Kill Decision

CHAPTER 12

Linda McKinney disembarked from a white, unmarked private jet, descending the steps into a cold winter night. Though idling, the plane’s engines were still deafening, its navigation and strobe lights flashing.

A freezing wind gusted across the desolate tarmac of a municipal airport. A private terminal building stood off to the left, beyond which she could see a drab concrete elevated highway. Closer was a parking lot beyond a length of chain-link fence and a sealed white metal hangar. Other than that all she could see was a series of yellow-tinged parking lot lights extending into the distance.

McKinney zipped up a red Gore-Tex coat and matching knit cap emblazoned with a white company logo in bold letters: Ancile Services. She had no idea what it was or why everyone else was now wearing similar coats-though theirs were in black.

Other team members shuffled past her carrying duffels and backpacks. The woman, Ripper, nodded as she passed by. Her long black hair flowed freely now, with multiple ear piercings visible. Very much American. That had been a swift transformation.

Hoov and Mooch ducked by, opening the jet’s cargo hatch. Tin Man and Ripper seemed to be heading toward the nearby hangar.

Foxy patted McKinney on the shoulder and shouted over the jet roar as he passed by. “Coming?”

“Where to?”

He motioned with two gloved fingers toward the hangar, and McKinney fell in line behind him. It was shocking how completely American he looked now in a company coat and hipster eyeglasses. He had the African kora slung over his back, but it looked more like a goofy souvenir in this context. As they got farther from the plane’s engine noise, she asked, “Where are we?”

He cast a glance back at her. “Kansas City.”

“My passport. All my identification was destroyed in-”

“That’s not a problem, Professor.”

“What is this, a military base?”

“Private jetport.”

Ahead, Tin Man was turning a key in a lock near the main hangar door. The large doors opened a few feet, and the team moved quickly inside. Fluorescent lights were already flickering on, revealing two white panel vans in a cavernous empty space.

Foxy ushered McKinney inside the hangar and gave several quick hand signals to Hoov and Mooch. They were rolling equipment cases in from the jet, which was already taxiing away down the tarmac.

What followed was a frenzy of wordless activity as the team pulled the cases inside and started popping latches. Hoov put batteries in a disposable cell phone. After a moment he tapped in a number and spoke quickly as he peered through the narrow opening in the hangar doors. “We just got in. What’s overhead?”

McKinney watched the others pulling electronic gear out of the cases. One of the devices looked like a standard metal detection wand-like something you’d search for land mines with. Other gear included what looked like an oscilloscope. They were installing batteries and powering up without saying a word to each other. Moments later Ripper had donned a headset and was waving the boom of the device along the sides of the nearest van.

McKinney met Foxy’s gaze.

He nodded toward Ripper and Tin Man-who were doing a similar sweep on the second van. “Nonlinear junction detector. Finds uninvited guests.”

“You really think they could have tracked us all this way?”

“Standard procedure, Professor. We always watch our backs.” Foxy pointed straight up. “We need to sanitize the airspace before we move to base.”

Hoov walked up, still clutching the phone. “There’s a Predator orbiting forty-three clicks southeast of here. NORAD says it’s U.S. Customs and Border Protection, but Troll’s not sure. There’s also a DEA flight out of Wichita fifty clicks to the east, but it could be scanning frequencies.”

“Spy sats?”

“Nothing overhead for another nineteen minutes.”

Ripper pulled off her headset and moved away from the vans. “Vans are clean.”

Foxy nodded and tapped McKinney on the shoulder. “You’re with me, Professor.”

She followed Foxy toward the first van as Tin Man tossed him the keys. “Meet you back at the office. Take the long way home.”

“Wilco. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Foxy got in the van and McKinney uncertainly climbed in on the passenger side. The vehicle smelled brand-new. Foxy stowed the kora and his canvas satchel behind his seat and started the van. “Buckle up, Professor, this isn’t Africa.”

“Oh.” She buckled her seat belt.

Nearby, Tin Man opened the rear hangar doors on the far side of the space. He ducked his head out the opening, then gave a thumbs-up sign.

