The Ultimate Showdowns

By Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

Synopsis - The Ultimate SHOWDOWNS
President Brian Connelly enlists Inspector Warren’s aid. Warren and his team hack into the U.S. FED and Treasury, and the world’s biggest banks with ease. While trying to enter the largest Swiss back, they get back-hacked, then the next time they try it, a hit team descends upon them. But they are ready for an ambush and avoid being murdered.
When the timing is right, Brian goes after every enemy of the United States, both foreign and domestic. He renders the FED powerless in the affairs of state. The kicks the largest foreign banks out of the country, then institutes his rules on all American banks. Brian makes sure all accident and injury lawyers are unable to collect their forty percent. He puts America on the road to being completely green with, no-emission cars, power plants, oil refineries, paper mills and begins deploying thermal depolymerization units for every polluting industry, including mining. He gears up American rare elements production.
When Joseph Kony is found, Brian has the U.S. military annihilate the warlord and his army, sparing the boy soldiers.
Warren falls in love.
Since the U.S. military is in place, and after getting sanctions from the Congress and U.S. allies, Brian orders our armed forces to invade Iran and take her nukes by force.
The Iranians elect a new president, who promptly detonates a large nuclear weapon deep beneath the Kavir Salt Desert, then demands new talks with the Israelis.
The Israelis, desperate to avoid a first strike, deploy nuclear weapons aboard trucks and try to sneak them across their borders to blackmail their neighbors. Because of Warren’s Intel, Brian was able to inform the countries involve who dispose of the nukes, but two detonate.
Russia and seven Arab countries declare war on Israel and mean to wipe her off the face of the Earth. Brian, with his options down to zero, shocks the world and declares America at war with Israel. Using his influence as part of the coalition against Israel, convinces his allies not to attack until he can implement his plan.
After his Joint Chiefs mutiny, Brian is still able to extract all nukes from Israel. Then, after the Israelis elect a new government, their new prime minister arrests the old government and sends them to the Hague for trial.
With the last demand for peace met, the new Israeli government sends an ambassador to the U.N. where peace treaties are signed, ending World War III.
Amy, Brian’s wife, is going to have a baby.
The House impeaches Brian and sends the bill to the Senate. On the eve of the Senate’s vote, with the outcome a foregone conclusion, Brian wins the Nobel Peace Prize and the Senate drops their impeachment proceedings. Brian and Amy travel to Oslo and receive their prize.
During his second State of the Union address, declares war on the largest remaining enemy of the people of the United States, the Congress, and is ready to back up that threat. He outlines a simple plan for the American people to throw the bums out and reclaim their government.
And his enemies converge on him.

Sequel available now: Americaless

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9780982951255

Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

Mr. Fitzgerald lives south of Columbus, Ohio, and is hard at work on his next book.

Book preview

394

THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWNS

By Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

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THE ULTIMATE SHOWDOWNS

Copyright © 2019, Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

About 122,000 Words

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BOOK ONE

INTO THE FIRE

Thursday November 10, 2016

Brian had to make sense of what happened, and he had to do it quickly.

He shuffled out onto his apartment’s small, screened-in back porch and attempted to wake up after a fitful night’s sleep. He could remember snippets of a weird dream where he was a little boy running through a thick fog looking for something that remained elusive; it must have lasted for hours, and had left him weary and on edge. It was very similar to the dreams he had had many times as a youngster, but this time it was far more urgent and intense, and just as incomprehensible.

Brian looked around.

It was a beautiful morning . . .

. . . at least it started off that way.

A brief but violent storm had pounded the area right before dawn and now rays of sunrise glistened across drop-splattered windowpanes and warmed the sweet, rain-scrubbed air that was crisp and clean and clear. It was chilly, but invigorating. Brian thought about how this kind of weather turned his nose and cheeks a flushed pink. Made him want to go for a walk with Amy, find some autumn foliage still hanging on, spread out a blanket, have a picnic under an old, spread-out oak, then kiss her all afternoon.

