I was in a whole other mental place Monday afternoon, unprepared for the news the mites announced.
Gemma Keyes, we have pinpointed Dr. Bickel’s exact location.
Adrenaline surged through me, washing everything else away.
Dr. Bickel! Were the mites as excited as I was?
“Where? Where is he, Nano?”
We will show you, Gemma Keyes.
I dropped into the warehouse to see what they had uncovered, and it was a lot. I didn’t ask how many networks and satellite feeds the mites had hacked into, and they didn’t offer the information. They produced their “take,” overhead views of the site of Dr. Bickel’s incarceration—both video and stills shot from different angles—and I kept my questions to myself.
As I studied and memorized the aerial images, I was puzzled to see how small a footprint the place had: a single rectangular building on a lot about the size of an acre? Something about its size bothered me, but I was distracted from pursuing that concern when the mites zoomed in on the pictures.
I focused on the physical security measures: The site was surrounded by what was certainly a tall chain link fence. A wide and familiar swath of dirt banded the outside of the fence line.
“Oh! That’s a network of pressure sensors buried under the dirt, Nano. An intrusion detection system.”
Yes, we agree; however, we can defeat the sensors if our approach goes unnoticed, Gemma Keyes.
I pulled back from the image and followed the single gravel road leading away from the site. The road ran a couple miles north and east and terminated at a tall gate just shy of the highway.
“All right, but how . . . how do we get from the highway to Dr. Bickel, Nano? I don’t see how our approach will ‘go unnoticed’ if we use the access road.”
We will start in the town of Alamogordo and leave the highway 700 yards east of the access road. We will cut through the fencing along the missile range boundary and proceed overland. We will guide you.
I zoomed in and scanned along the highway. The faint lines marking the range’s boundary looked like an ordinary barbed wire fence. It was going to prove less difficult to get onto the range than I’d thought.
But getting off the range without getting caught?
“How far is it from where they have Dr. Bickel to the highway?”
His location is 3.4 miles inside the perimeter of the White Sands Missile Range along State Road 70, 31.8 miles from Alamogordo and 36.2 miles from Las Cruces.
“Those distances might be clear when looking at a map, Nano, but how will you know where to leave the highway once we’re out in the middle of nowhere?”
We have ordered a high-end smart phone equipped with mapping and unlimited data.
I laughed to myself. Getting awfully liberal with my credit card, aren’t you, Nano?
My credit card? Since the merge, the mites had begun to include me when they used terms such as “us.” More and more, their speech was shifting in this direction. More and more, my mental and physical functions were tied to the nanocloud.
To them I asked, “So, um, we’ll use the mapping GPS to direct us from, er, Alamogordo?”
Yes. In addition, we have ordered a selection of electronic parts to customize the phone. We will modify it to receive a strong signal even if we are out of optimal service range.
Optimal? Again?
We have plotted the route from the highway to Dr. Bickel’s location, Gemma Keyes. The journey across the desert terrain will require a vehicle optimal for off-road travel.
I sighed. If I never heard the word “optimal” again . . .
“Um, okay . . . another vehicle. Like you said—something that can handle rough roads.” A rig that could handle an eight- to ten-mile, round-trip jaunt through uncharted desert. Just another piece of logistics to be “figured out.”
I hadn’t intended to take the Escape onto the missile range anyway. Sure, now that I knew the plan, my car wouldn’t serve us as well as, say, a pickup or a Land Rover. But on a more important note? I could not allow Kathy Sawyer’s legally registered vehicle to be seen or confiscated: The Escape (aptly named) was our ride out of New Mexico.
So, kinda essential.
Gemma Keyes, where will we take Dr. Bickel upon the successful completion of our mission?
Good question. East to Texas? South to Mexico? North to Colorado? “Um . . . I hope Dr. Bickel will suggest a place to hide.”
It is true that Dr. Bickel owns many properties.