Foxy drove through the doors out into the deserted parking lot and toward the front entrance to the small airport.

McKinney had been under the impression that American airports had more security than this, but apparently private jet terminals did things differently. There was only an unmanned parking gate between them and the tarmac. It made her wonder about the security she endured in major airports.

Foxy drove them past an obvious highway entrance ramp marked Rt. 169/Downtown Kansas City, and instead drove through a narrow tunnel beneath the highway, to emerge on the other side amid gritty, deserted industrial streets.

McKinney had never been to Kansas City before. She scanned the dark horizon, searching for the inevitable downtown of lofty bank towers, but all she could see were security lights on warehouses and factories along with the occasional billboard-the generic Americanness she remembered. The van’s dashboard clock read 1:23 A.M. There was almost no traffic on the surface roads. The light industrial businesses, retail outlets, warehouses, and junkyards to either side were fenced and graffiti tagged, but it looked more orderly than any East African city.

Foxy repeatedly checked the rear- and side-view mirrors and glanced down every side road and alley they passed. His oddly calm paranoia was freaking her out. McKinney hadn’t slept a wink on either the flight from Africa or the flight from Germany. She felt half-crazed from exhaustion and stress, and Foxy’s behavior wasn’t helping. All she could think about was how her father would deal with the news of her disappearance. Let’s face it-her death. That’s what any sane person would think if someone disappeared in an explosion. And what about Adwele? How would he cope with the death of yet another significant adult in his life? First his father, and now McKinney…

She suddenly noticed Foxy staring at her. “You okay, Professor?”

“Somebody blew up my world.” She shrugged. “I’m doing great, Foxy. Just super.”

He nodded. “You want my advice?”

“No offense, but I really don’t.”

“Well, I’ll give it to you anyway. You just won the world’s worst lottery, that’s all. It’s nothing you did-so don’t focus on things beyond your control. Focus only on what you can control. That’s served me well over the years.”

McKinney considered his words. Actually it was pretty decent advice. She studied Foxy. “Thanks for saving my life. Back in Africa, I mean.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You actually know how to play that kora?”

Foxy gave her a disbelieving look and laughed. “Of course I play it. I can play most instruments I put my mind to. I will say, though, these twenty-one-string instruments are tricky. You ever hear of Foday Musa Suso?”

“Maybe. African?”

“Originally Gambian; moved to Chicago decades ago. I’ve been trying some of his songs. I haven’t had much practice lately because my last kora got blown up. Along with some people I knew.”

McKinney felt the normalcy drain out of the conversation. She could suddenly see in his face the hardened mien of an elite soldier. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

In a few moments his seriousness passed, and he cast a grin her way. “This trip gave me the chance to grab a new one.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed a person in your line of work would be a musician.”

“With music you can speak to anyone.”

She leaned back in her seat. “Then music is a tool.”

He frowned briefly at her. “That’s not the right word. Look, what we do isn’t what you think. Human intelligence, what we call HUMINT, mostly involves making connections with people-not hurting them. You never know what opportunities come from making friends. And music is a great way to make friends in strange places. Take the Arab heavy metal scene, for example…”

“There’s an Arab heavy metal scene?”

He nodded and smiled wistfully. “Oh, hell, yes. That’s my music. The soul of disaffection. You won’t find any more sincerity than in heavy metal music in a repressive society. When we get a chance, I’ll play some for you.” He patted the T-shirt he was wearing. “This is a Saudi Arabian band named Eltoba, but I’m a big fan of Arsames-Iranian death metal-and, uh, Mordab is good too. Oh, there’s a kick-ass Bahraini Arabic death black metal band named Narjahanam. I saw them in an underground rave in Manama last year. Damned near got arrested. Their name means ‘the fire of hell,’ and, man, you can feel the youthful rage from these guys-not the sanitized, feigned shit coming from suburban kids trying to cash in. I mean fuck-it-all rage with a purpose.”

McKinney found herself grinning uneasily. “You should be the Middle East correspondent for Rolling Stone.”