Then it hit him like a mallet to his chest. He got elected President of the United States.

The last two days seemed to last for months. All the endless waiting, the crushing angst, the flush of excitement, the rush of adrenalin, the devastating letdown, and then the confused realization of victory. When the results were finally confirmed, he was so emotionally and physically exhausted, he didn’t know what to think.

He still didn’t.

This morning, though, Brian tried to put his weird and historic Presidential victory out of his mind, but the weight of his new responsibilities pushed him down a little further into his chair, and his shoulders slumped. He wondered how anyone could do a job so immense and complicated, with few, if any, right answers to a million and one questions?

And, if he went ahead with his real agenda—and there was no doubt of that—he would make an enemy of every true power broker in the world and they would crush him, as surely as night follows day. Without compunction or the slightest hint of a conscience.

But he was the President-elect, ready to do anything, make any sacrifice, to build his dream of a renewed America. As long as he had one ounce of strength left, he would do what was right for the people of this country and the world.

But what about Amy?

His wife of just a few months.

He knew deep in his heart, that she wished deep in her heart, that he had lost the election. A loss would have meant that they always could be together, have children, watch them grow up, have grandchildren, grow old together, with a never-ending love that would bind them forever. A real chance to be happy and laugh through life in a crazy old world that could turn mean at any moment. They could tackle every problem, face every challenge as a team, and have fun doing it.

Now his victory meant his inevitable destruction. But of what kind?

They might simply destroy him politically and leave him alive, he hoped. Then he and Amy could live happily in each other’s arms.

But if not, they would kill him and make her a widow. And if they had to, they would kill them both, or anyone who got in the way, if it meant getting to him.

He wondered how he could protect her. If only she lived through this, then they both would survive, in spirit anyway.

He also wished they could have a baby. Two, maybe? He’d love that more than anything.

But during these next few years, if he survived that long, he would be completely immersed in his job, with next to no time for his wife, and absolutely no energy for a baby. And with Amy taking care of a child full time, she’d have no time for him. And he would be alone making the most complicated decisions anyone could possibly make.

No. A baby would have to wait.

He took a few deep breaths, savoring the wonderful fall air. It lifted his spirits and he even managed a huge, self-satisfied smile.

He had done it!

Gotten elected President of the United States. The first President elected from a third political party since Teddy Roosevelt. He was a member of the American Party, a party he had had created since he had become so disgusted with the Democrats last summer.

He couldn’t wait to get started making things better for everyone.

Amy was sitting on the couch in the living room when Brian walked out of the bedroom and onto the porch and sat in the chair. He didn’t notice her he was so lost in thought. She could still see the left side of his face in silhouette and her concerns turned into full-fledged worry.

For him.

And for them.

At first, she felt it was pretty much a lark him running for President. There was no way he could win. Then, when there was actually a chance he might get elected, she secretly hoped he would lose. That way they could have each other for the rest of their lives, no matter what they did for a living.

But, as the campaign heated up and she felt the intensity he put into every speech and his sincerity into each handshake, she slowly understood the depths to which Brian was pouring his heart and soul into the election, and just how much he wanted and needed to do something positive for his country. She knew now that he could not be truly happy unless he was trying to save this country and the entire world. Any other occupation would be too drab and uneventful, even if he couldn’t realize it himself.

But now she was ecstatic that he had won, for his sake, because that’s what he wanted more than anything.

But . . . what did that really mean?

They had spoken of his true agenda, and how that would . . . nah, she didn’t want to think about that right now. But, one thing she was sure about, she was not going to spend her time working for some worthy charity or great world-wide cause. She would devote herself to Brian. He would need her full time attention now. So, how could she shelter him, help him, guide him, save him from the worst when it came? And it surely would come.

She suddenly realized she couldn’t protect from the harsh realities of his position at all. No matter what she did.

