The IRIS Algorithm, page 22
A searing pain carved an opening deep in my brain, flashed colors behind my eyes. Simone? Simone?” Someone far away called me. “Simone?” No, it was close. Familiar. Logan. I blinked hard to re-focus my eyes. Logan stared at me squint-eyed and too close.
My brain rebooted. “Do I have spinach in my teeth?” I wonder these things when people look at me closely.
“What?” Logan grabbed his forehead to prevent frustration from blowing his skull open. I have that effect on people.
“I’m sorry…uh…so here is the thing,” I struggled to complete the reboot. “Could we go back to where they are taking Samuel out of the country, and Colonel Burns wants to shoot the plane down or we may lose him forever? Exactly how does shooting the plane my son is flying in prevent losing him forever?”
Burns replied without hesitation or emotion. “They’ve boarded the plane and will soon taxi for takeoff. I suggested we disable the plane on the ground. Unfortunately, we only have three assets on the ground and minimal firepower. We believe we can use small arms fire to prevent the aircraft from taking off—”
Martin broke in, “Then what? If you don’t kill the boy blasting holes in the aircraft, there will be a firefight on the tarmac. You said there are eleven other people onboard.” Martin’s agitation was uncharacteristically visible.
“Only four, perhaps five, of their people, appear to be security capable; however, your point is valid. It will be messy.” Burns was unaffected by Martin’s criticism. I liked that. “The alternative is that the aircraft takes off, fully fueled, with a 7,000 mile range. It could be going anywhere.”
“Got it,” Farki piped in. “They filed a flight manifest. They’re flying to Munich. No way of knowing if that’s accurate, but AEM has a significant facility there, including a data center. It would be smart to use IRIS from a European location. From Germany, it will be easy to launch attacks from various European countries, masking the true source of the attack. Germany doesn’t have the Patriot Act. With their privacy laws, it could be a long time before anyone pinned the attacks on the AEM. Maybe never.”
“Martin, when will the VTI corporate jet touch down in DeFuniak Springs?” Logan asked.
“Within the hour. Why?”
“Can it make a transatlantic flight? To Munich?”
“Of course, but this is madness. We have to call in the authorities. This is beyond our ability to control. You have no passports and no government cover to get you into Germany. You’ll be arrested as soon as you get there.”
“You and I both know that’s not true. I’ve been into and out of countries without permission so many times I’ve lost count,” Logan said. “I bet you have too. You can’t tell me you don’t have a way to get us in.”
Martin took a deep breath. “You are correct, but this redefines short notice.” He moved closer to the camera. “Simone, I sent my personal jet to bring you back to California, to stay with me until this is resolved. You could have been killed this morning. This whole thing is out of control. We need to turn this over to U.S. authorities. They can coordinate with Interpol and German authorities. They will do everything possible to rescue Samuel.” He paused, staring intently into the screen. “There’s also the matter of what those lunatics plan to do with IRIS. People have to be warned. We have to take defensive measures.”
Burns nodded to someone off screen. “The aircraft is taxiing for takeoff. It’s now or never.”
“We can’t risk it,” Logan said. “Tell the team to stand down. Farki, find a way to track that aircraft. Call in every card we have—military, air traffic controllers, NSA, DIA, anyone—but make sure we know exactly where that plane goes.”
“I’m on it.” Farki rattled away on a keyboard.
“Send another plane for Simone. I’m taking the first one to Munich,” Logan said. “Sheldon, we’ll coordinate German resources while I’m en route. We’ve got plenty of assets who can be in place in Munich before they get there.”
Burns didn’t blink. “I’m sure the AEM has plenty of assets in Munich too.”
“Our guys won’t engage. I just need to know where they take the boy,” Logan said.
Martin regained his composure. “Logan, I appreciate your desire to stay on this; however, you can’t go in like the Lone Ranger and expect to succeed. This is beyond your ability. We have to call in the authorities.”
Logan nodded. “I agree. Give me twenty-four hours. They won’t expect the Lone Ranger to show up in Germany. They think they’ve gotten away clean. We can take one more chance to grab Samuel and somehow destroy IRIS. Hell, it will take more than twenty-four hours to explain this to the authorities and another forty-eight for them to figure out what they’re going to do. This isn’t reckless. This is necessary.”
I was back in my dream state, head aching, mind going through a diagnostic systems check. “You got one part wrong Kemo Sabe. I’m going with you.” I do not recall actually seeing an episode of “The Lone Ranger,” but I knew he had a sidekick named Squanto or something, which of course made the lone part inaccurate.
I shook my wanderings away. “Now that I have your undivided attention, listen carefully while I explain just how bad this is going to get if we don’t recover IRIS.”
I took a breath and explained that the world as they knew it would end in less than a week’s time.
CHAPTER 51
OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN – 11:34 A.M.
As the custom-built Bombardier Global 8000 streaked effortlessly toward its cruising altitude of 43,000 feet, Logan took in the high tech opulence. Why was he surprised? This was Stafford’s personal aircraft. He had to have the best of everything, all the time, every time. Before takeoff, Logan inquired about the onboard communication capabilities. The pilot, through a sneer, told him the aircraft cost north of seventy million dollars. State of the art communication capabilities were included in the price. Even Stafford’s hired help had an air of superiority. Smart assed bastard.
