The phalanx code, p.5
The Phalanx Code, page 5
“You have me … to thank,” she said. A wry smile formed on her lips as she huddled back into her padded chair, mildly embarrassed about taking credit for something. The cushions provided her a sense of security.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.
It was good to see Misha, Mahegan, and the rest of my team. Too much of my life had been focused on mission accomplishment and not nearly enough on nurturing the relationships that revolved around me. My charges seemed to understand my task-oriented nature and treated me with kindness, respect, and even some good-natured ribbing, as Misha was prone to do. Leave it to a teenager to bring me to my senses.
“Where’s Blair, Misha?”
She rocked back and forth for a moment. Her eyes went distant briefly, and her countenance migrated from welcoming to businesslike. She held up a slender, pale finger.
She was meeting Evelyn to work on the Phalanx Code, she typed.
“Phalanx Code?” I asked.
Blanc’s plan. I found it in the dark web. Evelyn was helping me.”
“So, what’s Blanc’s plan?”
We believe that Blanc’s Phalanx Code has something to do with their goal of 100% global surveillance 100% of the time.
“Sounds bad but not all that different from today, like an evolution of where everything was already headed. Look at London. Cameras everywhere, but I’m listening.”
She shook her head, turned to the jumbotron, and began typing.
Aurelius Blanc is evil. He is building a police state for total control. Mitch and his Optimus team have a technology that counters Blanc’s cameras and other surveillance equipment that gets deployed with Web 3.0. We believe that the Phalanx Code corrupts the Project Optimus code.
“It’s all Greek to me,” I said. “But I understand you’re trying to stop Blanc. That much I get.” I did take notice of her use of Drewson’s first name, Mitch.
Yes. Blanc is attacking and killing our development team. They even want to kill you!
“Who have they killed, and why do you think they want to kill me?”
She looked at me hard and then manipulated some keys that popped up a video display next to her chat box.
A massacre of our people happened in Grass Valley, California an hour ago.
The video showed four commandos dressed in black uniforms with a Phalanx patch, which was a small diamond shaped rhombus not unlike what Coop had drawn in his diary. The word “Phalanx” was printed in gold letters on the dark blue background. The commandos breached a mine shaft and began swarming through a server farm, killing at least ten people, who didn’t stand a chance.
“This just happened?”
“Yes,” she sputtered.
“How did we get the video?” I asked, suspicious.
Mitch’s Zebra team hacked them. Zebra also gave me the video of Blanc’s reaction to your escape inside his headquarters.
She clicked some buttons and images of people I didn’t recognize appeared in the video box. She pointed at the large screen on the wall and said, “Watch … it’s bad.”
“Where is this Zebra team?” I asked, looking around.
Separate mine shaft wing. No one else is allowed in there. Not even I have met them. Now watch please. If you are going up against Blanc to find Blair, you need this intel.
She had a point. I looked at the screen.
Aurelius Blanc stared at his own jumbo monitor on the wall of what I presumed was his headquarters, wherever that might be. The screen showed the smoking hole of the Fort Leavenworth Disciplinary Barracks where Jake had helped me escape.
The hack had captured video and audio, though the video was blurred at times and often heads or bodies would distort or disappear for a moment. Blanc turned to a group of men and one woman dressed in dark tactical clothing. The men were large, and the woman was tall and fit.
“That’s Tyger … Cyrilla,” Misha said. “She leads … his commandos. Blanc makes them all wear body cams. He has cameras … everywhere.”
The audio played.
“Team meeting now,” Blanc said to his commandos.
Blanc wore his jet-black hair in a slanted pompadour. He had a large diamond in his left ear and bleached white stubble on his face. The contrast was stark. The winking diamond was the only disruption to his monochrome appearance. Blanc appeared lean and muscled. He wore a black designer T-shirt that highlighted his dyed white beard. White pants and black Pro-Ked sneakers completed the black-white-black cycle.
