Remember, remember the fifth of November.
The second line of the old song danced rebelliously in her mind.
Gunpowder, treason and plot!
54
The bright light of the sunrise was smothered by thick shutters that plunged the room into complete darkness. In the center of the space was a lone figure in dark robes, a shining Guy Fawkes mask reflecting the artificial light in front of him. The wall-panel of flat-screen monitors displayed multiple locations, scenes dim and sequestered. Figures stared back through the screens, their eyes wary and unsure, weapons and military-issue equipment surrounding them.
“What good is all your money if there ain’t nowhere left to spend it?” came one voice.
The mask spoke. “Have you forgotten the plan? When power is taken from the forces controlling our world, my software will orchestrate a new order. An order where each of you will preside like kings over lands and treasure and people. Kingdoms for kings, if you want. Or whatever you want. There will be no interference. I hold the keys to this new order. Have you become such terrified children at the destruction we have spread that you long for the safe chains of your former lives?”
The groups could be heard talking in a cacophony amongst themselves. The mask waited patiently. Several screens clicked off, the images gone, the fearful opting out of this terrible and all too real multiplayer game. The mask keyed in codes. A few remaining solo drones switched on in their hidden hangars. They were preserved for just this contingency, this betrayal and danger to his efforts. Along with a sortie to finish the game, they were all that was left of a once impressive fleet. Images flashed on the darkened screens, a God’s eye view of a takeoff and flight. The man behind the mask smiled. Once in, never out. They would be dead within minutes.
One by one, the remaining groups committed to the final missions or were similarly dispatched. The final plans were rehashed. Ports and landing strips. More nuclear power plants. Dams and oil rigs. And finally, a team recommissioned to the US electric grid. The mask closed all the connections save this last one.
“You have your new target?” it said.
A bearded man with a green army cap nodded. “I thought your damn worm was going to shut the grid down.”
“It was, but the anti-worm code has substantially weakened our capabilities. I can’t risk failure. The grid must fall and never rise again. America must be plunged into a final night.”
“Some speech you gave,” said the man, an automatic weapon in his hands.
“You are my most trusted allies. We have shared goals from the beginning. We do not hope to live as kings or queens. We know how vile and rotten the system is, how deeply the roots of the octopus dig. There is only one way to burn it out — wither the thing to the core.”
“You like to talk,” laughed the man. “We don’t give a fuck about your politics. For us, it’s just the high! Mutilation. Dissection. Destruction!” There was a loud cry in unison from the group. “You are the Dark Angel, masked man. You’re the power to bring Hell to earth! See you in the flames!”
The figure pressed a button and a screeching recording of death metal thundered in the room. The masked man switched it off and sat silently in the darkness.
The gore-grinders weren’t wrong. If all went according to plan, the nations would eat themselves. The violence would consume all power structures. Modern civilization would be laid waste by the very wires it used to hoist itself.
But it was of course not enough. True anarchy could not be achieved until they had erased the heart of corruption. And only his worm could achieve that. Only by completely liquidating all the modern elements of control could there be true freedom.
It was this very goal that was now in doubt. The FBI woman was tweaked, that was for sure. Only a deeply twisted mind could conceive of such a violent cure for the dying human enterprise. It broke all their laws. It was off leash and could possible turn on healthy systems. It was reckless and wild.
And it was winning. He had not counted on anyone with the talent or audacity to unleash the monsters that she had. She had his respect. He would not turn from the truth of it. Truth was the only thing left. The truth of human corruption. The truth of what needed to be done.
A screen opened revealing a set of black-clad men.
“Are you prepared?”
A man with intense eyes nodded onscreen. “It’s a small unit. There isn’t much left now. But it should be enough. We’ve been watching the building for days via the surveillance drone you spared us. Some boots on the ground, too. We could walk into the place without a problem. They’re decimated.”
“It must be done right. They have proven far more resilient than we imagined.”
“We aren’t taking this lightly after what happened to Bravo team.”
“You’re sure that several members of Intel 1 left the building?”
“Yes. Immediately after our extraction team failed. They sent decoys and used multiple evasive strategies. We didn’t have the manpower to follow everything. We lost them.”
“And Poison?”
“Signal was lost. They could have discovered the device. Or maybe they’re underground too deep. There are mazes of old tunnels on this island. Rumor has it there’s some kind of Fed bunker, too.”
The mask nodded. “One they will need soon. I have other plans for dealing with Poison. Stay on mission. You have the blueprints.”
The man laid out a building plan on a table, pointing to the lower portion of the paper. “Lower basement. These three rooms.”
“Your priorities?” asked the mask.
“Seize the mainframes,” he said, holding up a UBS stick, “and inject this code.”
“And the personnel?”
“We’re to kill them all, especially the bald woman.”
“Then go. There isn’t much time.”
The screen went dark. Fawkes removed the mask and exhaled, his features hidden in the darkness. Everything was coming to its final iteration. His ammunition was nearly spent. Ten years of preparation, weeks of assault on the world, and now the final activation. A signal to be sent to every active computer on the planet, one that would induce a final and unstoppable chaos.
He smiled. He did respect the girl. That’s why when he silenced her, insured her talented hands would not continue to wreak havoc on his plans, he would broadcast the signal from her very machines, thwarting her counter-code and symbolically triumphing over her impressive resistance.
He twirled the mask in his hands.
He was, after all, quite taken with the dramatic.
55
“Attacks on the power grid?” Cohen shouted into the phone as the car sped along the Shore Parkway, the waters of the Lower Bay tinted orange by the rising sun. Savas had engaged the switch boxes, running quiet unless hitting traffic, the red and blue flashing lights beginning to give Cohen a headache. Poison sat in the back of the vehicle with Miller, in silence. Behind them a second Crown Vic with Lopez and Houston followed closely.
“What’s happening?” asked Savas.
“Okay, Angel, hold on. Let me tell John.” She turned toward him and sighed. “Looks like the November fifth theory is right. Angel says all hell is breaking loose and major manufacturing and resource systems are under attack by the worm. The scariest is the power grid. You remember the briefings after 9/11?”