Pi Day Doomsday

BREAKTHROUGH

With three additional ciphers solved, the meeting started at ten o’clock sharp. All eyes were on Doug Strong, FBI, Quantico. More enthusiastic than yesterday, he cajoled with his team awaiting Poole’s signal. He felt empowered with his news. His late-night call from Jason Hillcoat convinced him the case was congealing. Especially when Hillcoat had suggested he return to Virginia before pi day. There were safer places for him, away from California; places that needed his computer expertise.

“Agent Linda Combs seems to have won the lottery today. It’s a great day for all of us,” Lieutenant Poole began. She too had renewed enthusiasm over Strong’s news. “Her recommendation for KryptoKnight’s search using temporal cues brought three more solutions into being last night.” Motioning to Strong, she said, “Would you like to enlighten us? I understand you now have a date, which gives us an anchor, a basis for a timeline.”

“I do,” he replied. Reading from his notepad, he began with the first of the three ciphers. He had rehearsed the disclosures in his mind several times, knowing they were confusing, almost bewildering, but he understood KryptoKnight’s artificial intelligence program. It had the capability of understanding the meaning of words, making associations between them, and oftentimes creating arcane solutions, strange even to its operators. All he had to do was make the curious answers believable.

“One of the most cryptic of the ciphered lines, which was first thought not to be an anagram, is the half-line ‘Paradise Lost.’ In fact it is, solving to ‘Pastoral ides.’

“Now, while we associate the term ‘ides,’ from the early Roman calendars, with the middle of the month, the most well-known ides is the ides of March: March fifteenth. KK’s confidence factor from this line alone is only sixty-two percent, but coupled with the next line the CF jumps to a whopping ninety-nine percent.” Glancing at the affirming nods around him, he referred back to his small pad and continued, “The next solved cipher ‘Delays one’s spot’ decodes to ‘Less one day, tops.’

“Simple math, subtracting one day from March fifteenth, yields March fourteenth as the target date. The Knight associated this solution with other references to pi, rounded to 3.14, March fourteenth by European notation, and called it a match. That’s the cause of the high CF, especially when linked to the Knight’s solution for the garbage line ‘In deck heap wind.’ Solved, it is ‘And I picked when.’” Finished, Strong sat and rested his case. Quietly, he fidgeted with his pad, awaiting acceptance of his information.

Poole, straight-faced, applauded slowly. “Thank you, Agent Strong. My calendar says we have twenty-two days until the fourteenth of March to find and neutralize this threat.” Eyes on her marked-up poem, she read it aloud in its entirety with the new solutions. “Here’s what we have so far:

Shaking her head, exhaling, she said, “We now have the what, when and how. We still need the who, why and where. And who in the hell is Gin Nose?”

Twenty-nine miles south, Officer Mica Briscoe, started his daily patrol route up the I-5 heading north toward Santa Ana. Saturday’s traffic, as usual, was horrendous. No wrecks, no emergencies, just too many damn cars on the road at one time, all traveling the same direction. It happened every weekend. A northbound roaming parking lot.

Spontaneously, cursing softly, he pulled through an official-use-only turnaround and headed south, planning instead to cover the Coastal Highway today. In the back of his mind, a voice commanded him to do so. He knew it was not his official route, but citations were citations, no matter where he issued them. He just needed to meet his quota, and the PCH often provided more opportunity; he had a hard time trying to give speeding tickets in the stopped parking lots on I-5.

Comfortable with his decision and the faster traffic flow, he headed down to Dana Point to join up with the 1 and travel up the coast to Newport Beach. A breathtaking drive through plush communities, overhanging cliffs and the Pacific shoreline, it showcased southern California’s beauty, not to mention occasional views of bikini-clad sun worshippers on the beaches. Yes, today he needed that to try to clear his mind of Adam. He traveled north only a few miles before pulling over the white shoulder line and stopping his cruiser.