Logan told Simone the truth about needing Stafford’s help. Where else could he get a seventy-million-dollar jet at a moment’s notice? Any inference about liking him was a strategic fabrication created to facilitate mission cohesion. Some people called that lying. Whatever.
One thing was for sure, Simone didn’t do strategic fabrication. Her depiction of IRIS enabled calamity was grim. You lived your life thinking the end of the world would involve something terrifying: a nuclear war, an outbreak of some new deadly virus, an attack from unfriendly aliens, maybe zombies, something visibly hideous and mean. Not a mathematical algorithm.
Through Simone, he now saw the end of the world differently.
Since the beginning of time, the world had thrived in proportion to its ability to keep secrets. You can’t come into my cave and hurt me if you don’t know where the opening is. We won’t lower the drawbridge if you don’t know the secret word. The enemy won’t know our battle plans if the courier is captured. It’s written in code the courier can’t read it.
If the old world benefited from secrets, the new digitally connected world absolutely required it. To grant access or deny access. To open doors of information or close them securely. Most of all, the brave new digital world required everyone to believe, without a shadow of doubt, that important information was encrypted, secure, and free from unauthorized manipulation. IRIS was a master key that opened every electronic door. The end of secrets.
Kooks like Obadiah Skeffington and his well-funded American Edification Movement, had preached global financial meltdown and government conspiracies for years. Now, they had a way to fulfill their prophesies. Would the AEM use IRIS to enrich themselves, steal money by transferring to shell accounts? Not likely. By every analysis, the AEM was extremely well funded with an impressive range of shadowy benefactors and day-to-day support from a cult-like dedication of followers. No, they didn’t need IRIS for the money.
It was about power.
Skeffington wanted the power to destroy the global status quo and emerge as the prophet and logical leader of a new world order. He would bring the stock market to its knees in a single day. It would be unable to get back up. Accessing major Wall Street trading accounts, they would have the power to initiate huge buy and sell orders or just sell everything and watch the stock prices plummet. They would have the power to access financial institutions around the world and electronically wipe out their accounts. Financial institutions would be forced back to pencil and paper. Once customers learned their cash really was safer under their mattresses, they would make a run on the banks. There wouldn’t be enough cash in the banks to cover withdrawals.
Retailers wouldn’t be able to accept credit cards because the accounts were locked or their merchant accounts deleted. Phones would stop working. Payroll processors wouldn’t function. Factory workers wouldn’t get their checks. Even if the checks were handwritten, there wouldn’t be a way to cash them. Broadcast companies would be knocked off the air. Medical records, emails, government files, manufacturing systems would come to a screeching halt.
Global chaos. From the ashes, a leader would rise.
Everyone would learn that someone planned and executed the chaos; it wasn’t a temporary glitch. The world would realize no one could put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
The only defense would be to disconnect, go off the electronic grid, while an entirely new encryption system was invented, one not dependent on the difficulty of factoring the products of large primes—since, thanks to IRIS, that would no longer be difficult.
Simone and Stafford agreed a new encryption system could be developed, but it would take years to develop and deploy. No one would have confidence in the system ever again. The illusion of electronic secrets, of cybernetic security forever destroyed. Radioactive zombies from outer space would be an easier fight.
A soft ding in Logan’s headset told him Burns and Farki were ready for the video conference. He swiveled the black, glove leather chair toward the twenty-four-inch, flat monitor. The polished rosewood desk it was mounted on was probably where Stafford ruled his empire while in the air. Logan adjusted the small boom mike. The small VTI lock icon on the lower left corner of the screen meant the link was encrypted and secure. Not for long if they didn’t stop Skeffington.
Given what Simone told them, Logan couldn’t help but think Stafford had the key to his own encryption software. That made Martin eavesdropping on this conference a certainty. Logan’s confidence in the system was already failing and nothing had happened yet. “Gentlemen, we need to discuss our options. Let’s start with target status.”
“AEM’s aircraft is travelling according to flight plan.” Farki looked away from the camera at one of the computer screens arrayed about him. “They’re in a hurry. Cruising at about mach .80, the upper end of the G-650 envelope. About one hour ahead of you.”
“Can we catch up?”
“The Global is a little faster but not enough to close the gap.” Farki tapped the keyboard. “You’ll get there about thirty minutes behind them.”
Burns’ voice a serrated knife-edge, he spoke directly into the camera. “We need to discuss local options and task the necessary resources. Timing is critical.”
This was the part of the conversation Logan didn’t want Stafford to hear. Given the blatant illegality of it, he didn’t want to involve Burns and Farki either, but to pull it off he had to have help. For all those reasons, the beginning of this conversation was completed in a private call to Burns while waiting for Stafford’s plane to land in DeFuniak Springs.
