Chapter Twenty-Seven

“If our demands are not met, we go to war in two days,” President Dale Sheridan said.

Brandyn Handley, eyes glued to the television, let out a small gasp. He stroked his beard.

In another room, his two boys were playing – tussling loudly – with their usual back-and-forth bickering over who got to use the children’s pod. In the kitchen, his wife, Letty, was preparing dinner for Real Meal Monday. The kids would complain – they loved their candy-flavored Body Fuel bars.

The president’s declaration was a double down on the previous day’s promise to blow up an international satellite he was convinced posed a threat to American security.

“Make no doubt about it, the purpose of this satellite is to interfere with signals transmitted to American citizens,” he said. “If we allow it to continue, we jeopardize our freedom of thought. We open the door to a Trojan horse of devilry to enter our consciousness.”

World leaders from Russia, China and North Korea vehemently denied Sheridan’s allegations. They dismissed it as a paranoid man’s conspiracy theory. Russia’s president explained that the satellite was solely intended to serve his own country’s communications and security infrastructure. He vowed the satellite would remain operational. That caused President Sheridan to reiterate his commitment to blow it up.

The response to Sheridan was equally strong. “If the satellite is attacked in any way, we will take it as a declaration of war,” said the Russian president, with the backing of international allies.

“Dinner in five minutes,” Letty announced from the kitchen.

Brandyn Handley did not feel hungry. His stomach had become a tight rubber ball.

And his worries were only beginning.

His cell phone rang.

He slid it out of his shirt’s breast pocket and looked at the caller ID.

It was Dynamica CEO Jeff Reese.

Brandyn assumed Reese was calling to discuss the rapid escalation of tensions on the world stage related to Dynamica’s chip technology.

But it was something else.

“He’s been captured,” Reese said.

“Who’s been captured?”

“Tefteller! Our rogue CMO. They finally nailed him!”

Brandyn felt a wave of shock. He immediately thought back to his brief phone conversation with Marc just a few days ago. He had told no one about it. If there was any evidence that connected the two of them recently, Brandyn knew he would be doomed.

“He’s been on the run for what, nearly two years now,” Reese said. “They caught the son of a bitch trying to cross the border into Canada. He still had our jamming device. He crashed a helicopter with it, he killed people. They retrieved it in some lake.”

“Oh my God,” was all Brandyn could say.

“I’ve got our PR team on it. If this gets out, it’s bad for the brand.”

“Where…where is he?”

“He’s chipped, he’s in custody. That’s where I’m headed now. I’m in my car. He’s being held in a federal building in lower Manhattan for questioning. What he did is disastrous. It’s treason.”

“You’re going to see him?”

“There’s a group of us going, to help with the investigation.” Reese rattled off names from the Office of Citizenship and Compliance, as well as representatives from Dynamica’s security team.

“You’re welcome to join us, it’s going to be a real party,” Reese said with sarcasm.

“Yes. I want to join you. I do.”

“Seriously?”

“I owe it to the company. It happened under my watch, too.”

“It’s probably the last time any of us will see him. I’m pretty sure he’s headed to termination.”

Brandyn shut his eyes tight at the impact of the word.

‘Termination’ was the term used for modern-day executions. Criminals on death row were swiftly put down through a quick and painless signal sent to their chip that essentially flicked off their existence like a light switch.

Brandyn almost choked on his words as he tried to sound unmoved. “Yes – yes – he’s probably headed to termination for sure.”

His wife called out: “Dinner, Brandyn. Dinner, boys.”

Brandyn touched the back of his neck and resisted the urge to send himself artificial happy thoughts to wipe away his crushing dread.

* * *

Brandyn met with Reese, U.S. Compliance Regulation officials and the head of Dynamica’s security division in the lobby of the Vanover Federal Building. They were joined by Wilbur Kepling, the head of the U.S. Department of Citizen Affairs.

There was a general familiarity across the group, but Reese made quick introductions to reinforce the roles across his team. When he came to Brandyn, he said, “Brandyn is our head of operations. He worked closely with Tefteller back when Marc was our Chief Marketing Officer. How long did you two work together?”

“Ten years…” Brandyn said quietly. They had risen through the ranks together.