As car after car whizzed past, he raised the laser radar gun to the windowsill, expecting an alarm. He had selected an obscure shoulder space by Aliso Beach Park to hide his cruiser, giving him a panorama of the sandy beach on one side, the traffic lanes on the other. Often stopping here, it brought him calmness, a private day at the beach; even though he was fifty yards from the water, his binoculars could draw him closer.

Finding a normal traffic flow, he dropped the gun into his lap and called in on his radio, giving his position, “Dispatch, this is unit 408, 10-8 on PCH at Aliso Beach Park. Traffic control.”

“10-4,” answered the dispatcher, laughing. “Back at the beach again, huh? Most be nice.”

“Hey, it pays well here. Don’t laugh. Drivers divert their attention from the road and their speedometers to bikinis. Almost always speed, unless they see me first. I have ninety-four notches on my radar gun this month; mostly from this location.”

“Yeah, just kidding Briscoe. You’re doing good. Keep our roads safe and call back when you’re driving.”

“10-4. Will do.”

Back to reality, he scanned the beach with binoculars, counted eight large umbrellas with three to four people under each one, then raised the glasses out to the ocean. The waves were unusually high and crashing loudly; he could hear the roar through his open window. Out at infinity, the thin line, separating a light blue sky from a deeper blue ocean, was barely visible. He scanned slowly, searching south to north; huge waves rushed toward land. High tide coming, he thought. Where are you Adam? I know you’re out there somewhere.” He shook his head violently, ridding his mind of the horrific images he imagined.

Considering it was mid-February, the beach was busy. Nothing like the crazy summer weekends with their rowdy beachgoers stomping through the fire pits, erecting huge sand sculptures and drinking funneled beer through long hoses. No, this was the peaceful time of year at the beach, but spring break was right around the corner. A harbinger of the summer crowds to follow, he wondered if Adam would allow that time to arrive. Reluctantly, he reached for his cell phone and dialed Lieutenant Poole at the O.C. Crime Lab.

“Lieutenant Poole here.”

“Briscoe calling. I’m curious if any more of the message has been decoded. Was a time or date found?”

“Why, yes there was, Officer Briscoe. I’m glad to hear you’re still on our team, if only by proxy.”

Pausing, he knew her dig was coming but his curiosity had bested him; it mattered not. One thought at a time, he was dragging himself reluctantly back into the puzzle, not something he particularly wanted to happen.

“Well? When?” Knowing his cell signal was subject to intercept, he avoided specifics; something he learned in his LEO classes: talk around it, not about it. All law enforcement officers knew that.

“March fourteenth,” Poole replied.

“Pi day! I should have known. Well, we have twenty-one days. My clock is ticking.”

“Better add a day to your clock, Officer Briscoe. This year is a leap year. Use that extra day wisely. Hope I answered your question.”

“Copy that Lieutenant. Thanks for the information.” He released the call and sighed, staring at his phone, clicking down the days.

Realizing he would not die today, he relaxed in his seat, brought his radar to the window, and, hoping for a speeder, aimed it into the oncoming traffic. He would catch one soon; he could feel it.

Back in the crime lab, Poole’s team had dwindled to nothing, as its members raced off to inform their agencies of the news. While just over three weeks seemed ample time to prepare for a simple emergency such as a hurricane or flood, in the face of imminent annihilation, it felt like tomorrow. Panic was evident in everyone’s faces, demeanors, and actions. The specification of a date slammed the threat into their own realities, worrying about their families, friends and their own welfare. Knowing that nobody in the taskforce had a handle on how to resolve or abort the threat made it worse, considering they were the most knowledgeable, most capable force in existence.

The meeting room sat empty, except for Poole, determined, examining the clues over and over. Something had to be there nobody had seen. She focused her attention on the last line ‘From Gin Nose’ yet to be decoded by the FBI computer. It must be a name, she thought. Encrypted. With no context for a solution, KK would have to sort through every first and last name in existence to find a match; even then the there would be no certainty it was related to the threat.