The woman, Cyrilla, looked into Blanc’s gray eyes. She was as tall as he was, at what I guessed was my height at six foot two. She was dressed in a boxy gray top with black slacks. The shoulders on her jacket were triangles protruding outward, like a space uniform. Her nose had a slight bridge, and her lips were thin. She wore no makeup and had chopped her red hair just above her ears.
“Topic?” she asked.
“Jake Mahegan used brute force to breach the ‘impenetrable’ Fort Leavenworth Disciplinary Barracks,” Blanc said, motioning with air quotes. “This makes retrieving the Phalanx Code all the more important.”
“Sinclair is out? Not possible. We learned of the president’s pardon. Smyth was handling it.”
“Smyth failed spectacularly. Drewson either paid him off or hired a team to free him.” Blanc’s voice was baritone with a French accent. His aura was one of command. He stepped back and inhaled deeply before releasing his breath in a slow whisper, raising his arms as if performing a yoga pose.
“This was Drewson?” Cyrilla asked.
Blanc stared at Cyrilla then turned away to gather his composure. “You’re supposed to be providing me information. Not the other way around, Commander. I want Sinclair, understand? He is the key to the stolen code. If they find out what is in the code, Phalanx is done forever, especially with Sinclair out of jail. But yes, who else could it be other than Mitch the Bitch.”
Cyrilla pressed the small receiver in her ear and held up her hand.
“Okay, there was an attempt on Sinclair’s life.”
Blanc looked away and sighed. “Tu m’étonnes.” Tell me something I don’t know.
“Get me the information operations team and then get to Leavenworth with boots on the ground,” he said, then turned and walked into a conference room kitted with a touch screen jumbotron and twenty glass lecterns facing the three-foot-high stage. Each lectern had a slim black microphone and a white foam cover, matching Blanc’s hair/beard combo.
Before anyone else entered the conference room, Blanc looked at the camera and smiled.
“Papa, peux-tu me voir maintenant?”
Papa, can you see me now?
Misha stopped the video and typed:
He wants to kill you. Us. We must stop him.
“I didn’t hear that, Misha. He wants to find me. He said nothing about killing you and the others. Obviously, he doesn’t like Drewson, and he’s concerned about you hacking the Phalanx Code.” I looked at Misha as I spoke, then turned to the screen when she began typing.
Zebra team gave me part of the list of people Blanc is going after, which is embedded in the Phalanx Code, but they can’t figure the rest out. Nor can Evelyn or I, but we’re trying. It is quantum protected.
“Okay show me where Evelyn went, please.”
Misha nodded at me and typed some more.
In Denver to meet Blair and see a demo on the new 3.0 microchip. She mentioned she had something to give you.
“What did she have?”
Something to do with your grandfather.
“Coop?” I asked.
Focus, she typed. They want to kill all of us.
“But why, M isha?” There was an edge in my voice I didn’t intend.
Misha startled and then looked at the jumbotron as she typed:
Blair is a voice for decentralized Wi-Fi, or DeWi, and crypto currency to empower individuals. She has a huge social media presence on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Mitch’s Shoutter, and Blanc’s LanxPro. 14 million followers. Her blog is named 3POINT0 and her tagline is “Big Tech Has Got to Go!”
Evelyn is the greatest cryptologist in the world.
And I’m just me (and scared).
“That’s understandable. Has Blair linked up with Evelyn yet? Where are they?” I asked.
Misha pressed some keys and nodded at the jumbotron. Her text box was now a small square next to a large black-and-white live video feed.
OMG! Blair’s on the run.
An Optimus Earth globe spun until it zoomed in south and west of Denver, Colorado. A geo tag dialogue box indicated it was Blair Campbell that was running down a long sloping hill toward a wooded area along a river. She was looking over her shoulder into the sky as if she knew a drone was watching her. Misha toggled the camera lens and zoomed into a close shot. Blair’s eyes were wide with fear yet determined. Her jaw was set as she pumped her arms and zigged and zagged into the wood line, ostensibly to avoid the sniper drone that was homing in on her position. Misha flipped the camera to thermal imaging, and we tracked Blair into the river where she disappeared.
