IN THE UTAH DESERT OUTSIDE THE NATIONAL DATA CENTER
Henry Bender, the former New Jersey mob enforcer, didn’t like getting his silk suit dirty, but he didn’t have much choice as he knelt down in the sand of a ridge about a mile away from the outside perimeter of the U.S. government data complex at Bluffdale. He was looking through a high-powered pair of military-issue binoculars, complete with an internal digital camera. He surveyed the massive series of square, windowless buildings, each of them the size of the buildings at Houston Space Center. Bender was snapping pictures of the buildings, and also of the fully armed guard towers that were mounted every hundred yards along the perimeter of the high razor-wire fences. A road circled the complex, and two armored military Humvees cruised in a slow, routine surveillance around the property.
Dillon Ritzian sat next to him in the sand, swatting flies. “I told you, Henry, this place is well guarded. And I told you about all the stuff you’re not even seeing—the infrared cameras they got and all the human-sensing devices planted all around this place. Geez, I’m sure they’ve already spotted us up here. I’m not really excited about the possibility of having the feds bust me on espionage charges.”
“Cool your jets,” Bender grumbled. “No one’s coming after you. So are the control codes and passwords back in the car?”
“Yeah, in the contractor’s notebook I left on the seat. Everything your IT guys will need to access the computer algorithm that randomly changes the daily passwords every couple of hours.”
“And so, when my people are finally on the inside of the data center, they can quickly access the entire network? I’m talking Internet, cable, telecommunications, satellite, the whole enchilada?”
“Sure,” Ritzian said. “After that they can control everything the U.S. government has linked together here in Utah—their NSA spy satellites, aerospace data, global surveillance, a couple of million facial recognition video cameras throughout the country that are watching us, the tracking of RFD chips imbedded in everything under the sun, all of their Internet scanning surveillance that follows everybody . . .”
“And they can also track everybody’s BIDTag laser imprint, right?”
“That’s the biggie, sure,” Ritzian replied. “Look, whoever controls this place here in the desert is going to control data on every person and their movements and on every person’s contact with every other person. You know this could get scary, actually . . .” He scrunched up his face like he’d just thought of a problem that needed to be explained. “But you know, to do that your people have to physically get into the buildings down there.” He pointed down to the complex that was the size of a small city. “And the security on the outside of the buildings, hey, it’s nothing compared to the stuff I saw in the schematics about the internal security inside the building. There’s only one other way to hack into the computer system without actually entering the building—”
But Bender was starting to stand up, and he cut Ritzian off as he did. “You know something, Dillon,” he said, brushing the sand off of his suit, “you and your schematics are only a backup that my people may not even need. They really aren’t worried about security.”
“They’re not?”
“Naw, they’re not.”
“Why not?”
Bender smiled. “Because when the time is right, we’re betting that they’ll be able to stroll right into that place. And when they do, the doors are gonna swing wide open.”
HONG KONG
On the video screen in Zhang Lee’s penthouse, Ethan could see, in several quadrants of the screen, the multiple faces of his compatriots from different posts of the Remnant located in far-flung parts of the world. From Jerusalem there was Rabbi ZG. Chiro Hashimoto and John Galligher were video linking from the Yukon Territory. Two members of the Roundtable were on the call, sitting in the big living room of the Rocky Mountain lodge that had formerly belonged to Joshua and Abigail Jordan: retired senator Alvin Leander and “Fort” Rice, a former Idaho Supreme Court judge who had seen his wife vanish in front of his eyes during the Rapture as they sat together in their Boise home. As the man in charge of the media project of the Roundtable, Bart Kingston, the publisher of AmeriNews, was joining the video feed from his office in New York City, along with his editor-in-chief, Terri Schultz. Pack McHenry, who was video calling from Rome, was online too.
Ethan called on Bart Kingston and asked him to summarize the findings of Dr. Terrance Radameyer. Kingston gave a short overview of his meeting with the video forensics expert in Chicago and then jumped to his conclusions. “He says unequivocally that the Global Alliance media network footage showing an alleged wave of mass Christian suicides was doctored stuff. Every bit of it.”
“Did you get him on tape saying that?”
“Of course,” Bart said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t be much of a journalist if I didn’t.”
Alvin Leander had a question. “How do we get this information disseminated to as many people as possible?”
“We’re working on a distribution idea,” Ethan said. “Sorry to keep you all in the dark about the different moving parts in our plan, but for safety’s sake, none of you will know all of the components, just the ones that relate to your sphere of influence. Except for me, of course.”
“I just hope,” Judge Rice said, “we succeed. Since the Global Alliance has taken over, our ability to counter the worldwide lies has been disheartening. Of course, we still have our AmeriNews information service on the web, until they shut that down too.”
But Terri Schultz in New York broke in. “Judge, I still believe that people, when they get the truth, are going to see the light. Bart and I, and the staff here at AmeriNews, are fighting like crazy against the global news conglomerate controlled by the Alliance. Like our founders, I believe that God is in the business of intervening in the destiny of nations. Before it’s all over, I think we’re going to see God’s hand in the mass media business as well.”
