An Armageddon Duology (34 page)

C
BD
: And this was the last you saw of agent Lightfoote or of the two fugitives?

MR. SAVAS: That’s correct.

[
R
EDACTED
]: And so we are really intended to believe that these three simply vanished before a group of trained soldiers? That you were so caught up in the moment of your arrest that you even failed to notice their departure?

MR. SAVAS: That’s how it happened.

C
BD
: But why would they leave?

MR. SAVAS: Lopez and Houston had some good reasons. They were framed for crimes they did not commit. I think they must have thought of a way out.

C
BD
: How could these two know a way out of your building?

MR. SAVAS: I assume Angel told them. Probably it was her idea in the first place. There wasn’t much time for decisions. And she always had a sixth sense about outcomes.

[
R
EDACTED
]: And now the explanation is that your cybercrimes head, after releasing a rogue virus through the world’s computer systems, after taking secret documents with her, documents sent by the hacker Fawkes—your claim is that her escape with the fugitives was due to her magical ability to see the future! That the reason she helped the terrorists escape is due to some kind of a
vision
. A vision
,
agent Savas!

MR. SAVAS: I don’t know about a vision. What I do know is she makes spontaneous and intuitive choices. They are usually the right choices.

[
R
EDACTED
]: This is absurd!

MR. SAVAS: So what is the Tribunal’s theory?

C
BD
: This isn’t the time, Mr. Savas for—

[
R
EDACTED
]: Our theory is quite simple. And like Occam’s Razor, is what is likely true. It doesn’t involve fortune telling or wishing away the documented crimes of outlaws. It doesn’t require an imaginary hacker-boogieman who single-handedly brought the world to its knees. The Tribunal believes that you and your collaborators in the NSA and CIA, along with the nation’s most wanted terrorists, orchestrated an attempt to overthrow the United States government, a plan carried out under the guise of this
Anonymous
organization, but masterminded by you and your cybercrime head, Angel Lightfoote. This Fawkes was only a mask, not worn by some invented hacker, but masking your crimes, Mr. Savas. When your attempt at sedition was finally stopped by our soldiers, you allowed your fugitives and computer mastermind to escape, stalling our team while they made their getaway.

MR. SAVAS: You really can’t be serious.

[
R
EDACTED
]: And now the time has come for you to confess and work to bring these traitors in, or to meet yourself the swift hand of justice.

C
BD
: Mr. Savas, please. Is there nothing that you can provide for this tribunal about their whereabouts? Their intentions? Their plans?

MR. SAVAS: You know as much as I do.

CBD: Anything at all?

MR. SAVAS: No.

C
BD
: And what about this message from the hacker, this file. What is in it? What does it mean, the
Nash Criterion
?

MR. SAVAS: I have absolutely no idea. And that is the God’s honest truth.

[
R
EDACTED
]: Enough. This session is concluded. The depositions are over. We will move to the next phase of this process. And may God have mercy on your soul, Mr. Savas.

O
nly one thing
is impossible for God: to find any sense in any copyright law on the planet.—
Mark Twain

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Nash Criterion
. Copyright © 2016 Erec Stebbins

Published 2016 by Twice Pi Press,
erecstebbinsbooks.com

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by Erec Stebbins. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image, may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

Cover design by Erec Stebbins © 2016

Images licensed from Shutterstock.com, Pond5.com, and individual artists. Copyrighted artists Krasowit, Olga Nikonova, and isak55.

Edited by Michael Matheson.

ePub ISBN-13: 978-1-942360-22-3

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-942360-12-4

Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-942360-13-1

Kindle ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-942360-11-7

“
W
ill there be anything else
, Elaine?”

Tipping her bifocals down, President York looked up from the mass of papers on her desk in the Oval Office. Before her stood a lanky man in a formal business suit, white hair and blue eyes staring back.

“No, George,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “A crazy week. I’m sorry about the Senate vote. It’s a slap in the face to me that they held it up as long as they did. In the end it wasn’t even close. You deserved better.”

George Tooze nodded. “Homeland Security is a macho position. They don’t want some academic heading it. But it’s done. Onward.”

“Onward indeed, George,” she said, gesturing to her desk.

Tooze motioned to leave but caught himself, turning back to the president.

“It was something today, Elaine. I remember when Obama was sworn in. First African-American president. Now this. No one will forget your speech. It will be in the history books.”

“We’ve come a long way, baby. But if I hadn’t been in boots and fatigues? Wouldn’t have scratched that glass ceiling. So much fear out there. They don’t care if you’ve got a law degree from Harvard, served in the Senate ten years, hell, even that your daddy was in that chamber. People need
Daddy
in the White House. Richard was a genius to use my military photos so much in the campaign. I think I ran mostly as a soldier!”