“Let’s move to a conference room, we’ll give everybody the full debrief,” said Kepling.

In a windowless room upstairs, seated around a long table, Kepling delivered the details. Brandyn listened in silence.

“We raided a major smuggling ring in the Boundary Waters between northern Minnesota and Canada. They were funneling illegals out of the country. It was a highly organized operation and has been going on for at least six months. We put a spy into their pipeline and got a full look at their methods. We busted it up big time, arrested everyone in the network. We captured a group of refugees who were halfway to Canada by canoe. It turned violent. There was a battle and lives were lost on both sides. We have five people in custody, including your man, Marc Tefteller. Four of them are being held here. The fifth, a teenage boy, is in a Minnesota hospital.”

Kepling distributed a document to everyone at the table. “These are the names of the individuals in this facility. They’re secured in a temporary holding cell, strictly classified. With everything else that’s going on in the world, we don’t need the publicity right now. Two of the captives come from that Santa Barbara cult and you know what a political hornet’s nest that is. We also have one of the guides who were helping to transport the illegals. And, of course, Tefteller. Their names are on this sheet, along with their chip codes. They have all been freshly chipped. The chips cannot be removed. We are looking at likely termination for the four of them. The teenage boy will receive a prison sentence.”

Brandyn stared down at the sheet of paper. His eyes scanned the list of service codes assigned to the prisoners. The blocks of numbers dehumanized them. Brandyn read the identities attached to the codes. Seeing their full names made them and their fate all the more real and heart-wrenching.

Marc Douglas Tefteller.

Aaron Jay Holt.

Clarissa Margaret Harper.

Vance Shane Wyatt.

“Our top priority right now, the reason we are gathered, is to interview your man, Mr. Tefteller,” said Kepling, looking directly at Jeff Reese. “He had a device in his possession that threatened national security. It was used to kill American officials, beginning with the murder of one of our compliance men at his apartment. He used the device to send the man over the rail of his balcony to his death. I personally delivered the news to his widow, and it’s a murder that still affects me and my team to this day. It was an act of terrorism. Who knows how many other people he’s harmed between that killing and the two men he killed when he brought down that helicopter. We know he gets around. Earlier this week, he was discovered spying at one of our new Work Zones, a steel plant in Gary, Indiana. We believe he was planning an act of sabotage. He’s a dangerous man, and obviously he had some help. How did he obtain the jamming device? Who gave it to him?”

Brandyn felt woozy. He had an urge to flee the room. But he kept his exterior façade as cool as possible.

“I believe we’ll get some of our answers today,” Reese said. “Are we ready to meet with him?”

Heads nodded around the table, including Brandyn, who was merely mimicking the mood of the others, playing along, being the good corporate stooge, a role he performed so well.

Kepling summoned an armed guard. The guard led the group across a hall, down some stairs and into a well-secured area of holding stations for special government prisoners.

They gathered in a room divided in half by a sheet of bulletproof glass. Kepling, Reese, Brandyn and the others took their seats, facing the glass partition. A moment later, a door opened on the opposite side of the room. Marc Tefteller entered in an orange prisoner jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of him. A bulky guard led him to a stool, facing the group. He was positioned in front of a small, round opening in the glass that allowed for the exchange of audible conversation.

Brandyn studied Marc as he sat down. Marc’s eyes looked weary, his expression was a blank, his face was full of dirt and stubble, and his hair was long and disheveled.

Marc lifted his head to scan the people presented before him. He had little reaction until he saw Brandyn.

Then his eyes widened and his body stiffened, as if to say What the hell are you doing here?

Brandyn attempted to remain nonchalant.

“Hello, traitor,” said Wilbur Kepling.

Marc’s eyes moved to Kepling. The two men had met briefly when the government partnership was first communicated to Dynamica’s senior leadership team.

Marc said nothing.