Ethan was the only one who knew the big picture, and he couldn’t afford to jeopardize it by informing others. Not yet, at least. But he couldn’t help smiling at Terri’s prediction.
Then Pack weighed in from his end. “Six out of the seven members of ICANN’s international Internet Club of Seven who hold the fate of the global web in their hands have been assassinated or else have gone missing. Which means that someone is now in possession of six out of the seven smart cards that contain the codes to restart the entire global Internet communications system if it all goes down. There’s only one smart card left. And it contains the final part of the code needed to accomplish that.”
“Who has that last smart card?” John Galligher asked.
“A guy by the name of Dr. Boris Kasparovich. He used to teach at the Polytechnic Institute in Moscow. But they say he recently retired. Address unknown. I’ve got Victoria working on tracking his location down.”
“Then he’s as good as found,” Galligher shot back. “Hey, Pack, by the way, it must be nice having a wife who’s smarter than her husband.”
Pack guffawed loudly at that.
“So, next step,” Ethan explained. “Pack will close in on Dr. Kasparovich as soon as he’s located, and he’ll explain the dilemma he’s facing and then offer him personal protection.”
“I’m not sure I understand the significance of this bit about restarting the Internet,” Kingston chimed in. “To me, it seems to be one of those issues where I say to myself, So what?”
“Here’s the ‘so what,’ ” Chiro said, jumping in. “Bad guys make the Internet go down. They take it over for malicious purposes and then want to reconfigure it. But to do that, the bad guys need to boot it back up. That’s where the seven smart cards come in.”
“What kind of malicious purposes are you talking about?” Bart asked.
“Up to now,” Chiro explained, “the Global Alliance has merely been using the global technology of the Internet for things like their worldwide broadcasts of the One Movement.”
> “Yeah,” Galligher said, jumping in. “I caught one of the sermons by that Bishop Dibold Kora character. He was saying things like, ‘All will be well . . . Peace and security will be yours . . . Enlightenment is on its way.’ It reminded me of the messages in my fortune cookie at the Golden Wall Chinese restaurant. By the way, it took Chiro and me forever to finally locate a good Asian takeout place up here in the frozen north.”
Galligher switched gears. “Which reminds me, Ethan, about something. I mean no offense to my good buddy Chiro, but exactly how long do I need to serve my jail sentence up here on the outskirts of the Arctic Circle?”
Ethan shook his head. “John, you’re an important player. Chiro needs your protection. I have a feeling that some very bad actors are going to want to get to him if they find out where he is. Especially if they figure out how he’s built his cyber relay station up there to logjam a worldwide communications takeover.”
“Okay,” John said, “I read you.” He turned to Chiro, who was sitting next to him. “Okay, partner, I guess that means I’ll have to continue traveling forty-five miles just to get my General Tso’s chicken.”
After cracking a joke about Galligher’s “deep-fried diet,” Kingston returned to his question for Chiro. “I still don’t think I have an answer. About these ‘malicious purposes’ that the Global Alliance has planned for the Internet.”
“When they shut it all down,” Chiro replied, “then they can boot it up and repurpose it for something very evil. Very sinister.”
Kingston nodded. “So the plot thickens . . .”
“How sinister are we talking?” Terri asked.
Ethan answered that. “The means to manipulate human behavior. Near absolute power over human life and death.”
Everyone paused for a few seconds. Rabbi ZG finally broke the silence. “We know the Word of God. And we know what it has declared about the wickedness of the Babylon that will arise during this time of tribulation on the earth. And we know that it begins with these words: ‘The Revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave him to show his servants what must soon take place.’ ”
Then the former Orthodox rabbi added, “In your hearing today, friends, I believe the Lord is beginning to fulfill His Word about the despicable sins of the Babylon. We are nearing the end of the world as we know it.”
More silence.
Senator Leander spoke up. “Maybe I can’t tell what the whole picture is going to look like. I leave that to men wiser than I. And some of them are on this video call. But one thing I can do: I can usually recognize a puzzle piece when it’s sitting on the table right in front of me. So, my friends, here is one big piece for us to consider: the word I am getting from my sources on Capitol Hill is that President Hewbright, a great American patriot and a sturdy man of God, is in deep trouble. And I am also told that the news about this will be breaking any minute. And if President Hewbright goes, then America is certain to be dragged into the Global Alliance. And if that happens . . .” His voice began to break, and he had to stop for a moment in order to collect himself so he could continue. “Then the United States of America, the nation that men and women have given their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor to protect, will soon cease to exist.”
TWENTY-ONE
U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING
Washington, D.C.
The Speaker of the House of Representatives, a party opponent of President Hewbright’s dating back to Hewbright’s days in the Senate, was taking big strides into the chambers of the United States Senate. He held a large leather folio to his chest as he was followed by a contingent of congressional supporters.
The sergeant-at-arms of the House stepped in front of him, and the group came to a sudden halt. The Senate chambers with all senators present fell into a dead silence. The House sergeant-at-arms then made an announcement in a voice that boomed through the Senate. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Senate of the United States, the Speaker of the House of Representatives desires to address this honored body.”
