Second Strike

CHAPTER 1

^{LOGAN AIRPORT,}

^{AUGUST 14, 6:35 A.M. EDT}

It was all so much nonsense, she thought. Deliriously theoretical nonsense. Almost science fiction. Nonetheless, Meagan Cahill—no-nonsense big-firm litigator Meagan Cahill—sat at the counter of an eatery in Terminal B of Boston’s Logan Airport, sipping iced coffee and listening as Ryan Moore Hammacher once again expounded ominously on something called the Arlanda Event.

She listened because Ryan happened to be her current romantic interest. She listened because he was endearingly earnest and because there was, frankly, little else to do as they waited for their flight to Reagan National to begin boarding.

Most of all—she admitted to herself with a twinge of guilt—she listened because railing about an impending apocalypse had proven to be remarkably lucrative, and Ryan had spent a not inconsiderable portion of his earnings on Meagan.

They’d met a little more than two years ago when the MIT professor of electrical engineering and computer science retained her firm, one of Boston’s most prominent, to sue a Route 128 corridor tech company for appropriating software he’d developed for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). She obtained a sizable settlement for Ryan and shortly thereafter he called her for drinks. They’d been seeing each other ever since.

Her trial lawyer instincts telegraphed that Ryan would propose marriage sometime after they arrived in D.C., perhaps after his testimony later that morning before the House Committee on Transportation and Infrastructure, but more likely after his afternoon testimony before the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology.

She would accept, sincerely but pragmatically, knowing that she wouldn’t find a better partner. And he was not unattractive, although his large head, spindly arms, and awkward gait made him resemble a giant marionette. A mischievous and vaguely lustful recess of her mind flashed to an image of his head atop the body of Corey Raines, the brawny Red Sox catcher she’d briefly dated, but she banished the thought with another twinge of guilt.

This would be the fourth time she’d accompanied him to Washington for testimony before some obscure committee of Congress. Each time previously the hearing had been anodyne. Only a few congressmen, a smattering of staffers, and a few other witnesses had been present. No C-SPAN; no print reporters.

Yet after each hearing, Ryan’s speaking fees, as well as the number of requests, rose. After the first hearing, he was tendered a consulting agreement from a defense contractor nearly equal to his annual salary at MIT. After the last hearing, he’d entered into another for more than twice the cumulative earnings from his entire academic career. And DARPA had recently retained his services to develop certain software in collaboration with cybersecurity experts. All because Ryan Moore Hammacher was the Herald of Doom.

As the coffee parted the early-morning fog in her brain, she listened to him finish his latest jeremiad, just as the gate attendant announced that boarding would begin in a few minutes. “…And there’s no way of preventing it, at least not on an individualized basis. They’d become weaponized. Scores of catastrophes combined to create an event without parallel in history.”

Meagan heard herself say “horrible” for perhaps the third time that morning.

“What’s more, they know it. But they haven’t created the systems or countermeasures to prevent it. Unforgivable.” Ryan fished in his pocket and placed a tip on the counter. “Watch my bag? Quick dash to the men’s room before we board.”

Meagan finished her coffee as she watched him cross to the lavatory on the other side of the concourse, politely dodging and yielding to travelers headed toward their gates. She smiled. A kind, sweet man playing Chicken Little on a grand scale. Thankfully, he’d already made his small fortune, because news reports showed that the president, Congress, and the military now were more concerned about the threat of electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, attacks, understandable given the recent Russian-Iranian efforts in that regard. It was the EMP experts’ turn to become wealthy preventing Armageddon, while Ryan retreated to the ordinary life of an academic.

A minute later, priority boarding for the flight to D.C. was under way. Meagan gathered her belongings and Ryan’s bag and proceeded to the line at the gate.

As regular boarding began, she glanced back toward the men’s room. Ryan’s dash had stopped being quick several minutes ago. A dozen passengers more and the door to the Jetway would soon close. No time for subtlety. Meagan walked briskly to the entrance of the men’s room and called Ryan’s name.

No response.

She called again. Nothing.

She took a few tentative steps toward the entrance. “Ryan, boarding’s about done. We gotta go.” A beat. “Ryan?”

She cocked her head and listened. “Ryan? Hello?”

She peeked around the corner into the brightly lit, white-tiled lavatory lined with a series of sinks on the left wall and a half dozen urinals on the right. Between them, lying spread-eagled on the floor and staring at her with lifeless eyes wide open, was Ryan, his chin resting in a pool of foamy saliva.

Meagan’s screams echoed off the restroom walls and into the concourse just as a voice announced the final boarding call for United Flight 7181, scheduled for a seven A.M. departure to the nation’s capital.