Suddenly she realized that she could give context, a relationship, to KK’s search. Although its artificial intelligence prowess approached that of light-speed human thought, without directives it would often wander aimlessly through seas of irrelevant data, not knowing it had already found the answer. She placed her cell phone on the table and stared at it for several long moments, thinking. What do we know about the perpetrator? Smart, very smart. Radioactive, very radioactive. Excellent English language skills. Precise, to the point of being obsessive-compulsive. Mathematical. Local to southern California, probably coastal. Access to nuclear weapons.

Flipping her evidence copy over, beside her other notes, she wrote her thoughts. She wondered if they were enough. Indecisive, she decided she would call Agent Strong when she had time.

Moving on, at the bottom of the list she penned ‘Physical Description-’ and realized she had nothing. The void reminded her that she could have something, but Keller had not reported in. Out visiting suspect Starbucks’ security tapes, he was supposed to call back periodically, keeping the team abreast of his progress. She took the phone and speed-dialed Keller.

“Deputy Keller,” he answered.

“Gene, this is Poole at the crime lab. What have you got so far? Tell me some good news.”

“Wish I could Lieutenant. I’m heading south on the I-5, three down, two to go. I scanned the videos and found the cruiser at each location, but nothing more.”

“What’s your 10–20?”

“Mission Viejo. He had multiple stops here so it may take a while. Then on to San Juan Capistrano to wrap it up. Hope we get lucky soon.”

“10-4, Deputy. Keep in touch. Bye.”

Referring back to the blank line in her notes, she scribbled Pending. Not what she wanted to write, but something to remind her to check back later with Keller. For the first time in days, she felt aimless, lonely, stopped in her tracks, wanting more. The taskforce members had agreed to meet again tomorrow, same time, same place. There was nothing she could do but wait. Should she go downstairs and catch up on Orange County’s other problems or do something else? She rested her head on her arms, on the empty table and drifted off, thinking of Gin Nose.

A brief glint in the water caught his attention. Far from shore, it rocked in the waves, occasionally reflecting the afternoon sun, like a floating buoy. He had never noticed anything before in that location. It couldn’t be a stationary buoy or he would have seen it many times at this stop. He knew the road, the beach and the ocean by heart. It was his favorite stop. No, this was different. Raising the binoculars to his eyes, he peered out at a small white boat, blue trim down its side, floating in the water. He pulled the binoculars from his eyes, rubbed them trying to clear his vision, and looked back. As he suspected, it was floating keel up, a rare, but not impossible, sight in these waters. The rough waves in the area always brought fear into the hearts of its boaters, but most of them made it through. A few didn’t.

He started his cruiser and pulled slowly into the beachside parking lot, trying to avoid attention. Onward toward the lifeguard tower, he idled and then stopped, directly behind it. Quickstepping from the car to the tower ladder, he carried his binoculars to get a better view. The empty tower, manned only during the busy seasons, gave him a perfect viewpoint for the derelict boat. In plain sight, it bobbled rhythmically, belly up, slowly moving toward shore with the incoming tide. Nothing in his view indicated life. No waving arms, no white flags, nothing. Assuming the worst, he returned to his cruiser and called it in.

“Dispatch, this 408 at Aliso Beach Park. I’ve spotted a watercraft adrift about a half-mile offshore. No signs of life. It’s capsized, upside down.”

“Roger that, Officer Briscoe. I’ll get the Coast Guard over there 10–18, ASAP. Can you meet them there?”

“I’ll be here, dispatch. By the south lifeguard tower in my cruiser. Please advise when they’re in route, with an ETA.”

“10-4, officer, enjoy the beach. Got your swim suit?”

“Very funny. Briscoe out.”

By the time Dispatch called back, the boat had drifted closer, now only a football field out from shore. He had tracked it in through his binoculars, seeking more detail, but it gave nothing more.

“A Cutter’s on the way. Should be there in fifteen minutes,” the radio squawked.