“Nano, do you know where his properties are?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes. We know the locations of all his properties.
“Well, then, we will head toward the one he says best fits our needs.”
This part of the plan is not as well-devised as we would wish it to be, Gemma Keyes.
“Yeah. I know.”
They were making me nervous—and I didn’t need any assistance in that area. I turned back to the aerial shots and zoomed in. The shadow of a lone figure near the perimeter fence caught my eye.
“Nano, how many guards do you estimate?”
We do not need to estimate; our surveillance and research has provided us with accurate information. The fence is continuously patrolled by a single armed guard. During the day, the building has four personnel. At night, only two.
They paused. We recommend going at night.
I shrugged. “Sounds right. Better odds than during the day. Do you have a layout of the building?”
It appeared before me.
“But this looks like a house. Just a plain, ordinary, old house!”
Records we retrieved indicate that it was, indeed, built as a domicile. It has been repurposed: The walls of one room in the house have been reinforced with cinderblock and rebar.
“Then that’s where they are keeping him.” I memorized the layout, all the rooms, doors, and windows.
That is our conclusion also.
“What’s that weird stuff on top of the garage?”
We also observed the modifications to the garage roof—vents and pipes unnecessary for the storage of automobiles.
“Could they have fitted the garage as a lab for Dr. Bickel?”
A logical assumption, Gemma Keyes.
The niggling returned. “But the house and its yard . . . are so much smaller than I assumed they would be. Less . . . I don’t know . . . less intimidating? Or prison-like?”
Less “official.”
The mites went quiet. I wondered if anything about the site gnawed at them like it gnawed at me. When they spoke again, it was to shift the topic.
Gemma Keyes, we will assist you when you breach the intrusion detection system and fence, but our assistance over the course of the night will be governed by our power consumption. To conserve our power, you must be prepared to disarm and incapacitate the guards and personnel.
I rubbed my eyes. Sure, pal.
***
That night, Gus-Gus concentrated my workout on techniques I would use to disarm and immobilize an adversary. After rehearsing the specifics with me, Gus-Gus stepped aside, and a second avatar appeared. In his black uniform, with M4 rifle slung from his shoulder, the guy looked just like the special forces who’d rushed my house only weeks before.
The avatar’s appearance intimidated me, and my nerves already scraped along a raw edge. It was about to get real, and I didn’t know if I had the stomach for it.
The nanomites probably knew that, too.
“Gemma Keyes, you will practice incapacitating this soldier, just as you will incapacitate the patrol guard when we breach the perimeter.”
Gus-Gus’ manner left no option for refusal.
The black-uniformed guy turned and walked away from me, down one of the shadowy halls leading away from the warehouse. Sighing, I followed him.
With no warning, he pivoted. Swung his rifle up.
“Who’s there? Stop where you are!”
I can’t describe what happened then, except that my training kicked in. The instant the guard began to turn, I leapt forward and hammered him with two slicing blows. The half-raised rifle fell from the guy’s incapacitated hand; his left knee buckled and, screaming in pain, the man went down.
I swallowed hard and assessed what I’d done. Broken wrist. Displaced patella; possible LCL tear. Not getting up anytime soon.
Could I do that to a real person? Could I hurt someone—truly hurt them?
I almost threw up.
The avatar disappeared, and Gus-Gus appeared in front of me. He was not pleased. “If the guard screams, you will not have achieved Dr. Bickel’s release; you will have failed. The guard must be silenced, Gemma Keyes.”
I glared at Gus-Gus, but a voice from deep within me shouted, Well, I can’t fail. I won’t! I cannot fail Dr. Bickel. I can do this. I must do this.
“Again,” I demanded.
Same setup. The guard pivoted and walked away from me. I didn’t wait for him to turn. I sprinted up behind him and landed a single glancing blow behind his ear. He never saw me coming, and he dropped like a rock.
“Better. Once more.”