“That would be problematic, but… oh, there’s Acrassicauda, Iraq’s sole heavy metal band-which is a start. But, hey, my personal favorite at the moment is an Afghan folk metal band-”

“Afghanistan has folk metal? You’re pulling my leg now.”

“Seriously, you can bridge any gap with music. It’s an Afghan folk metal band named Al Qaynah; a mind-blowing combination of traditional central Asian instruments-like the rubab, the tanbur-with a driving heavy metal foundation. Like all good art it challenges people. Takes them outside their comfort zone.”

“Should I even ask what brought you to these places?”

He shrugged. “I’ll tell you this much: I saw the Arab Spring coming. You could hear it in the younger generation’s music. You could see it in their eyes; in how they used technology to express themselves artistically, creatively. State Department? The CIA? NSA? For all their satellites and garden party spies, they somehow missed a huge wave of popular outrage with the status quo. No, to understand a people, you need to wade into their culture. It’s culture that tells their tale. And music is culture.”

McKinney realized there was a lot more going on with Foxy than had first appeared.

“For instance, most people don’t realize that British punk rock stemmed from a youthful backlash against survivors’ guilt from the Holocaust.”

“Oh, my God!” McKinney gave him an annoyed look. “Would you please just drive. Where are we going, anyway?”

“It isn’t far.”

“Why did we split up?”

Foxy nodded. “We always take separate vehicles and different routes back to base. The others will get in well after us.”

“Who could possibly notice us among all the other people in this city?”

“You might be surprised what anomalies can be detected against background noise. That’s why we have vans like this drive from the airport several times a day even if there’s no one to collect.” He took stock of her reaction. “I can tell nobody’s tried to kill you before, Professor. It tends to change one’s view on what constitutes reasonable precautions.”

“Well, it looks like I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“I hope you don’t feel any more like a prisoner than the rest of us. We’re all stuck on this operation until it’s finished-that includes the other civilian experts. No holiday with the family for us either. I’d like to start thinking of you as another member of the team, if that’s okay.”

“Other civilian experts? So you’ve pressed other people into service?”

“None are in your unique situation, but you’ll meet the other folks; subject matter experts, most of them with top-secret clearances.”

“So they had a choice.”

“Not after they were briefed.”

He was driving down a cracked concrete boulevard now with a grass median peppered with patches of dirty snow. They passed a gravel quarry. The area was starting to get seedier. A truck stop stood at the far side, and a large riverfront casino was visible farther on, its brilliant signage threatening to induce seizures in any nocturnal creatures wandering about.

McKinney noticed a low, wooded hillside rising to the left. It surprised her, since she’d always thought of the Midwest as flat. There were obviously some hills here. She took note of the license plates on a passing car: Missouri. That’s right. Kansas City wasn’t in Kansas-it was in Missouri. Or at least part of it was. They didn’t appear to be deceiving her about where they were. She spotted another truck: Kansas plates.

The click-click of the van’s blinker sounded, and the van slowed. They crossed left over some railroad tracks and seemingly straight toward a grassy hillside. Oddly, even a spur from the railroad line curved along with them as the road led toward a white stone cliff face that cut into the hill.

McKinney looked up at an illuminated sign that read SubTropolis. It was bolted above the concrete-framed entrance of a tunnel. Flags of the world were on display on angled poles above the entrance. The opening was at least twenty feet high and fifty feet across. A roadway large enough to accommodate two semitrucks side by side led into the hillside. In fact, McKinney could also see farther down along the well-lit cliff face where the railroad tracks led into the underground as well. Whole trains could apparently enter the hill.

Foxy opened his passenger window and swiped a magnetic card at a reader, and the roll-up metal security gate started to rise.

“What is this place?”

“The office. Got a roof of solid limestone a hundred feet thick. Three times stronger than concrete. No drone missile can hit us down here. Odin doesn’t like to take chances.”

Foxy pulled through the gate and immediately the massive tunnel opened up into a brightly lit grid of solid rock pillars and interior buildings. There were signs bolted to the rock walls pointing the direction and bay numbers for various manufacturing businesses, warehouses, and shipping companies. The roadway curved downward slightly, and then straightened into a main thoroughfare, punctuated by yellowish metal-halide lights. The place was a vast subterranean business park.