“Wait a minute, Dispatch. That’s at least a sixty-foot ship. They’ll never get in here to the boat. It’s almost onshore. I need a hovercraft.”

“10-4. I’ll call them back.”

“Oh, would you ask them to bring a Geiger or scintillation counter with them. I’m working on a far-out hunch, here,” he said, squinting through glasses, watching the fiberglass shell dance on the waves toward shore.

“That’s a strange request, Briscoe, but I’ll ask. Dispatch out.”

He lowered the binoculars and shook his head, chuckling at the thought of a sixty-foot Coast Guard Cutter making its way onto shore. Sometimes a little added information makes all the difference in the world. The beach crowd had begun to gather near him, all fascinated by the approaching hull. With each wave, the hull rocked and drifted closer, bringing cheers from the crowd. Then suddenly it halted, as if it hit a brick wall. What the hell? he though. It began to spin erratically with each wave, advancing no further. It’s caught on something, run aground. He walked to his cruiser and looked back. It wasn’t going anywhere until the tide changed. Dropping into his seat he reached to the console, grabbed the cup of cold coffee and sipped from it, waiting for the hovercraft.

The unmistakable roar of huge fans approaching awakened him. He had only napped for a few minutes but he was refreshed, ready to fight a new war. He stood from the car and waited for the sand to settle before acknowledging the ACV, or air cushioned vehicle. Fans stopped, it dropped on its skirt into the sand as a white uniformed coast guardsman disembarked and walked briskly toward him.

“Ensign John Dover at your service, officer,” he said as he approached. An officer and a gentleman, at six-foot-three and two-hundred pounds, with black closely trimmed hair and deep-set azure eyes, he exuded confidence. He shook Briscoe’s hand, then looked around assessing the emergency. “What’s the problem here,” he asked, glancing out at the capsized hull, then continued, “other than that unfortunate craft. Seems to be stuck in the sand--probably on its ski tower. Any survivors?”

“No, not unless they’re under it. Can you right it so we can see?”

“Sure. Want us to tow it back to the impound marina, too?” asked Dover.

“No, not yet. I’d like you to beach it here so I can investigate a possible crime. We’ll go from there.”

“With a Geiger counter? What’s that about?”

“Did you bring one?”

“Yes sir, our San Onofre special. We used it around the twin tits nuclear plant--when it was operational. It’s old but still works. We keep it calibrated in case of another leak.”

Smiling, nodding, he replied, “Ah, yes. I call those the double-Z towers. Know them well. Mind if I use it for some tests after you bring it in?” He motioned toward the stuck, rotating hull.

“No, not at all. Stand back and we’ll bring ‘er in.”

He walked back to his cruiser as Dover boarded the hovercraft, started the engines, and lifted from the beach in a flurry of sand. He turned back and curiously watched the ACV in action. Rocking side to side, on a roiling spray of water six inches over the ocean, parallel to the hull, Dover pulled with grappling hooks and gaffs on long poles trying to right the capsized boat. On the third try, it began to roll, slowly at first, then reached equilibrium and flipped upright exposing a tall onboard cargo crane and hoist mechanism.

“What in the hell is that?” he asked himself. He recognized the craft as a Sea Ray, but had never seen such a massive cargo rigging before. His heart sped as he realized its implications. That might just be Adam’s launch pad. He closed his eyes, hoping, praying that he would find radioactivity there.

It took only minutes for the ACV to capture, tie off, and tow the boat to shore. Once beached, it sat, listing, awaiting his scrutiny. He watched Dover return to shore, park the ACV nearby then stride across the sand toward him carrying a small yellow box with a short black curved handle. It reminded of a vintage metal detector he had used in his navy days. That must be the San Onofre special. He exited the cruiser, met Dover halfway, and took the instrument, inspecting it in his hands.

“How do you work this thing, ensign?”

Dover pointed out the controls. “Simple. Toggle that switch to ON, then watch that meter and listen for clicks. It’s auto-ranging so it self adjusts for any intensity. If that red light flashes, run like hell.” He looked up, chuckling. “We’ve never had that happen, so we don’t know if I really works. The manual says it does.”