We ran the scenario in different variations. Each time, I dropped the guard without a sound. Without breaking his arm or trashing his knee for life.
I could live with that.
“Remember, Gemma Keyes, that you have the advantage. The guard may hear you, but he will not be able to see you.”
When I’d satisfied Gus-Gus, we moved on to less-desirable variations, situations in which I had lost the element of surprise. The mites programmed the scenario so that the avatar, although he could not see me, for some reason heard me and brought his rifle up.
Yikes.
As his gun swung up, I dropped and somersaulted, rolling diagonally. My speed was incredible. Superhuman. I popped up under the guard’s extended arm and battered the man’s solar plexus. With the air knocked out of him, the avatar could not call out, and I dropped him.
I was happier with my performance now, more confident that I could disable the guards when the time came. Less worried about leaving them permanently damaged in the process.
Maybe we had a chance after all.
Gemma Keyes.
“Yes?”
The avatar and the VR setting where Gus-Gus trained me disappeared, leaving me alone in the warehouse.
Gemma Keyes, we have new information for you. We have identified Arnaldo Soto’s probable location.
My mouth dropped open. “What? How ‘probable’ a location?”
The probability is presently eighty-seven percent.
“In New Mexico? Nearby?”
Yes.
You know that old saying, “tossing a wrench into the works”? Here I was, psyching myself up to go after Dr. Bickel, not Soto! I lapsed into silence, brooding over the news. This unexpected turn of events complicated things.
Or did it?
I left the warehouse and sat down on the dojo floor to think.
I was worried about getting Dr. Bickel out, but I was more worried about afterward. The greatest danger Cushing presented would come after we freed Dr. Bickel. With all her resources, how far could we run? I knew—and the mites knew—that we needed a better plan for “after,” preferably a place where, even should Cushing find us, she could not touch us.
In my humble estimation, only the light of full public disclosure could pull her sharky teeth. The more I pondered our dilemma, the more I was certain that the “ideal” place was out in the open.
As long as we hid the truth about Dr. Bickel from the world, Cushing was free to lie and pervert her authority. Our best hope was to go public—that is, for Dr. Bickel to go public. His resurrection from the dead would bring the media down upon Cushing’s head—which would protect his head. All he needed to do was have his own grave exhumed to prove that she had lied about his death.
When Dr. Bickel testified to how she’d captured and held him against his will, Cushing would be finished.
Yes, Dr. Bickel’s best chance of survival was to go public. To do that, we needed to convey him from White Sands to a place where he would have enough time and opportunity to make his accusations public—a place safe from Cushing’s long reach.
And where might that be? That woman had too many friends and allies in high places—shadowy, unknown friends and allies . . . partners, collaborators, and (no doubt) politically connected superiors with the resources and clout to track us down.
I’d pondered our options these past weeks and had arrived at a single possible solution, and Soto was the key to that solution.
Except the timing had gone wrong.
When Cushing had announced that she was moving Dr. Bickel within two weeks, the mites and I had been forced to shift our focus from the hunt for Soto and Mateo Martinez to Dr. Bickel’s rescue.
But now? Now that the mites had located Soto? Maybe their discovery cast the circumstances in a better order.
Could we do both? Could we take down Soto and still rescue Dr. Bickel before Cushing moved him?
Gemma Keyes. We have work to do.
“Give me a minute, Nano? I need to think.”
My original idea still made the best sense: For Dr. Bickel to survive and publicly overthrow Cushing, he needed safety and time—and if I delivered Soto to Special Agent Gamble, Gamble would owe me.
Gamble was already personally acquainted with Cushing; he knew how unscrupulous she was. He knew about Dr. Bickel. I trusted Gamble. He was a standup guy, and taking down Soto was personal to him: For Graciella.
The essential piece of the puzzle? Gamble was FBI. He had access to an agency capable of providing the “cover” vital to Dr. Bickel’s survival. If I delivered Soto to the FBI, Gamble and, indirectly, the FBI, would owe me big time. Then I intended to cash in my chit for Dr. Bickel’s safety.