She would be his caretaker, there for him every step of the way. Take on every burden she could and help make his life and job as worry-free as possible. To provide a safe haven, to bind his emotional and spiritual wounds and give him a steady ground to walk upon, someone to lean on.

And . . . he must never see her doubts or ominous uncertainties. He must always feel her unwavering belief in him, no matter what happened, or how dire their problems became.

She knew she was only going to have him for a short period of time, days or decades, and was determined to love him with a soft ferocity that only a few people down through history had ever felt. She’d gladly take only one more minute with Brian, if that’s all she had, and thank heaven for it. Anything more was going to be that much more glorious.

She was so proud of him. Would hold hands with him down any path, to anywhere, as long as they kept true to their beliefs and had each other.

There was a soft knock on the front door.

It begins right now, Amy thought. Our path is set. The die is cast. No matter what they did or how true their motives and intentions and hearts were, disastrous certainties remained until realized.

Amy took a deep breath, let it out slowly, stood, walked over and opened the door.

Stewart Munroe, Brian’s running mate and the vice President-elect, and his lovely wife, Mazy, walked in. A knot of twelve Secret Service agents were on the walkway leading up to the door, with nothing better to do than watch the Monroes go inside and Amy close the door behind them.

Brian jumped up, rushed inside and pumped Stewart’s hand numerous times. Many people thought Brian was crazy when he picked this man to be his running mate, but Brian had grown to adore this tall, six-six, Bostonian. One of the least photogenic people in Congress, he was skinny to the point of being emaciated, and had the thickest Bah-stun accent Brian had ever heard, but he was a clever strategist and wonderful public speaker.

I’m so proud of you, son, Stewart said in his New England drawl.

I’m proud of us both, Brian replied.

I may have done my bit, but you were the one elected President. Something I couldn’t do, referring to his run for President in 2012 when literally no one outside of his district knew he was a candidate there for a few long weeks.

Brian didn’t know what to say, so he wisely kept his mouth shut, and returned Stewart’s gaze and smiled.

Stewart hugged Amy. You take care of this man, you hear, my dear.

I will, Amy said.

Brian hugged Mazy. See you in a couple of weeks. In Washington.

Mazy smiled, turned and hugged Amy.

The Monroes left for the airport to take their private jet back to Massachusetts to prepare for their move to Washington.

And the Secret Service descended on the Connellys.

Brian and Amy sat still as Agent Buford informed them of the dozens upon dozens of choices they would need to make and of all the things that they would have to deal with now that Brian was the President-elect.

Any sort of confidence Brian may have had dried up and he felt like that little boy in his dream, immersed in a confusing fog, where he didn’t know which direction was where, desperately searching for something, yet had no idea what. Self-doubt became three more gravities pressing him deep into the couch. Yet, there was something familiar about the feeling that he couldn’t quite place.

You okay? Buford asked him, jolting Brian out of his reverie.

Brian sat up. Yeah.

Buford, You looked like you were getting—

Brian took a deep breath. I’m fine. Continue, please.

As Buford went on explaining the choices he would have to make immediately, Brian made a pact with himself. That was the last time anyone but Amy would ever see what he was thinking, that when in public, his face would be the perfect mask, chiseled from stone, pleasant but impenetrable.

About two hours into Buford’s monologue, Brian’s head began to spin, after three hours he’d had more than enough, and after four hours his brain was mush. But one thing grabbed his immediate attention. There was a small apartment suite, complete with two conference rooms, under the West Wing of the White House for the President-elect and his family, where he could hold meetings, pick his cabinet, staff, ambassadors and generally conduct other necessary business so he could hit the ground running after the inauguration.

Buford stood up suddenly. There is much more we need to discuss, Mr. President-Elect, but that’ll have to wait for another time. Oh, by the way, my team and I will serve as your transition team until the oath when your permanent team takes over.

Amy showed the agents to the door, came back and sat down on the couch beside Brian. What have we gotten ourselves into? she asked.