“If you’ll stick around while I test it, I’d appreciate your towing it to the salvage marina when I’m done. I’ll call a deputy for authorization.” Briscoe said, walking toward his target, Dover trailing behind.

“No problem, officer. My time is yours until we get it off the beach.”

Stepping over the hull into the Sea Ray’s tilting deck, he slipped on the wet fiberglass, fell into the boat and quickly stood, regaining his composure. “Slippery,” he said, smiling. His leather-soled shoes were not meant for this type of work. Before activating the Geiger counter, he looked around the cabin of the boat deciding where to measure first. A circular deep gouge in the flooring behind the captain’s seat drew his attention. Glancing at the cargo crane tower, he noticed its arm was extended to a distance that seemed to place its claw, when swiveled, right over the round imprint. He tested his observation, grabbing the arm and pulling it toward him. Sand gritted in the swivel joints making it difficult to move. A few more tugs and he had the claw in place, directly over the indentation. He bent over and rubbed his hand over the circular depression, estimating it to be a half-inch deep. As he suspected, he was right. This was the place to measure.

Dover watched with mounting curiosity, wondering what was happening, as Briscoe held the instrument over the circle and switched it on. Not a click or two, but a raucous buzz came from the speaker accompanied by a bright flashing red light from the Geiger counter’s front panel. Dover jumped back, away from the boat, almost falling in the wet sand, and yelled, “Holy shit! Get the hell out of there, Briscoe. That’s lethal!”

Slipping and stumbling, he scrambled hand over foot out of the listing boat and fell in the sand. The San Onofre special, landing several feet from him, still clattered, though its light was dark. He stood, brushed the sand from his uniform, grabbed the counter, and retreated with Dover until the buzzing stopped. They were fifteen feet back, further than the beach crowd in front of them, gathered around the boat curiously looking in.

“Everybody back!” he yelled. “It may explode any time now. There’s a gas leak.” He improvised his deception on the fly to avoid a panic. Announcing lethal radioactivity would certainly scare everyone and start the questions, which he couldn’t answer. He had put the monster to rest before it awakened. The crowd obeyed, gathering their belongings, racing to their cars. Soon the beach park was empty.

“Excellent thinking, Officer Briscoe,” Dover said, aside. “I was wondering how we were going to handle that very delicate situation. You pegged it.”

“Thanks, ensign. In my years of experience with crowd control on our jammed up highways, I‘ve become rather adept in the art of disinformation. It works. Saves lots of headaches, too.”

Smiling, Dover looked over at the boat, pointed and quietly asked, “So really. What was that about? Is the boat really that radioactive? Why?”

He hesitated, then answered, “Yes, I think so. Since you’ll be towing it back to the Sheriff’s marina, you need to know. It most likely is. Why? I can’t answer that right now. You’ll find out soon enough. Please keep this quiet from the public until they’re notified by the Sheriff’s office. You don’t want to start the panic I just avoided.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. How should I handle this with my office? Do they know?”

“No, not yet, but they will. I’m calling it in as soon as you leave. They’ll be expecting you.” He reached out with the Geiger counter, handing it over.

“Thank you, Officer Briscoe. We’ll be off now.” He saluted, turned, and raced to the hovercraft. Seconds later, its fans roared again. It skimmed over the sand, caught the boat’s fore line and dragged it back to the ocean, floating low in the water, heading north.

Watching it disappear into the distance from the front seat of his cruiser, he sipped cold coffee, ate a stale morning donut, then rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment, organizing his thoughts. Should he write up a report or not? Probably not. He would leave that to Poole.

According to his watch, it was four-fifteen in the afternoon when he speed-dialed Poole’s cell phone. He had already had a hectic day and he expected it would get busier. Not sure how she would handle the news, he dreaded making the call.

“Crime Lab. Poole here.”

“What’s up Lieutenant? Any more news?