I nodded, my mind made up.
Soto first.
Dr. Bickel after.
And this time, no screwups with the nanomites. This time I would do things right.
“Nano. I wish to call a confab.”
Gemma Keyes, what is a confab?
Duh! The mites had never referred to it as a confab, had they? I snarked a little.
“Nano, confab is the term Dr. Bickel gave to the nanocloud’s meetings, when the tribes convene to share input, make recommendations, and arrive at consensus.”
You wish to call such a meeting, Gemma Keyes?
“Um, yes. If it is allowed.”
We are six. It is allowed.
***
As I’d said before, it was easier to receive information from the nanomites than it was to share it with them. The only means I knew to convey in clear terms the issues I wanted to discuss with them was through the spoken word.
I rehearsed the points I wanted to make and how I thought we should proceed; I went over them in my head until I could articulate them. Well, in the warehouse I didn’t actually talk, but it felt like I did—which, for me, amounted to the same comfort level. Regardless, I was nervous about sharing my idea with them.
I closed my eyes and opened them in the warehouse. I knew from the special, certain hush that greeted me that the mites were ready: They were waiting for me.
“Nano, I’m so very happy that you have found where Cushing is holding Dr. Bickel. His rescue and safety are our common goals. Thank you, too, for locating Arnaldo Soto.
“We have a plan to deliver Dr. Bickel from Cushing’s hold, but have not yet arrived at a practical plan to protect him and keep Cushing from retaking him after we free him. Today I wish to suggest a strategy that would defeat Cushing and end her threat to Dr. Bickel forever.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, the six of us would agree that Dr. Bickel’s freedom holds a higher priority than Arnaldo Soto’s capture. However, in my plan to protect Dr. Bickel, Soto’s capture plays an important role. His capture opens an avenue to safety for Dr. Bickel and defeat for Cushing.”
Soft chitters and whispers greeted me. The mites were attentive; I’ll give them that.
“After I, um, that is, after we spring Dr. Bickel, I presume that Cushing will mount a search for him. I believe she will have help from the national guard. She may enlist other law enforcement organizations. However, we must not lose sight of her true goal, which is to capture you, um, us—the nanocloud—I mean all of us.
“It is imperative, then, that our plan keeps Dr. Bickel safe and the nanocloud a secret. Because Cushing has a great deal of political and military backing, I believe Dr. Bickel will be safest not hidden, but in the open where he can discredit Cushing.
“The world thinks Dr. Bickel is dead. Why? Because Cushing said he was. How can we prove that she lied? By showing Dr. Bickel to the world, by digging up his grave and demonstrating that whatever or whoever is buried there is not Dr. Bickel. Dr. Bickel has many friends in the scientific community who will rally to him. My plan is to get Dr. Bickel to a safe place where he can blow the whistle on Cushing.”
Chitters interrupted me. What whistle will Dr. Bickel blow and for what purpose, Gemma Keyes?
I giggled. “Not a literal whistle, Nano. Look up ‘whistle-blower’ for a definition.”
We now understand this idiom, Gemma Keyes. Dr. Bickel will disclose General Cushing’s misuse of power? Will this disclosure defeat her?
“Yes. That’s it exactly. She has broken many laws: She tried to steal Dr. Bickel’s research. She attempted to kill him by blowing up his lab. She manipulated the scene after she blew up his lab, and she managed to convince or coerce others into saying he was dead. She falsely imprisoned him and has held him captive now for many months. These are all crimes.”
And will Dr. Bickel’s revelations end the threat Cushing represents?
“I hope so but, knowing her, she will not go down without a fight. Therefore, wherever we take Dr. Bickel after we free him, it must be a location she dares not storm, somewhere from which she dares not take him by force.”
You have such a location in mind, Gemma Keyes?