At the opposite end of those historic chambers, sitting in the high chair of the Senate that belonged to the president pro tem, and situated under the seal of the United States of America, Vice President Darrell Zandibar’s face was expressionless. He spoke. “The Senate acknowledges the Speaker’s presence and invites him to speak.”
The Speaker of the House marched down the aisle until he was in front of the podium in the well of the Senate. He turned to address the members, and his voice began to rise as he spoke, reaching a crescendo of bravado. “The House of Representatives has this day voted to issue articles of impeachment against President Hank Hewbright, and I hold those articles in my hand.” At that point the Speaker lifted his arm up to display the big black folio. “We impeach the president for conduct both grievous and illegal. For behavior unbecoming the presidency, for acts that imperil the welfare of America, and for acts of treason in his repeated opposition to the Global Alliance Treaty, which this honorable body—the United States Senate—has openly ratified. We ask this body to commence forthwith the trial of President Hank W. Hewbright on those charges, to convict him of the same, and to speedily and forthrightly remove him from the office of the presidency. And in so doing, to remove the blight on the presidency and to halt the incalculable harm that he has caused to this nation.”
After only a moment’s pause, Zandibar instructed the Speaker of the House to hand over the folio containing the articles of impeachment to the sergeant-at-arms of the Senate. The Speaker complied.
“Hearing no objections,” Zandibar announced rapidly, “this body is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow, at which time the Senate trial against President Hank Hewbright will commence.”
From the expressions on the faces of the Senate members, even Zandibar’s friends and the members of his own party were shocked that he hadn’t tried some stalling tactic to delay the trial. Instead, Zandibar hammered his big gavel down on his desk, and the bang reverberated through the Senate chambers as he brought an end to the business of the Senate for the day.
IN A WAREHOUSE IN MOSCOW, RUSSIA
It was a hopeless-looking place—that abandoned warehouse off of Leningradskoye Highway outside of Moscow. The glass had been busted out of the windows, and there was an inch of dust and debris on the concrete floor. When the torture of Dr. Boris Kasparovich first began in that forsaken building, it was quickly followed by the helpless screaming of the victim. The birds nesting on the steel beams in the ceiling began to flutter around, and a few of them took flight.
Vlad Malatov now stood over Dr. Kasparovich, who was still strapped to a metal table. The former cyber warfare professor had been a tough customer, even as a sixty-eight-year-old man. It wasn’t surprising. After all, he had been a colonel in the Russian army and a former KGB agent himself.
But in the end Malatov had won, which was inevitable. The Russian assassin and Ultra-Extreme Fight Match champion always considered it much easier to simply kill a man rather than force him to disgorge information. It certainly took less time. But no matter, because he had been successful in getting what he wanted from Kasparovich.
While Malatov tortured his subject, the professor had tried to refocus the conversation, even as his face contracted in pain. “You sound American . . . Are you American?” he grunted through his teeth.
Malatov didn’t answer at first.
“I bet you are CIA . . . right?”
Still Malatov didn’t answer.
“So . . . you’re CIA, then . . . ,” Kasparovich said before vaulting into a loud scream as Malatov began breaking his fingers one at a time.
As Kasparovich’s eyes started losing focus and it looked like he would pass out, Malatov slapped his face to bring him around. “Yes, that’s right,” he finally said, answering the professor’s question with a lie of his own. “I’m CIA.”
Malatov smiled now. He had possession of what he came for. He fingered the little plastic card he had obtained from Kasparovich that contained his
part of the Internet start-up code. He slipped the card into a little leather case and put it into his pocket. Now the only thing left for the freelance hitman to do was to wait and watch and listen for the news. Depending on the outcome of the trial in the United States Senate, he might need to arrange a flight to Washington, D.C.
But before any of that, Vlad Malatov had to finish up the bloody task at hand. He studied the battered body of Dr. Kasparovich. The man looked as if he had passed out again. Or maybe he was dead already. Just to make sure, Malatov slipped out his switchblade knife and dug it into the man’s arm until the flesh started to pump fresh blood. There was no response from his victim. But the rate of bloodletting told him that the heart was still beating. He put his finger to the other man’s jugular and confirmed it. The logical explanation was that he was unconscious.
Not only did Malatov know that the professor had been KGB himself once upon a time, but in fact Kasparovich had actually been at the FSB for a short while when Malatov first started as a new agent in that spy agency. Malatov was a little surprised that Dr. Kasparovich didn’t recognize him. But then he realized Kasparovich had retired to the quiet life of a cyber intelligence professor before Malatov underwent what a few of his FSB superiors called his “extreme makeover.”
Of course Malatov knew that even with his intense pain, the professor could still have been playing a game. On the other hand, when the professor asked Malatov whether he was with the CIA, Malatov had been checking very closely the iris of each of his victim’s eyes. There were no visual signs of deception. The questions the Russian professor asked must have been genuine.
So now the time had come. Malatov prepared to thrust his razor-sharp knife deep into the left quadrant of the doctor’s chest and puncture the heart. After that he would clean off his knife and strip off his super-thick latex gloves and then make an exit from the scene.