We’ll just have to figure out everything in due course, as it comes our way. But they were just words. Brian didn’t believe them for a second. But I think we should take advantage of that apartment at the White House and get everything and everyone into place as soon as possible.

I agree. We’ll pack today and move tomorrow.

The sooner the better.

Friday, November 11, 2016

The Secret Service arrived in force at nine a.m. with a small moving company. The men carried box after box out to a truck, then they all caravanned to the Wilkes-Barre Scranton International airport. Brian and Amy rode in an armored limousine, then were driven inside a private hanger and escorted onto a private jet. The flight only took thirty-five minutes, wheels up to wheels down. They were driven in another bulletproof limousine to the West Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the White House, through the checkpoint, around to the West Wing, north entrance.

When Brian and Amy and their Secret Service entourage got out and walked up the steps, a Marine corporal snapped a salute, opened the door for them. And they walked inside.

Brian tried not to stare at the opulence around them as they walked down a hall, entered an elevator, and went down two flights. The doors opened and they walked down another hallway. Buford stopped at a door, opened it, stepped back and let the Connellys enter first.

'Small' to the White House meant huge and luxurious to Brian and Amy. At first, they stood in the center of the living room and gawked, slowly turning around to take in the place. The apartment was fully furnished and gorgeous. Magnificent oil paintings hung on the walls. Valuable-looking vases and nick-knacks filled every available niche. Everything was meticulously clean. They took a slow, self-guided tour together.

It had three bedrooms, three baths, a large living room and kitchen, all luxuriously appointed. But no windows. The wall to wall, light green, short shag carpet looked and felt new even through their shoes. On the coffee table in front of the couch, directly beneath a bright, recessed white light, sat a huge, glass carafe, two thirds full of water holding two dozen fresh, violet tulips with vertical streaks of vivid yellow. Brian walked over to admire them. The deep hues were startling.

The apartment had a fresh, clean smell with a hint of lemon. There was no dust in the air, or anywhere else. When they walked into the master bedroom, they could smell how clean the sheets were. In the bathroom, they could tell that all of the fixtures had been scrubbed that morning.

Men arrived carrying boxes. Knowing the White House was fully furnished, they had only packed their clothes and a few personal things, but still they had surprised themselves at how much stuff they actually had.

One of the movers asked, Where would you like it, ma'am?

Boxes marked with a one, right there. Amy pointed to the middle of the living room. Boxes marked with a two in the kitchen, three into the bedroom, please.

It’s about that time. Shall we? Brian extended his right elbow.

Indeed. Amy slid her hand into the crook of Brian’s arm and they paraded out of the room looking into each other’s eyes, and Brian nearly walked right into the door jamb.

When they arrived upstairs, Cheryl Hinson took them on a guided tour of the White House. She was tall and thin, early forties, attractive, brunette hair down to her shoulders with some waviness to it. Long, slim fingers, expertly manicured. And naturally talkative.

As they slowly walked through each room in the White House, she regaled them with the complete history of every artifact, painting, chair, table, wall, furnishing, even the ceilings. It was almost spooky to walk where Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln walked. What a thrill. To touch the very things that they touched. Maybe one molecule of Washington’s skin was still adhered to that desk, Jefferson’s to that chair. I could be touching something Lincoln himself touched, Brian thought. The tour went on for three and half hours and neither Brian nor Amy were bored for a moment.

They spent the rest of the day unpacking and putting everything away.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Brian and Amy headed for the smaller conference room down the hallway from their apartment and looked the place over. One door, one table with six wooden chairs, four unadorned walls, painted dull beige, composed of some sort of pressboard with tiny undulations on its surface that were put there on purpose, obviously. Brian didn’t get it, though.

Ginny walked in at 9:00 a.m. sharp and the three of them sat at one end of the table. Ginny was mid-sixties, very black on the sliding scale of skin color. Hair, equal parts black and white in a salt and pepper mixture that she pulled back into a harsh bun. She walked with a slight stoop and when she smiled her teeth glowed like they were electrified.