“Lakota Hills … south and west … of Denver,” Misha said.
The doors behind me hissed open. Drewson and my team walked in. This time, West and Matt Garrett were part of the group along with Patch Owens, Sean O’Malley, and Zion Black.
“We’ve got an alert that Blair and maybe Evelyn are in trouble,” Drewson said. “We confirmed with a medevac drone that another developer named Emily Sedgewick, a friend of Blair’s, is dead in Houston.” He nodded at the screen. A young woman’s body was splayed over a sofa, a dark stain inching its way across the white davenport.
I looked at Drewson but said nothing.
“You can see what I’m up against with Blanc. Can you and your men find Blair? Protect her? Bring her to this compound? We’re talking about the president’s daughter here. If not for me, then for her?”
The plaintive look on his face suggested compassion and concern. Crow’s feet burst on either side of his eyes. His lips were downturned and set. He was pensive, contemplative, and alarmed.
I looked at my team. I saw in their eyes both defeat and anticipation. Not knowing what was happening to the world or who we worked for, we had always believed in the highest of all principles, duty to one another. The concept of America and our Constitution was the bedrock of our belief system. We had sworn a pledge to uphold and defend our Constitution and nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
And we would forever do so. Too many men and women had sacrificed too much, including Sally McCool, to falter in the face of adversity.
But here we were being handed a mission by a tech mogul to save the daughter of the president of the United States, who was being hunted by another tech mogul theoretically bent on global hegemony. We were nothing more than a few escaped prisoners and their enablers who were presumably no longer on active-duty status. It didn’t get any more complicated than this if you layered in my thorny relationship with the president. Her debatable role in Melissa’s death notwithstanding, I, as always, placed duty to the nation above self.
“Boss?” Hobart asked, pulling me back to the moment. “We have to do this.”
“Why do you say that, Joe?” I asked while pointing at the screen. “It starts small. Saving Blair. Then grows and pits us against formidable odds. Haven’t we had enough death and destruction?”
“We have an alert about Evelyn, too,” Drewson interrupted, as if I needed reminding. I turned and looked at Misha’s jumbotron again. Evelyn Champollion was arriving at Denver airport’s private terminal. Behind her two black Suburban SUVs parked in front of the small terminal. Men with weapons stepped onto the sidewalk as Evelyn entered the building. A Hawker jet awaited on the apron.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Blanc has gone full operational. He knows you’re out. I set the conditions for the release of Hobart and Van Dreeves with my San Diego guy. Resourced Mahegan. Worked your discharges with the president. So, you can help me fight or you can watch, General. But I’m going to fight. Law enforcement is no help and as you know, some of our FBI leadership is corrupt.”
He had a point. What was one last mission?
“What are they going to do, throw us in jail?” Van Dreeves quipped.
He, too, had a point.
I thought about Melissa and what she might want me to do with respect to her college roommate’s daughter. She would want us to try to save Blair.
“Okay, we get the president’s daughter and Evelyn. But then, we’re done.”
6
WE STOOD IN A giant cavern that reminded me of Batman’s Batcave.
To my right were two MH-60 Special Operations Pave Hawk cargo helicopters. To the left was a Sherpa short take-off and landing cargo airplane. I liked the Black Hawk family of rotary wing aircraft because of their two T700 engines. They were powerful and relatively easy to maintain. The pilot could fly the aircraft on one engine, as McCool had done with us once when machine-gun fire had ignited a fire in our left engine. It was a durable airframe that could withstand serious punishment.
I should have inquired how and when Drewson came to own these state-of-the-art military airframes, but time was of the essence as it always seemed to be.
“Jeremy, you’re with me, Hobart, and Van Dreeves. Matt, can you fly this other bird with Jake leading Patch and Zion?”
Matt Garrett shrugged and flashed a cocky grin. “Landing is just a controlled crash, General.”