“We will discuss your crimes against your country momentarily,” Kepling said. “But right now, we’ve brought representatives from your former company who would like to ask you about an act of theft you committed against them. To be specific, they want to know how you got hold of a top-secret jamming device, an extra one that was not logged in any company records. It’s been a source of great concern for Homeland Security. The tool is very powerful, as you’re well aware. It can be used to confuse, harm and kill people. Your acquisition of this device must have required some inside assistance. An ally inside Dynamica. Someone, perhaps, who is still at the company and continues to pose a threat. So, without any further ado, Mr. Tefteller, we are here to ask a simple question, and we expect a direct answer. Who helped you steal the jamming device?”

Brandyn couldn’t help but stare into Marc’s eyes. He was terrified Marc would implicate him. In Marc’s position, it was the only thing to do. Why wouldn’t he?

“I don’t remember,” Marc said.

The group watching Marc began muttering among themselves.

For a brief moment, Marc looked at Brandyn. Brandyn felt horrified and ashamed. He did his best to remain unflustered.

“We will ask you now for a second time,” Kepling said. “You will not like it if we require a third. So, tell us – be forthright, do the right thing. Who helped you get the jamming device?”

“No one,” said Marc. “I just took it on my own.”

“How did you even know about it?”

“Word spreads.”

“The marketing department was not privy to the testing of this tool.”

“I don’t remember.”

Kepling sighed. “All right, gentlemen. He has the chip. Let’s make the most of it.”

One of the regulation officials at Kepling’s side pulled out his own shiny jamming device, the latest model. He poked it a few times, calling up the service code for the brand-new chip installed at the base of Marc’s head.

“This will hurt,” he said.

He sent a signal of piercing pain.

Marc screamed out loud in uncontrollable anguish. He nearly fell off the stool.

Brandyn felt sick to his stomach.

When the pain ceased, Marc swooned, as if recovering from a searing electrical shock.

“Now,” Kepling said. “Are we going to be cooperative?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Tefteller!” Reese shouted at him. “Tell us your source and get it over with. Who was your mole inside Dynamica?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Brandyn, echoing his boss and faking anger. “Say the name. Spit it out!”

Marc looked straight at Brandyn, gave him a hard look and said, “No.”

“Just do it,” Brandyn said. He wasn’t even sure if he was playing along or really did want Marc to confess. He knew the next zap was coming, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Marc received a bigger shock of pain and screamed so loud it seemed to vibrate the sheet of glass separating the room.

“Give us a name!” shouted Kepling, growing more impatient.

“You must tell us!” Brandyn said, trying to sound angry while fighting back tears. Now he really wanted Marc to surrender. He wanted Marc to shout out the truth: “It was Brandyn! It was the head of operations! He did it! He gave it to me in a jazz club on Fourth Avenue! He covered it up, he made sure there was no paper trail. He gave it to me to protect me!”

But Marc simply accepted more shocks until he was barely conscious and his body rendered unusable.

“Forget it,” Kepling said. “We retrieved the device. We captured the bastard. He’ll be terminated in a couple of days. Let’s just leave him. Interview over!”

The interrogation group left their seats at the glass partition and slowly began moving out of the room.

Brandyn stepped back toward Marc and looked him in the eye. “You really disgust me!” he said, voice shaking.

“Let it go,” said Jeff Reese, leaving.

“He needs to hear this!” Brandyn said, louder, pumping out fake rage.

Once the others had left the room, Brandyn seized the short period of privacy before the guard on Marc’s side of the room came to escort him out.

“Listen, I gotta talk fast,” said Brandyn in a low voice. “I promise they won’t hurt you anymore. I – I’ll turn off your chipfeed.”

“How?” Marc said numbly, still stunned into a stupor.

“I’m the head of operations, I can do anything. Just don’t let on. Pretend like they’re in control at all times. Then when you see your chance, go for it.”

Marc nodded slowly.

Jeff Reese poked his head back into the room, and Brandyn quickly resumed his phony tirade against Marc. “So long, asshole! You’ll get what you deserve. Dynamica was so good to you, and this is how you treat us. Go screw yourself, Tefteller!”

“Come on, give it a rest,” Reese said. “The guy’s toast.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Brandyn. As he left the room with Reese, an armed guard grabbed Marc off the stool and began escorting him back to his cell, half holding him up to prevent him from collapsing on rubbery legs.

“Stupid bastard,” Brandyn muttered. But he meant it for a different reason.