Brian and Amy adored Ginny. After Amy, Ginny was the second volunteer to help Brian’s campaign for Senator, and she’d stuck with them through thick and thin, and had become invaluable.

Brian knew quite a bit of her past. She’d married her high school sweetheart at eighteen. They moved into a very small, fix-her-up, standalone house on a small plot of land near the steel mills back in ’68 in downtown Pittsburgh after her husband, Bill, got a job in there. They had two kids and Bill got laid off six years later when the mill closed. He found another job at another mill, got laid off when that one closed, and had to look for a year before he found another job. He was experienced, a hard worker, and he managed to find jobs at mills, then they would close and he spent most of the time getting odd jobs wherever he could.

The years rolled by and they had three more babies. And they lived in that little house raising five kids and watched, through the years, as every mill closed and Pittsburgh became a much different city. Money became tighter, and everything scarcer.

Yet, somehow, they managed to see all five kids through college. They instilled righteous values that took root and flourished in those children. Today, all five were professional people, and each started their first job, right out of college, making more money than both parents ever brought home together. And Ginny and Bill were so proud of them.

Brian knew what value Ginny placed on family, and when she told Brian and Amy that, You’re part of my family now, trying her best to be helpful and upbeat after a particularly brutal week last summer, he knew what that meant deep down to her. It was one of his proudest accomplishments—to be part of Ginny’s family.

She was and would be his number one personal secretary.

Okay, first things first, Brian was quite upbeat. Amy, I’ll need you to get your staff together. Then I’ll need your staff to get two lists together. One for my staff—I’ll help with that one, and one for my cabinet. I want . . .. Brian detailed the exact men and women he preferred in specific positions. I’ll choose the rest from your lists.

Okay, Ginny, Amy said, Let’s get cracking.

Brian rose and walked toward the door.

Where’re you going? Amy asked him.

I have to find someone.

Sunday, November 13, 2016

At nine o’clock straight up, Brian was sitting at the table in the smaller conference room. He’d been sleeping okay lately, but last night he had clamped his jaw so tightly that it woke him up and every muscle in his head and face still ached a little.

The door opened and Ginny walked in; behind her came two man. One was eighty-something, six-six, large paunch, wearing an old, green, wrinkled suit. It looked like he had slept in it for more than a week, with at least a full week’s worth of stubble on his chin. The other was a younger man, forty-something, six-two, one-ninety-five, lean, rawboned, yet he seemed to glide across the room.

Director O'Malley and . . . associate. Ginny left, closing the door behind her.

Brian stood, walked across the room and reached out his hand to the older man. Mr. O’Malley, it’s so nice to see you again.

O’Malley shook Brian’s hand. Then he nodded his head in the younger man’s general direction, and said, Warren. He walked out without uttering another word or closing the door.

Brian approached Warren. Mr. Warren, pleased to meet you.

Warren shook his hand. Mr. President-Elect.

Please sit down.

Warren sat. Brian walked over, closed the door and then sat on the opposite side of the table from Warren. For many long seconds they looked each other over, then Brian said, Thank you for coming. I need your help.

Why me?

Mr. O’Malley said you were the best.

You trust me because you trust O’Malley?

Yes.

Why do you trust O’Malley?

A hunch.

How long have you known Gerald O’Malley?

A day.

How did you find him?

I went looking for him.

What parameters did you use for your search?

Brian chuckled. My gut.

Warren chuckled. So, between a hunch and your gut, you trust me?

Yes. Brian smiled.

Well, you can’t beat that for an endorsement, I suppose. Warren paused. Is this conversation being recorded?

Heaven’s no!

Any video of us arriving?

Director O’Malley and I already discussed that yesterday. ‘No records kept,’ he insisted.

Warren’s eyelids narrowed ever-so-slightly and tilted his head to the right a tiny fraction. How may I help you?

With everything, eventually. But right now I need information from the most sensitive and highly-developed sources on the planet.