McKinney had never heard of such a thing. Every hundred feet or so there was a massive, chiseled column of solid stone, twenty feet square, but otherwise the place just seemed to stretch on endlessly in three directions beneath the hillside-bright lights trailing to a vanishing point. “My God, this place is huge.”

Foxy nodded. “Six miles of road. Fifty-five million square feet of space. Only ten of that’s been improved for use, and only half of that’s occupied.”

McKinney craned her neck to check out the endless rows of pillars. “How on earth…?”

“They’ve been mining limestone here since the forties. Somebody had the bright idea that, since this rock formation has been here for about two hundred and eighty million years, it would be a stable environment for archival storage, data centers, things like that. No worries about tornadoes either. Hell, there are all sorts of businesses down here. Packaging companies, light fixture companies. They can roll semitrucks and rail-cars right inside too. It’s got major advantages for this operation. For one, it’s impossible to observe what we’re doing from the air or satellites, and there are several entrances-lots of comings and goings at all hours. And we’re centrally located-a short flight to most of the country.”

Foxy cut the van left down a side tunnel, and they were soon cruising down another cavern road that led to a vanishing point. “We operate under unofficial cover-oil and gas exploration firms, microwave communications companies. Things like that. Gives us what’s called ‘status for cover’-meaning a reason to be someplace. Allows us to move around in the countryside with heavy equipment without drawing attention. Here we are…”

Foxy slowed the van, and then turned right down another side passage. Here the floor opened out into an endless grid of stone columns-but the lights ended. They now headed off into utter blackness. Their headlights seemed to be swallowed by the vast dark.

McKinney found herself leaning forward in her seat. “I’ll bet there are some interesting fossils in here.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. All I know is that it’s a good place for an isolation facility. We’ve got a quarter million square feet far away from all the other tenants. That way we don’t get visitors, and no one notices us. We’re way the hell out in the darkness, and nobody’s going to wander on over to borrow a cup of sugar. Look…” He pointed at the stone floor stretching out beneath the headlights.

McKinney could see a single security lamp in the distance.

“Porch light’s on, so the coast is clear.”

They drew closer to the light and finally pulled up to a rolltop door in a long white corrugated steel wall that rose from rock floor to rock ceiling. It stretched out into the darkness in both directions. Several cameras focused on the entrance. Foxy waved, and the rolltop door began to rise, clattering with an echoing racket amid all the exposed rock.

She could see a company logo for Ancile Services, text with a simple shield shape; the same logo emblazoned on her coat. There was a suite number next to the garage door, along with a mail drop and an intercom. It all looked quite innocuous. Underground buildings apparently had to be fashioned down here to make the spaces functional and comfortable. The perimeter wall looked similar to what other businesses had built, although there appeared to be domed security camera enclosures at intervals along the perimeter.

McKinney was surprised when what lay behind the rolltop gate was just more darkness.

Foxy nodded forward. “Buffer area-a hundred-foot-wide exterior perimeter to prevent anyone listening in on what we’re up to.” He pulled the van through the doorway, and the gate descended behind them.

As they drove ahead into the dark, something came swimming out the blackness. Literally swimming through the air was a small shark, replete with teeth and fins, its tail working furiously as it swam to investigate the incoming van.

McKinney peered closely at it. “What the hell…?”

Moments later several more sharks “swam” out the darkness, converging on the van like a school of fish.

She laughed in confusion. “Okay… what are those things?”

“Air swimmers-cheap children’s toy that Expert Five converted for security purposes. It’s a neutral-buoyancy balloon with a power tail fin. I don’t know how many he’s got flying out here, but they patrol the buffer space for intruders.”

Sure enough, now dozens more of the things were sweeping in out of the dark all around them to investigate the lights and movement of the van, bumping up against the windows as though the van were a submarine.

McKinney couldn’t help but admire them. “They’re swarming.” She noticed also a little payload beneath the shark-shaped dirigibles, a rectangular piece of black plastic-and the reflection of a camera lens.