“Yes, I do, and that is where Arnaldo Soto comes in and why we must deliver him to the FBI before we free Dr. Bickel. The Constitution says that the military is not allowed to conduct military operations on American soil—nevertheless, Cushing has ‘agents’ and a tactical force at her disposal.
“In juxtaposition, the FBI is the nation’s primary federal law enforcement organization, tasked with handling federal crime. Gamble is our friend, and he is an agent of the FBI. When we deliver Arnaldo Soto to the FBI, I believe Gamble will, in return, help us convey Dr. Bickel to an FBI field office. Cushing has no authority to storm an FBI office and take Dr. Bickel from there. She may try to extradite him through ‘legal’ channels but, by then, Dr. Bickel should have exposed her to the world as the traitor she is.
“I wish to apprise Agent Gamble of Arnaldo Soto’s location first thing tomorrow and assist the FBI in Soto’s capture. Then we will proceed to our plan to rescue Dr. Bickel.”
The mites deliberated for a few minutes and asked some probing questions before arriving at consensus.
We agree with your principal assessment and plan, Gemma Keyes. However, we must continue to prepare for all contingencies. We must be optimal.
I knew what their last two sentences meant.
“All right. I’m ready to continue with my training session if you are.”
***
Following my usual precautions, I parked a couple of blocks from Agent Gamble’s apartment and jogged the rest of the way. It was an eerie experience, approaching his building a second time in the pre-dawn dark. I scanned the parking lot and surrounding buildings, half-worried I would spot Cushing’s man smoking in the shadows under the stairs.
Nope.
I crept up to the second floor, taking care to make no noise. In the night stillness, sounds seemed amplified, and I didn’t want Gamble’s neighbors to hear me.
When I reached Gamble’s door, I listened. His lights were off. I heard nothing on the inside, detected no movement. I flicked my hand toward the lock; the handle turned, and I crept inside.
I didn’t want the neighbors to hear me knocking, either.
It was dark in Gamble’s apartment. I shined a soft nano-light around and got my bearings. His living room was tidy; he’d left no clutter on the floor that might trip me. At the far end of the living room I spied a kitchen. A hallway to the right of the kitchen led, presumably, to a bedroom.
“Who’s there? Show yourself.”
Guess I hadn’t been quiet enough. The sharp whisper caught me unaware.
“It’s Gemma Keyes, Agent Gamble. And, um, sorry; I’m unable to comply with your request.”
“Right.” His reply was muffled in a laugh.
Gamble rounded the corner from the hall and switched on a light. His face had that squished, bleary look you have first thing in the morning when you’ve been sleeping hard. He was shirtless but wearing boxers. He held a handgun against his thigh.
“Nice of you to knock, Miss Keyes.”
“And wake the neighborhood?” I chuckled. I was glad to see Gamble again.
“I suppose I take your point. Why are you here . . .” he glanced at the clock, “at oh-four-thirty in the dark a.m.?”
I grinned, but he couldn’t see my happy face. “Are you ready to take down Soto?”
“What? You know where he is?” The blear on his face smoothed some.
“I told you the nanomites would find him.”
I shivered. “Say, do you have any coffee? I got chilled on my way here, and I’d love a cup.”
“Yeah. Just a sec.” Gamble went down the hall and came back, sans gun, tugging a t-shirt over his head. He’d already pulled on jeans.
Gamble was a big guy—tall and muscled, but not bulked out. Just right. Altogether, not a bad sight first thing in the morning. He went into the kitchen, and I heard the tap running and then him pouring water into a coffee maker.
“Quit ogling me, Miss Keyes.”
I giggled, still high on the prospects ahead: Taking down Soto, rescuing Dr. Bickel, defeating Cushing.
“Just plain coffee okay with you? I don’t do lattés or cappuccinos, any of that frou-frou stuff.”
“I’m a purist myself.”
“My opinion of you just climbed a notch, Miss Keyes.”
