his eyes from tracking Darling across the floor.

  Tall and shapely in a gray Ralph Lauren skirted suit that complemented her figure and cover girl all American perfection, she wore her honey blond hair in a pageboy and carried an old-fashioned Gladstone by its strap over one shoulder. Darling never carried a purse. It was all in the Gladstone, including, Yee had heard, a .38 revolver. A gift from her daddy.

  Yee rose to her full five one to greet the criminal defense attorney. “Thank you for coming, Stella.”

  Darling took her hand warmly. “Of course.”

  They both slid onto the red leather bench. A pale young man in black vest and white shirt appeared to take their drink orders. Yee ordered another Merlot. Darling ordered a Grey Goose vodka straight up with a twist. Darling’s dark and puffy eyes were the only indication of the strain she was under. Darling pulled out a contact lens lubricant and dumped an ounce in each eye.

  “These contacts.”

  “Don’t wear them, dear. Eyeglasses look good on you.”

  Darling chuckled ruefully. “I know. Sam always insisted I wear contacts. ‘Girls who wear glasses don’t often get passes,’ he told me. It’s an old habit. I’ve been thinking of having my eyes lasered, but too many people tell me horror stories.”

  The waiter came with their drinks and discreetly withdrew. It was eight-thirty in the evening, the earliest Darling could get away after spending all day shepherding her client through the psychological evaluation procedure. It didn’t help that Lester Durant was kept chained and shackled.

  Yee held up her glass. “To Sam.”

  “To Sam.” They clinked. Yee sipped. Darling drained half the glass.

  She set it down and fixed her slightly bloodshot blue eyes on the NSA honcho. “How can I help?”

  “We’d like you to bring Otto White in.”

  Darling blinked several times. “For what?”

  “To head up a team to find and neutralize whatever it is that killed the Senator, and has killed at least twelve others of whom we know. I’m talking about spontaneous human combustion.”

  Darling lowered her voice although nobody was around a
nd they were speaking directly to one another. “There have been others?”

  “This is top secret, Stella.”

  Darling flashed a nervous grin. “Why Otto?”

  “He was a smoke jumper in college. He was a volunteer fire fighter for the Poudre Canyon district before he joined the Army where he was a military policeman and became a certified arson investigator. He has extensive counter-espionage experience but most importantly he has something we call the X-factor, the ability to do the totally unexpected and get results.”

  Darling smiled ruefully. “That’s for sure. We were at St. Exupery one night and there’s a foreign couple eating a table away. They looked Middle Eastern. Waiter brings their meal, Otto gets up, goes over, grabs the white linen tablecloth and yanks it out from under the dishes. Of course, not being a magician everything on the table went with it. Then he turns to the freaked out couple and says, ‘I’m so sorry. I thought I could pull it off.’

  “I had to pay for their meal and the broken dishes. ‘What the hell?!’ I said to him as soon as we got out of there. Tells me the man was an Al Qaeda agent and they were listening in on us.”

  Yee’s small black eyes sparkled. “I never heard that.”

  “I had to pay the staff a couple hundred to shut them up.”

  “You don’t happen to know the name of the unfortunate diners he interrupted?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Did he ever regard you with suspicion?”

  Stella looked surprised. “Me? Never. That’s one thing about Otto. ‘An elephant’s faithful one hundred per cent.’ An old-fashioned Boy Scout. It killed me to break it off with him, but what could I do? He was hallucinating ninja out of the woodwork. Every time we met he dumped my purse upside down on the table.”

  Yee glanced at the Gladstone. “That thing?”

  “Sam gave it to me. I call it my purse.”

  “This incident at St. Xupe. Was this before he was hospitalized?”