Foxy nodded. “Yeah, Five’s an AI expert. You’ll like him. From what I understand, his fish here explore a space, memorize the layout, and then they use some sort of routing algorithm to patrol.”

“A foraging pattern. Do you know what species they’re modeling?”

“I sure don’t. All I know is they explore the space and remember the layout. When they encounter something that wasn’t there before, they send up an alarm. Flying around independently makes it difficult to blind them with lasers or other countermeasures. They swim to a charging station too.” He chuckled. “Freaky how much it looks like fish feeding.”

“So an antidrone unit is being guarded by drones.”

“Fire with fire.”

“Oh, there’s a clown fish.” McKinney pointed.

“Yeah, it’s getting crowded. C’mon, move it.” Foxy tapped the horn as he nudged through the gathering wall of fish. “Everyone else is probably asleep, but I’ll get you squared away in your quarters.”

“We stay down here full-time?”

He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Nothing’s more comfy than knowing you’re not gonna get blown up in your sleep.”

McKinney pondered that for a moment as she watched another flying shark “swim” past the right side of the van.

In a few moments they pulled up to another corrugated steel wall and a rolltop gate, this one unmarked. The gate rose automatically to reveal a brightly lit garage bay over a hundred feet long and half as wide, containing several large trucks, heavy equipment, and other gear. The floor was painted gray and marked with yellow parking and lane lines. Metalworking equipment, welding rigs, and workbenches were scattered about the place. Interior walls sectioned off the garage, and several doors led off into other areas of the complex.

Standing in the middle of the garage and pointing with two gloved hands to an open space was an athletic Latino in his twenties. He had tattoos of two different women on either bicep and small, pretzel-like ears that lay flush against his crew-cut head. He wore a blue Ancile Services polo shirt with jeans, and tan combat boots-as well as a small black submachine gun slung against his chest.

“Home sweet home.” Foxy pulled the van into a space and killed the engine.

The rolltop gate was still rumbling closed as the Latino came up to the van. McKinney nodded to him, and he nodded back. The air was about sixty-five degrees and smelled powerfully of cut stone.

Foxy exchanged a complex, full-body handshake with the man. “Smokey, how the hell are you, man?”

“All right. All right.”

Foxy gestured to McKinney. “Smokey, this is-”

“I know who it is, dipshit.” He removed a shooting glove and extended his hand. “Professor. Pleasure. They call me Smokey. You didn’t see me in Africa, but I was on the ground. Glad to see you made it out okay.”

Foxy was busy grabbing gear. “You ever find that F50?”

“Naw, it was crazy back there, son. People with guns runnin’ around.”

McKinney felt her eyes drooping in exhaustion.

Foxy slapped Smokey on the shoulder. “Hey, looks like the professor needs some rack time. So do I.”

“All right, we’ll catch up later.”

They left Smokey behind and headed toward double doors. As McKinney padded across the floor, it occurred to her it wasn’t concrete. It was solid rock, probably hundreds of feet thick, ground flat by mining equipment and polished. Their shoes made almost no sound as they walked across it.

Looking around at the other vehicles in the large garage, McKinney noticed some were marked with the same Ancile Services shield logo she wore, while others were painted teal green and marked with U.S. Forest Service insignia. There were also a couple of four-wheel-drive Dodge Power Wagon crew-cab pickups in the process of being painted with Bureau of Land Management livery-the word Ranger partially stenciled and taped out along the side. All of the vehicles were rugged-looking; obviously made for off-road work, with the largest trucks being ten-ton, four-wheel-drive monstrosities. She’d seen similar Unimog trucks in Africa used by pricey European or South African tour groups. Apparently no expense had been spared on this place; there were three gleaming multi-ton Amerigo four-wheel-drive survey trucks with sensors and antennas sticking up from a windowed control room in their cargo area. They looked like oil company seismic trucks, but they were partially disassembled in places with welding equipment stored close by and modifications half-finished.

McKinney gestured to the vehicles and looked at Foxy quizzically.

“Need-to-know, Professor.”

“You realize that conducting covert military operations inside the United States is illegal.”