I snorted at his ribbing. “You want to hear about Soto or not?”
“Absolutely. Shoot.” He left the kitchen and joined me in the living room. “Take a seat, Miss Keyes. Tell me what you’ve found.”
“Thanks. Well, first, I should tell you that the data the nanomites downloaded from your network—the names of Soto’s family members and known associates in Mexico? Those were the vital pieces we needed. So, thanks.”
Gamble’s reply was snide. “Yeah, happy to oblige.”
I giggled again. “Anyway, using the information they gleaned, the mites identified and inventoried the individuals connected with Soto’s family.”
“Every individual?”
“Whether by blood, marriage, business, friendship, or casual contact, any person who even breathed on Soto’s family—literally, figuratively, or virtually—went into the nanomites’ analysis. If someone sat next to one of Soto’s relatives at a concert, served them food, did their nails or laundry, or sent them spam, the mites tagged them. The mites used that data set to create a location matrix that boggled my mind.”
Gamble looked uncertain. “They can do that? All that computing?”
“With ease. Say, is that coffee ready?”
Gamble got up and poured two mugs, and stood in the living room holding them. “Where do you want this?”
I grabbed a cup from him. “Thanks. Mmm. Smells good.”
I sipped before I continued. “Soto’s family and most of his acquaintances in Mexico are clustered in or near the city of Culiacán. The mites drew a twenty-mile radius from the center of that cluster and isolated cellphone traffic originating from inside that twenty-mile radius.”
“What—all cellphone traffic?”
“Yup. The mites hacked the records of every carrier out there. I gotta tell you, Agent Gamble, the nanomites rock the Internet. If it happens online, they can find it, mine it, and manipulate it. Anyway, from the entirety of all cellphone traffic within the twenty-mile radius around the designated ‘cluster,’ they isolated every number that made calls to the 505 area code.”
“Uh, impressive.”
“It was even more impressive when the mites displayed those calls in frequency graphs.”
“But if the callers are using burner phones, how can you identify who is calling?”
“Don’t need to identify the caller. We’re looking for Soto, and he is on this end, yeah? Once the mites identified the most frequent callers to New Mexico, they further narrowed those patterns to exclude calls outside a twenty-mile radius around Albuquerque.”
I took a long, satisfying pull on my coffee. “Amazing how the rate of recurrent calls to the same numbers will pinpoint specific locations. After applying a bunch more filters, one location in particular emerged.”
“You’re saying the mites used recurring calls to ID Soto’s location?”
“His presumed location. Then the nanomites went to work to verify that assumption.” I pulled a folder out from under my shirt. “Here you go. Realtor records. Utility bills. Aerial footage of the house and the vehicles at this site. MVD records on the plates. He’s there, all right.”
“Arial footage? How did you get that?”
I shrugged. “We bought a drone. I took a little drive at the nanomites’ direction and sent up the drone with a smart phone attached. The mites controlled the drone and took the video and photos. The rest was easy.”
Gamble forgot his coffee while he perused the papers. “Do I want to ask how you got these MVD records?”
“No.”
He grunted.
“I can provide the video feed to you, if you like, Gamble. On a flash drive.”
He shook his head. “Tell me where this place is. We’ll send up our own drone.”
“I will; that’s why I came this morning—I told you I would deliver Soto’s location to you. But you get that information under one condition.”
His head snapped up. “What condition?”
“I come with you when you take him down.”
“No.” His head was moving back and forth before he uttered the word.
“Then no location.”
He stared at me, his mouth hard and angry.
“That’s the deal, Agent Gamble. I’ll stay out of the way, but I get to be there.”
“Stay out of the way? What about us? We can’t see you. We won’t know if you’re in the line of fire or not!”
“That’s my problem, not yours.”
Head still wagging back and forth, Gamble looked back to the photos and documents I’d provided. Then he shoved them back into the folder.
“I need to get to the office.”
~~**~~