She recognized his voice. “Hello, Officer Briscoe. Nothing more. Unfortunately, it’s been a slow day here. Our meeting ended early; the taskforce wanted to inform their home offices. What’s up with you?”

“Lots. I think I found Adam’s delivery vehicle washed ashore on Aliso Beach. It’s coming in hot to your marina. Ensign Dover, Coast Guard, is towing it in by hovercraft. Notify the harbor master to keep it isolated from all life and other boats by at least a fifteen-foot clearance.”

Her voice shrieked, “Oh my God, Briscoe, you found it? Are you sure of this?”

Pleased by her softening formality, he replied, “I’d stake my life on it. In fact I think I just did.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I put myself in a very hot zone before I realized it. Walked through the boat inspecting it. But only for a moment or two. Other than that I feel fine.”

Her voice changed to that of a concerned mother. “Briscoe, get your ass into our lab right now. Do not stop, do not pass go; I mean it. I’ll have an agent waiting to examine you. From what you’ve told me, you could be in real danger.”

He laughed and replied, “Yes, mom. I’ll be driving. I’m still here on Aliso Beach so give me forty minutes.”

“It will take me at least that long to get your news into the system.” She paused, “But how did you know?”

“Dumb luck, I guess. The boat just drifted, belly up, into my sight at my favorite stop. I had already given four tickets and I looked out at the ocean before I left. I saw it half-mile offshore washing in with the tide. A hunch kept me there until it beached itself. The Coast Guard did the rest”

“That’s an amazing story. Let’s hope your hunch was right. I’ll call our marina and give them a heads-up. Ensign Dover, right?”

“Yes, Ensign John Dover. Very sharp, competent fellow. He doesn’t know anything about the story, though, so he’ll have questions. Better clue his station commander in.”

“Yes, I’ve already thought of adding the coast guard and navy to our team. This is a good chance to do just that.”

“You’re gonna need a bigger room though,” he said chuckling.

Laughing back, she said, “Quit talking and get your butt in here. I’ve gotta go. This case just changed directions.”

He clicked off, radioed Dispatch that he was driving again, and headed off toward the crime lab.

“I’ve found him, the grim reaper,” Keller said into the phone.

Poole, on another line with the O.C. Sheriff’s marina, had placed them on hold to answer Deputy Keller’s beep-in. Those were his first words.

“My God, this must be my lucky day,” Poole exclaimed. “It’s feast or famine here with the news.”

After a short pause, Keller questioned, “How do you mean Lieutenant?”

“Nothing all day, then BAM, two breakthroughs in thirty minutes.”

“Oh? What’s the other one?”

“Officer Briscoe just called in a report that he found the boat used to launch Adam. It’s on its way to your salvage marina. Boiling hot.”

“Wow, that is great news, Lieutenant. With that information and mine, we may be able to finally identify our perp.”

“What about yours? Where did you find him?”

“In San Juan Capistrano at the Starbucks on Ortega. He popped up minutes after Briscoe parked and slipped the envelope through the cracked window on the cruiser’s passenger door, just as Briscoe suspected. He was dressed to resemble the grim reaper and I swear, when he turned toward the camera, I felt I was staring into the eyes of Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs. Spooky.”

A shiver ran up Poole’s spine. “Deputy Keller, can you bring us that tape? Or a copy?”

“I’m copying it onto a flash drive right now. I’ll bring it in as soon as I can. Shouldn’t be longer than an hour, depending on traffic.”

“See you then,” Poole said, clicking in the other call.

“I’m sorry, that was a deputy with some breaking news on this case. Now where was I?”

Completing the call five minutes later, she had warned the harbor staff to steer clear of the salvaged boat coming in behind the hovercraft. It reeked of toxic waste, she had said. It must be placed away from everything; consider it in quarantine. The ruse worked. It gave her more time to research the case without releasing sensitive data, possibly causing widespread panic. She planned to send Keller to supervise the quarantine when he returned. He already knew the case and could continue her deception.