You’re talking about getting past firewalls and state-of-the-art encryption into facilities and their mainframes.

You’re very quick on the uptake.

Now tell me what you need.

I’m going after every enemy of the people of the United States, both foreign and domestic. And Brian listed them in order, beginning with the most horrendous.

Warren remained immobile for a good thirty seconds. That’s quite an impressive list. I’d ask if you’re serious, but I can see you are. Give me details.

Brian ran down his plan.

Warren thought for a little while, then spoke slowly and thoughtfully. You’re going to need a team in place, an entire system, really, by the time you take office. Unknown and separate from any government agency, reporting to, loyal to, and answerable only to you. When they report, they do it verbally, face to face. No means of electronic or digital communications take place, except those that are encrypted and in code, announcing meeting times only. The Capitol Police, even your own Secret Service must be kept out of the loop.

Brian nodded sharply once. Right!

They’re not going to like that.

No kidding.

My team and I can help you.

Wonderful.

I’ll need some time to brainstorm with the guys and do some heavy research. I’ll call you in a few days and set up an appointment. Warren pulled out a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Brian. This phone is completely untraceable. Secret Service, FBI. NSA. Nobody. It uses a standard charger. When’s a good time to call?

Between nine and ten, evenings.

Press the green button when it rings.

Later that evening, after Amy ladled some of her beef stew into a bowl and set it in front of Brian at the small kitchen table, he leaned over, put his nose right above the bowl and sat up as he inhaled through his nose. Aaah, he whispered, One of my favorite aromas.

She ladled out a more moderate amount for herself and sat down at the table opposite her husband. So, did you find who you were looking for?

Brian spoke mystically. Incredibly so.

Oh?

"I went looking for an old timer. In Justice. Someone without impeccable credentials. A loner. A maverick. A survivor. Someone who gets things done his own way. Doesn’t take orders or crap from anyone. That was easy enough. Gerald O’Malley. Director, Covert Operations, United States Justice Department. A department, which, incidentally, does not exist. I had to get this information through the current Attorney General. I think he wants to keep his job. I did some research. O’Malley began working for the F.B.I. in 1971 for Associate Director Mark Felt. That name ring a bell?

Deep Throat.

That’s my girl. The moment Nixon resigned, Felt helped O’Malley transition to Justice, where he’s been on the rise ever since.

Sounds like O’Malley might have been Deep Throat’s accomplice.

My thought exactly. Which made him my ideal man. Someone who holds the truth above the law. I called him up and met with him yesterday afternoon downstairs. When I told him what I needed, he said, ‘Warren.’ and not much else.

A man of few words. And no people skills.

Spooky, really. He came back today with another man, shook my hand, half nodded and mumbled, ‘Warren,’ and walked out again. And there was Warren and me staring at each other.

What’s he like?

Hard to describe, but he exudes a raw, pent-up power that’s ready to explode. A self-contained fury, yet a gentleness and compassion, too. Plus, and I just saw glimpses of it, a whip-keen intellect. Does that make any sense?

I suppose it could.

I want you to meet him next time he comes by.

How will you contact him?

Brian pulled out the phone Warren had given him and set in on the table. He’ll contact me when he’s ready.

I like him already.

Me, too,

But can we trust him?

He’ll supply us with information at no cost. The quality and quantity of that information will determine his trustworthiness.

Weird.

They both stared at the phone on the table between them.

At that moment across the river in Alexandria, Virginia, Warren and three colleagues were sitting around Warren’s living room talking, kidding around, discussing, planning, joking, theorizing and strategizing.

Two members of his teams were identical twins, Steve and Sam Sable. They were six-foot, late-thirties, two hundred pounds of solid muscle, built like wrestlers. They had unknown talents and were confident that no one knew the full extent of what they were capable of, even Warren.

But they were wrong.