“Someone’s attacking us, Professor. When that happens we get to shoot back. No sense panicking everyone in the meantime.”

They pushed through the doors and entered a plain white hallway that smelled strongly of spackling, fresh paint, and adhesives. The whole place was brand-new. It had the look of a medical office building. Foxy brought her ahead and to the right, down a side corridor.

“Your hooch is this way…”

McKinney’s head kept darting about. “This whole place was built just for this project?”

Foxy sighed. “Yeah, and let me tell you, top-secret general contractors don’t come cheap.”

They turned a corner to see a man with tightly curled gray hair standing with his back to them in the middle of the hallway; he was dressed in a sweater and slacks, holding a tablet computer in his hands while he watched a lawn mower-sized unmanned electric vehicle with large, off-road wheels weaving through doorways, following some sort of search pattern.

Foxy called out, “You’re up late.”

The man kept his eyes on the vehicle. “Tinkering is sleep for me.” He turned as they reached him.

He was balding, with an aquiline nose. A wiry, intense-looking sixty-year-old. He regarded McKinney with something like disdain.

Foxy gestured to McKinney. “Expert One, meet Expert Six.”

The man stared intently as he extended his hand. “Brian Singleton, Professor Emeritus, Computer Engineering and Robotics, Carnegie Mellon University.”

Foxy rolled his eyes. “Goddammit, Singleton, how many times do I have to tell you, no names?”

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to cower behind some puerile alias.”

“It could compromise your personal safety, not to mention-”

“Let these terrorists do their damnedest.” Singleton focused his gaze back on McKinney, but he addressed his talk to Foxy. “The report said she’s a myrmecologist. Don’t tell me this young woman was brought here because of Odin’s fixation on swarming again.”

“One, what Odin does or doesn’t do isn’t my-”

“Because it’s a waste of time.” Singleton’s eyes stayed on McKinney as she watched his vehicle whizzing around the hallways unattended behind him. “The drones we’re facing are premeditated hunters, not swarming hordes.” He gestured behind him at his nimble vehicle. “Hunting alone. We can’t waste time on conjecture.”

McKinney stared right back at him. “I’m not here by choice, and I have no intention of trying to push an agenda on you.”

“Good. Because I won’t allow us to be sidetracked.”

“Fine.”

“People are dying.”

“I got it. Okay? Let it go.”

Foxy interceded. “Stop busting balls.” He gestured to the hallway. “You wanna call off your premeditated hunter?”

Singleton kept his gaze on McKinney for a second more, and then nodded. He clapped his hands sharply, and the unmanned vehicle stopped in its tracks.

Foxy pushed past with McKinney. “Thank you. See you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

After they rounded the corner McKinney shook her head ruefully. “I knew there was a reason I liked fieldwork.”

Foxy chuckled. “Oh, he’s all right once you get to know him. Just been here a while, that’s all.” Foxy led her to a row of blond-wood doors. They stopped at one with the number six engraved on a plastic plaque. “Here we are.”

McKinney narrowed her eyes to see that someone had even printed the number in raised Braille letters underneath. She ran her finger along the dots.

Foxy opened the door. “Yes, we are ADA compliant.” He turned on the lights. They buzzed on to illuminate a Spartan dormitory-style room with sturdy, brand-new furniture. A bed, dresser, and a desk with a laptop already sitting on it-hardwired with a CAT-5 cable to a jack in the wall. A flat-panel television hung opposite the bed. It was a room she’d never in a million years conceived she’d be in. She was still trying to grasp the surreality of all this and half expected to hear the night sounds of the jungle. Here there was only the sterile buzzing of lights.

Foxy walked to the desk and opened the laptop. “Yours for the duration. It has most of the software that was on your old laptop.”

“Do I even want to ask how you know what was on my old laptop?”

“You can ask Hoov tomorrow. He might have some firewall advice.” He gestured to the laptop again. “There’s a team wiki on our intranet that’ll tell you everything you need to know about the mission. Welcome to government service.”

“A covert military operation with a wiki.”