“You have a large base. A strong one. And we’ll use that, don’t you worry. We just had to convince enough fence sitters. And we did. Congratulations, Ms. President. You’ve earned it.”

He smiled and closed the door behind him as he left. York watched him exit the White House and step toward a black town car idling in the driveway. It was good to have such loyal supporters early on. If you didn’t, when things got rough, you were in trouble. And Elaine York didn’t fool herself—in this business, sooner or later, things always got rough.

A large phone at the far end of the desk vibrated.

“You’re kidding me.”

York stared dumbfounded. The device was a military-grade smartphone, a one-of-a-kind custom gadget with cutting-edge voice and data encryption, designed specifically for one job: to serve as the President’s communication device of convenience for hotline calls.

Hotline calls.

More than twenty bilateral hotlines existed between the United States and other nations. The famous Russian hotline was complimented with many spanning allies in Europe to frenemies in Asia and the Middle East. The phone was not supposed to buzz except when the White House Communications Agency had received and was routing a call from one of these nations’ leaders. York felt the weight of her office descend like a mountain on her shoulders.

She grabbed the device and keyed in her unique code. “President Elaine York on Direct Link.”

Static only. York engaged several additional security clearance codes. Nothing. Her heart began to pound. They checked this line every hour of every day! How could it be malfunctioning?

A pop of static startled her. A man’s voice spoke.

“President York. It is so good to finally be able to speak with you.”

York felt cold. She had run simulations with the hotline communication system. Procedures were followed, protocols in place. She should be speaking with White House Communications. She should be briefed and transferred to the incoming hotline call. What the hell was happening?

“Please don’t be alarmed.”

“Who is this? You aren’t WHCA.”

“No, we are not. We are not a formal part of the US government. Or any government.”

York stared slack-jawed for a moment. “How the hell did you get this number? Who are you?”

“The answers to both questions are intertwined. You need to discover those answers before your presidency continues much further.”

“Look, I don’t know what this—”

“There is someone waiting for you underground. At the new Cogcon Line. I think that he will peak your curiosity.”

“How do you know—”

“We know and we have access. Which should tell you all you need to know.”

York blinked. “You have access to the train line?”

“Rest assured, Ms. York, your gleaming new railway is still a secret, known only to the proper governmental agencies. And our group.”

“Who are you?”

“It is best we explain in a different setting.”

“Why should I trust this? You could be luring me into a trap. I’m going to call—”

“Friendly fire, Ms. President!”

Her face paled. Elaine York stared forward wildly and swallowed. “What did you say?”

“Battle of Khafji. Terrible accident. Was it eleven servicemen died? You were assigned to that unit, weren’t you?”

“In a non-combat role. Everyone knows that! Women weren’t allowed to serve in combat roles then.”

“But we both know the truth, don’t we, Ms. York? Your actions were noble, truly. But of course it’s not me you would have to convince. You and several other soldiers resisted some men in uniform who were out of control. The ensuing firefight was a tragedy.” He paused. “And easily misconstrued. It would be terrible for your presidency if certain information were released to the public.”

She squeezed her fingertips to her temple. This wasn’t happening!

“The Cogcon line, Ms. President. Try at least that far. Someone will be waiting for you.”

The connection closed.

In a near panic, York opened the trap door underneath her desk and descended into the Horsepower command post. It was empty. She searched for the Secret Service staff who manned the post, but found no one. Monitors around her displayed camera footage from inside and outside the building. Communications equipment crackled and blinked. A filled coffee pot steamed beside several unopened sandwiches.

“What the hell?”

Continuing was insane. This was an attack on the Presidency. Only an idiot would follow the directions from that cipher on the hotline.

Friendly fire.

She couldn’t escape it. It would ruin her, strip her presidency of all moral authority and hand her opponents the perfect weapon to discredit her. Whoever had been on the other end of the line, they had terrible knowledge—dangerous knowledge, and the power that came with it. She had nowhere to go but forward, into the trap they had set for her.

She made her way through several of the hidden passageways leading to the classified rail line. Outside the deepest military and governmental circles, the new train was only a distorted rumor. The line served to secrete the president and staff deep underground, away from the White House in the event of a national catastrophe. As she opened the final doorway with a retinal scan, she saw the gleaming metallic surface of the presidential car in front of her, the hum of the electric motor purring softly.

A tall black man in a sweater looked down at her solemnly.

“Hello, Elaine,” came his deep voice.

York stared up at the former community organizer, his hair completely grayed, his shoulders stooped and his gait limping. He looked old. He looked defeated. He looked mournful.

“Barack?”