“Why you’re taking the other team,” I replied.
Matt was about six foot tall with dark brown hair showing some flecks of gray. Last I heard, he had helped his niece, Amanda, establish her medical company that catered to underserved regions of the world.
Matt grinned and nodded, saying, “Good to be back in the mix, General.”
I nodded back at him, then turned to the small group gathered.
“No big speeches. Hobart, Van Dreeves, and I will get Blair while Matt and team go after Champollion. Jake, you have Sean and Patch. Our missions are to secure high-value personnel and return them to base. Intent is to kill as few people as possible in doing so, but don’t let that be a deterrent. Remember, we know stuff that no one else does. To ninety-nine percent of the population, life is moving along normally, at least until it isn’t. Cops don’t know about some global conspiracy. They’re punching a clock like everyone else. Some are on the take, some are cowards, but most are good, honest salt-of-the-earth men and women. They’re not the enemy. Blanc’s Phalanx team, on the other hand, is fair game.”
“Hard to tell the difference between the good guys and the bad ones, boss,” Van Dreeves said.
“That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” I said. “Make the right calls. Kill the right people. Secure the right targets. Save the president’s daughter and Evelyn.”
Jeremy led us to the MH-60 that was similarly kitted with state-of-the-art satellite communications, UHF, VHF, HF, lidar cameras, GPS, Kevlar, M134 miniguns in each crew porthole, and an internal communications suite. One of Drewson’s guys fired up a Polaris all-terrain vehicle with a Y-shaped tow bar connected to the front wheels of the Hawk. As the aircraft moved forward, giant retracting doors opened, revealing the night sky with white-capped mountains across the valley. A small field with a short dirt runway jutted out from the wall of the mountain housing the hangar.
Soon, West had the blades turning and we were airborne. With the familiar sounds and vibrations of the Pave Hawk, I said, “Everything we do is in memory of Sally and why she died. She died for us and our country. Everything we do honors her memory.”
Hobart nodded and Van Dreeves looked away through the windscreen then back at me.
“Roger that, boss. San Diego gave me some time to reflect on that. We’re all going to die. We should all be so lucky to do so on a mission surrounded by those we trust the most. There’s no honor in growing old, but we never really had time to process Sally or prison or our careers. Drewson says we’re out and we’re supposed to accept it just like that?”
“Well, technically we are out, and Drewson supposedly had something to do with that,” I said. “And never discount that these are his helicopters and his communications systems.” Drewson could be listening to us in real time or recording everything we said, or both.
“I get it, boss, but how do we know it’s all real? He showed us those discharge papers, but it doesn’t take a tech genius to fabricate something like that. Hell, even I could do that. Are we his personal mercenaries?” Van Dreeves asked. He held up the Opti-Sleeve smart devices that Drewson issued us. The slick technology looked exactly like an NFL quarterback’s wrist-carried playbook when in fact it was Drewson’s latest addition to the defense industry: a highly powered computer with touch screen and Velcro-tabbed protective cover. “Plus, these things are tracking devices more than anything else.”
I looked Van Dreeves in the eyes. He either hadn’t caught my meaning or didn’t care what Drewson heard. I shrugged and asked, “Does any of that matter?”
He looked at Hobart and then back at me, locking eyes.
“I guess you’re right, boss. Nothing matters, really. Except this right here. This is what we do,” he said, waving his hand in a circle. “This is who we are.”
“Yes, and the president’s daughter is in danger,” I said. “Our mission continues.”
He took a deep breath, nodded, and then pointed at the touch screen on the small table situated between us.
“I’ve got some chatter that the Denver Police Department found two dead Secret Service agents about an hour ago inside her car. They were picking her up to take her to the airport to meet with Evelyn, supposedly. Based on what I’m hearing on police radio band, they were … executed,” Van Dreeves said.
“Jesus. How did Blair escape?” I asked.
“Not sure, but she has weapons permits for a bunch of guns, including her Colt.” Van Dreeves said.