Warren’s other colleague was Robert Falwell. At four-foot-two, he sported a drooping pot belly and always wore baggy jeans, a baggy sweater, and sneakers. The hair on his head shot out in bunches and each tuft was a slightly different hue—brown, black, grey, silver, white, and was that pink? Warren always wanted to get a good look at that pinkish tuft under strong light, but knew he would pull back a stump if he tried.

They began with the problems they faced, then continued making logical progressions. It was well after midnight by the time they had formulated a coherent plan and finalized their individual assignments and areas of research, and called it a night.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Brian and Amy spent all day in one long, intense strategy session, composed of very strategic sessions indeed. This was a holdover from their campaigning days when they had to strategically plan their intimate liaisons to keep them secret from the press before they were married.

Occasionally Brian would have to put on a robe to answer the door for some delicacy from the kitchen, but that’s the only thing either of them wore all day.

Around eleven that evening, Robert Falwell was sitting in the dingy basement of some long-abandoned building. The only light came from the monitors and tiny spot lights on the consoles and laptops. The floors, walls and ceiling, which could barely be seen in the dim, localized light, were very rough concrete. Some old furniture and wooden planks overgrown with moss and mold had been pushed into the corners long ago. The air was 'alive' with concrete dust; it looked like smoke, but smelled like mildew. Strong. New.

Robert sat in front of a console, a keyboard and two flat-screen monitors. A large CPU was sitting on the floor beside his feet. Robert’s fingers were flying across his keyboard.

Susan Singer, sitting to Robert’s left, was twenty-something, incredibly thin with the largest nose Warren had ever seen. There was a console, keyboard and a flat screen TV in front of her. Susan’s fingers were flying over her keyboard.

Carson Penny, sitting to Robert’s right, was twenty-something, thin, but well-muscled, and looked exactly like a young Gary Cooper. The resemblance was almost surreal. There was a console, keyboard and a flat screen TV in front of him. Carson’s fingers were flying across his keyboard.

A nest of wires and cables connected every piece of equipment with every other piece of equipment, including a small generator that was humming quietly off to their left. There was a hole in the floor about three feet wide. A slim bundle of cables snaked out of Robert’s CPU and down through the hole in the floor.

Behind those three, Warren, Steve and Sam sat in a row on uncomfortable wooden chairs, with laptops on their laps.

Now, what are we doing here, exactly? Warren asked timidly, knowing Robert would be in a snit.

Robert huffed. Okay, okay, I’ll stop what I’m doing to explain it to you. This house is situated about half way from Washington to Baltimore directly over a massive trunk of buried communications and fiber-optic cables that criss-cross the country. Carson has hardwired us directly onto a cable within that trunk. I can now direct, steer might be a better word, my protocols anywhere, through landlines, towers and satellites.

Susan smiled. We’ve used this place before.

What we are attempting is very dangerous. If my protocols get attacked and hacked by a CIP program, which has never happened, by the way, and if they’re good enough and fast enough to discover our whereabouts, our trail will lead here, to this abandoned building, instead of my office, or Justice, or someplace meaningful. Do you understand?

CIP? Sam asked.

Counter-intuitive program. For every hacker program, I call them protocols, like mine, there can be a counter-intuitive program to stop and back-track the hacker. Whoever has the latest and best program always succeeds. And my programs are always the best because I write them myself, so I never get caught. See how it works.

Steve answered, Yes, because Robert was expecting an response.

One more thing, Robert added. "The animation you’ll see on your screen was designed by me to make your experience more understandable, so that you can visualize where we’re going, where we’ve been, and what we encounter. But very crude and simplistic, though. Nothing fancy. The line represents the current protocol in use then changes color—red for hard wire, green for skipping off satellites, blue for hopping around towers—as it follows trunks of cables, and paths to and from towers and satellites.

Firewalls have letters, the lower the sophistication, the lower the letter. The lower level firewalls look like wooden fences, and the more sophisticated programs become brick walls, then metal doors, curtains—all differently colored to denote a slightly different type of encryption. Every folder looks like a room. Inside the rooms are shelves with numbers denoting files.