Foxy headed to the door. “It’s only going to get stranger from here on, Professor. So I suggest you get some sleep. Your bathroom’s over there. Toiletries too. Clothes and shoes in the bureau and closet. The alarm clock will sound at oh six hundred hours. Everyone gathers in the team room at seven. You can grab breakfast before then-I’ll send someone around. If you need sleeping aids or anything else, ring this button by the door.” He regarded her tired eyes. “Any questions?”

She shook her head wearily.

“Super…” He gave her a two-finger salute. “See you in about five hours, then.” And closed the door behind him.

She stared at the dead bolt, and then walked over to turn it with a satisfying clack. Just the sight of the slug of steel entering the frame, sealing her off, brought her stress level down by half.

McKinney then sat on the edge of the bed and put her hands to her face. This was insanity.

She noticed the remote control for the television on the nightstand. She grabbed it and clicked the power button. The television blinked to life on the Weather Channel. A meteorologist was waving her hands above the northeast, showing a high-pressure system moving in from the Great Lakes. It was a window of normalcy viewed from inside a loony bin.

She clicked the channel button and cable news came up. Video of a burning office building, windows blackened and blasted out. The chyron scrolling on the bottom read, “… attack in D.C. Six dead. Twelve injured…”

McKinney felt it almost personally.

The anchorwoman spoke over the video: “… time in the heart of America’s defense sector close by the Pentagon. The bomb claimed the lives of Alerion Aerospace CEO Brad Oliphant Jr. along with several board members and executives. As a parts supplier for several Pentagon drone aircraft programs, security analysts speculate that Alerion was targeted by extremists intent on exacting revenge for the recent Karbala shrine attack, despite new evidence supporting an American denial of responsibility. Although al-Qaeda and other terror organizations have voiced support for today’s attack, authorities confirm that no credible group has yet to claim responsibility for-”

Click.

Another cable news station. An inset photo of the same burning office building next to the anchorman, who was in midstory. “… explosion could be heard throughout the capital city and, for some, brought back awful memories of 9/11. It is a city under siege this hour, as residents cope with the realization that they now live in a combat zone.”

Click.

Another news channel. Images of the injured being rolled on gurneys to waiting ambulances. Fire trucks. The anchorman’s voice authoritative: “Parts of D.C. are in lockdown as investigators comb through the scene, reviewing surveillance videos for some clue as to how the bombers were able to bypass security.”

McKinney nodded to herself. A smart bomb doesn’t go through security. She wondered if this was a planted story or whether most government officials really didn’t know the truth either.

Click.

More news. Same story.

Click.

News again. Was that the only thing on this damned system? Weather and news?

Click.

News commentary. Several pundits sitting across from each other at a desk that would look at home on the Starship Enterprise, weighing in on recent events. A bald man with a crooked tie was talking fast. “.. ourselves is why, after over a decade in the War on Terror, literally trillions of dollars and thousands of American dead and tens of thousands of injured-after all that blood and treasure-and literally hundreds of thousands of civilian dead overseas, why are we now as helpless against these terrorists as we were on 9/11?”

Another pundit: “That’s not the big issue here, Howard. I mean, given all the privacy and civil liberties that we’ve given up, we now effectively live in a surveillance state-cameras on every street corner, in every place of business and office building, mass wiretapping-and yet the government is no closer to finding these terrorists. You look at the Spanish train bombings, the London Underground bombings-they had surveillance video in a matter of hours that led to the perpetrators. Yet here it’s been months and nearly two dozen attacks-”

The host interjected, “Well, there have been arrests.”

“But the bombings continue, and we’ve had no convictions. We’ve had several suspects released, in fact.”

The host changed direction. “ Instead, word on Capitol Hill is that House and Senate intelligence committees are examining an emergency defense appropriation reported to be in the tens of billions of dollars to create a drone air defense system, which makes me wonder how much more we could possibly spend on security that isn’t-”

Click.

The Weather Channel again. McKinney tossed the remote onto the nightstand and collapsed onto the bed, listening to the soothing voice of the weatherwoman…

“… scattered showers across much of southeast Asia and the Indonesian archipelago. While a high-pressure system eases down over the Kamchatka Peninsula…”