Logan leaned into the aisle, looked toward the elegant rear berth complete with its own private restroom. The door to the berth was open; Simone asleep on her back, her left arm folded over her eyes. He felt the familiar ache in his chest. When she changed into the sleeveless top, he had seen the cloudy bruise reaching out from her right shoulder. The Barrett .50 caliber can kill on both ends. She had saved his life. He wouldn’t keep this conversation from Simone if she asked. For now, he was glad she was asleep.
Logan turned back to the screen. “Okay, let’s talk about how we’re going to deal with Skeffington.”
CHAPTER 52
MOBILE, ALABAMA – BENEATH AEM COMPOUND – 11:34 A.M. CDT
In the moist shadows of the dark tunnel, where perpetual night hung between each feeble light bulb, Virtue trembled. It wasn’t fear of the tunnels that coagulated in her delicate throat. She liked the dark tunnels, the mysterious rooms, the cool underground air clinging to her white skin. It was despair too great to hide even in the dim passages: the dread of life with her sister who now in control of AEM.
After Father delivered his edict, Patience wasted no time consolidating power and excluding her from any meaningful role with The Movement. The handwritten message taped to Virtue’s desk chair said movers would come tomorrow. Her office would be moved to the Annex, an old and mostly vacant building between AEM headquarters and the technology center. The Annex was rarely used, except for Patience’s twisted deeds, which until now, were not allowed in the esteemed headquarters. Things so horrible they required darkness. Screams from the Annex couldn’t be heard or were ignored.
Even that particular fate wasn’t what brought Virtue to the tunnels. Since her fourteenth birthday, she had known about the strange and compulsive feelings that fed on her sister. Patience warned her that day if she ever tired of the game, she would kill her with her bare hands. It was clear Patience had tired of the old games and planned to start new ones. Virtue had no intention of playing.
Without a sound, the heavy steel door to the anteroom glided open on well-oiled hinges. Walking quietly in brown, leather flats, Virtue crossed the five-sided room and leaned over the metal desk. She peered into the empty space where Samuel had been. The computer he used was off. A flipchart covered in mathematical symbols and equations and intersecting geometric shapes leaned against the far wall. A victorious half smile crawled onto her lips. Patience wasn’t going to get everything she wanted. Father had other plans for her latest plaything.
Remembering why she came, her smile vanished, memories of her mother frozen in time. The recollections of a seven-year-old girl tucked away in the folds of her brain. She had set her mind—the way a child does—that her mother would return on her eighth birthday with a beautiful present. She convinced herself so completely, that when the day arrived and her mother did not appear, she sobbed uncontrollably for hours.
Lately, she dreamed of her mother: strange, disturbing, nonsensical dreams. They were not the comforting dreams of the past, but included things Patience had and had not said. In her new dreams, Father looked at her with contempt, not love. Why? It must be some lie Patience told for Virtue had nothing but admiration for Father. The dreams were very disturbing.
Yesterday someone taped a flash drive inside one of her folders. It had a horrific audio recording on it. The quality was poor—as if it was copied to digital format from an old tape recorder— but her Father’s voice was unmistakable. The woman’s voice was unfamiliar, but nonetheless, haunting. Her father, or someone with him, beat the woman ruthlessly.
Throughout the excerpt—apparently part of a longer session—Father interrogated the woman. He accused her of betraying The Movement, of doubting his resolve. The condemnations were punctuated with hard strikes on soft flesh. The woman pleaded. She begged. He said he could tell by looking at her eyes that she no longer believed. When the beatings finally stopped, her father excused someone from the room.
“I gave you a chance to write a detailed confession of your crimes against The Movement.” Paper rattled violently. “And this is what I get!” Scuffling and the squawk of table legs scrapping against a stone floor emanated through the tape.
Barely audible, the woman’s voice rasped, “Obadiah, please. The children.”
There were no more words: choking sounds, the slightest struggle, then, nothing.
Virtue had no idea who left the recording. Fagon? Patience? Who was the person who left the room? Was the woman her mother? Who else would call her father Obadiah? There were no other children but she and Patience. Their children.
She told herself it was utter nonsense. Another of Patience’s sadistic games. Mother left for a good reason. She would be back. But the voice on the tape pressed on her heart with the weight of truth, pleading for assent.
Down the narrow hall, inside the farthest cell, Virtue listened for the sounds. Had this been the room? Was this the heavy table drug over the worn stone floor? In the silence, she heard her own heartbeat. The woman’s voice in her head. The woman calling Father by his name. She had never heard anyone call her father by his first name. The woman didn’t say my children. She said the children. The children of Father and her.
Virtue looked under the table for a message, a sign, a name. The table, like the cold, stone walls, revealed no secrets. On her hands and knees, she probed the stones and mortar around the perimeter of the cell, perhaps a loose stone, a secret space, a letter. If the woman was left alone to write a confession, she might have written a second letter, explaining her terrible situation, words to reach out from beyond the grave. She found nothing to quench her thirst. Her tears, little pain filled bombs, splattered on her khaki pants. Was she crying for her mother, herself, her father?
She stood and brushed the dirt and grime from her knees. In the ruins of her soul, she found what Father always wanted her to have: the power to kill what she loved.