Please proceed, maestro, Warren encouraged.

Finally! Robert huffed, then swiveled back to face his monitors and made adjustments on his console.

Fifteen minutes later, Robert announced, Ready to commence.

Ready here, Susan said.

Ready, Carson echoed.

And . . . now, Robert whispered. He touched a button on his console.

Warren looked down at his laptop. He saw a map of the area from the small house they were in east of Beltsville, Maryland, including all of the area to the southwest, including Washington, D.C., and to the northeast, including Baltimore. The map also showed the maze of buried communication trunk lines that were represented by black lines. He watched a red line exit the small house they were in, join the black trunk line and travel slowly southwest.

No resistance. No leeches. No burs. No CIPs, Susan whispered.

Getting it up to speed, Robert announced.

Warren watched as the red line sped up and cruised into Washington within seconds. The map on his screen zoomed in until individual streets were named.

Slowing down. Taking a left down the 15th Street Northwest truck line, Robert said.

Warren saw the red line slow and take a left.

Slowing down even more. Taking a right down the Constitution Avenue trunk, Robert said.

Warren watched the red line change direction.

Coming up to 21st Street, Northwest . . . and . . . stopping.

The map on Warren’s screen zoomed in until all he could see was the red line stop in the street next to a large, irregularly-shaped building. There were numerous black lines coming out of the building and joining a major trunk line group going up and down the street. Inside the building was another network of black lines.

Is that the Federal Reserve building in Washington? Warren asked.

It is, Robert said. One of the most protected computers systems on the planet. Integrity?

Signal strength, one hundred percent. No degradation, Carson announced.

No echoes, leeches, or burs . . . no CIPs, Susan said.

Wonderful, let’s slip in.

I’ve identified the main computer terminal in the basement, Carson said. Every computer in the building is hardwired to that complex. I have also ascertained the Chairman’s private computer, and his secretary’s computer.

Good, Robert whispered. We’ll take stock of the mainframe first. Using Protocol Number One.

Warren studied his laptop. The red line merged with one of the lines entering the building. The map zoomed in until it looked like the red line was cruising down a cartoon street. Suddenly, the red line came to a brown wooden fence that spanned the street.

First firewall. Level G or H, Susan said.

The red line on Warren’s computer slipped right through the wooden fence. It disappeared. Then a red brick wall almost immediately appeared across the street.

Second firewall. Level J or maybe a K, Susan announced.

The red line on Warren’s computer slipped right through the red brick wall. Then the red line came to a rectangular grey metal door across the street.

Third firewall. Advanced. Level N or an O. Susan sounded a little nervous.

Slowing to a stop, Robert said, Instituting Protocol Two. His fingers flew over his console, then his keyboard. Initializing now.

The red line picked up speed and slipped right through the metal door. Immediately, there was a glowing, red, undulating curtain across the road.

Fourth firewall. Very advanced. P or Q. Susan sounded decidedly nervous now. Number two protocol doubtful.

Really? Robert asked.

I’ve never seen number sequences like this before, Susan told him.

Let me see. Robert turned a dial on his console and one of his monitors filled with numbers streaming up the monitor. Perhaps you’re right. Initializing Protocol Three. Robert turned the knob on the console back to its former position. The numbers disappeared and his fingers flew across his keyboard. Here we go.

All eyes were on their screens as the red line slipped though the curtain and entered a room. There were six doors on the walls of the room.

Stopping, Robert said.

I have it, Carson announced, his fingers flying over his keyboard. Commencing my run now. Carson’s monitor filled with numbers rolling down the screen. Images collection complete. One more moment . . . and I’ll have it. There it is. The room with the files with all the passwords is the furthest door on the right.

Wonderful. We’ll proceed there next, Robert said.

The red line slipped through the far right-hand door and entered another room. Robert stopped the red line and Carson took his collection of images. The red line withdrew from that room, opened another door, entered another room, and Carson took images from that room. Then the red line systematically entered hundreds of rooms and Carson