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  And into the unknown.

  Chapter 20

  “Amazing.” Ed Hooper tossed yet another file into the growing pile of paper surrounding his feet. “Simply amazing.”

  Leaning back in his cheap swivel chair, he rubbed his eyes. After leaving the White House, he’d returned to his tiny Washington, D.C. apartment. He’d sat down at his desk, a sturdy piece of furniture he’d picked up at a yard sale. With gusto, he’d thrown himself into the giant mounds of paperwork documenting the sad history of the Columbus Project.

  From every conceivable viewpoint, the Columbus Project had been a disaster of epic proportions. Over the course of eighteen months, approximately eighty billion dollars of financial support had been doled out to five hundred and twenty-four companies in the clean energy sector. Just two hundred and sixty-six companies, representing about half the total outlays, were still in business. And many of them were experiencing major financial difficulties.

  Fifty-two companies, entrusted with eight billion dollars of taxpayer monies, had declared bankruptcy. By itself, that was a staggering figure. But the real problem was the remaining two hundred and six companies.

  The fraudulent ones.

  Hooper shook his head. The theft was brilliant, especially in its simplicity. Although he wasn’t a computer expert, he had a pretty good idea of how it had happened. Someone had built a back door into the Columbus Project database. That person had proceeded to create hundreds of fabricated documents including basic eligibility applications, due diligence assessments, negotiated term sheets with agreed-upon milestones, signed contracts, follow-up progress reports, and payment records. The documents were added to the database and kept hidden until preprogrammed dates and times. Then they became part of the official record.

  Hooper picked up another file and quickly read through it. Submitted by FutureLights, a nonexistent company supposedly based out of California, it requested financial support to develop a more efficient solar panel.

  At first glance, the proposal sounded perfectly reasonable. And most likely, it was perfectly reasonable. Hooper had crosschecked over a dozen fraudulent files with simple Internet searches. It turned out the more technical aspects had been directly lifted from real-life companies.

  He tossed the file to the side. The theft was incredibly smart. But it had still required one very important ingredient.

  Access.

  The Columbus Project, for all of its faults, had been designed to minimize the risk of theft. The database was carefully monitored. Applications required multiple layers of checks and crosschecks before receiving approval. Milestones were tracked and tied directly to payments. In short, the system should’ve been above reproach.

  The thief had beaten it by exploiting two loopholes. The first loophole had allowed the thief to insert fraudulent paperwork into the mix. The second loophole took advantage of informational deficiencies between those who analyzed the applications and those who approved them.

  More specifically, the analysts prepared reports on their respective companies. The president’s cabinet read those reports. However, there was no actual interaction between the two groups. So, the analysts didn’t know fraudulent reports had been filed under their names and the cabinet didn’t know they were reading forged documentation.

  The discrepancy had been discovered by accident. One of the secretaries met one of the analysts at a private function and made an offhand remark about a company supposedly recommended by the analyst. Confused, the analyst had checked the database. He was shocked to see his name on numerous documents for Batteroids, a supposed manufacturer of batteries for electric vehicles. He’d immediately called an old friend, the president’s senior advisor.

  Hooper twisted around in his swivel chair. More reams of documents rested on the floor behind him, encircling his desk like tiny walls. He scooted his chair toward a particularly small pile and picked it up. It contained about two-dozen folders, stuffed with information about every single person with access to the database. The files were unmarked, but Hooper suspected one of Washington’s many secret agencies had a hand in creating them.

  He flipped through the files. The analysts worked for the U.S. Department of Energy. They appeared to be environmental gurus to the core, active in animal rights groups and conservation agencies. Of course, billions of dollars had a way of tempting people from their ideals. Still, he didn’t consider them serious suspects. They were all loners, who joined groups to make change rather than meet friends. And by themselves, none of them exhibited the necessary computer skills to pull off such a fraud.

  He moved on to the cabinet members. The first three files held little interest for him. But the fourth file, that of Secretary of Energy Barney Samuels, piqued his curiosity.

  Hooper skimmed the file. Apparently, Barney’s wife, Patricia, was an executive of a small computer company based out of Washington, D.C. A dozen years ago, she’d been a person of interest in several computer-related crimes. The nature of the crimes intrigued him. Patricia Samuels hadn’t always been the corporate type.

  Once upon a time, she’d been a hacker.

  Chapter 21

  “What the hell is this thing?” Graham asked.

  “It …” Wind howled, drowning out Beverly’s response.

  Twisting around, I pulled the panel shut. Swirling dirt particles fell to the metal floor. The wind diminished in volume.

  Beverly switched on a flashlight. We stood inside a small passage, barely large enough for walking purposes. Bundles of wires and cables ran alongside the walls and ceiling.

  I took a few breaths. The air felt heavy, aided by heat emanating from the metal walls.

  I followed Beverly through the grit-covered passage. The lack of windows and cabin door indicated the plane hadn’t been carrying passengers. But I still had no clue what we’d find in the cabin. Machinery, maybe? Weapons? Something else?

  We walked into the cabin. Indeed, it looked nothing like a typical airplane cabin. There were no chairs or even stowed cargo. Instead, a giant metallic cylinder occupied most of the space.

  An odd gleam appeared in Beverly’s eyes. Kneeling down, she opened her shoulder bag. She pulled out her handheld mass spectrometer and studied it for a few seconds. Slowly, a frown crossed her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Graham asked.

  She pulled a small metallic container from her bag. It contained a mound of dark material. “This is soil from the excavation site,” she explained. “I gathered it while you guys were looking for survivors.”

  I studied the soil. “It looks like ordinary dirt.”

  She produced a lighter and flicked it. A small flame singed the air. She raised it to the container. Abruptly, the soil caught fire. The flame burned brightly for a few seconds before flickering to darkness.

  My eyes widened. “The soil’s flammable?”

  She nodded. “The soil samples show an unusual assortment of chemicals, including hydrogen sulfide. Obviously, hydrogen-sulfide is flammable.”

  “And toxic,” Graham said thoughtfully. “It’s a broad-spectrum poison.”

  “Yes, but Lila and the others didn’t die from toxicity,” Beverly said. “They suffocated because they couldn’t breathe. I think that’s because the air was literally stuffed with chemicals.”

  I looked around. “So, all those chemicals came from this plane?”

  Beverly shifted her beam to the cylinder. Then she lifted it, tracing pipes. They stretched to the ceiling before veering toward the rear of the aircraft. “Specifically, from the cylinder. Those pipes must lead to a dispersal system.”

  I walked to the giant metal cylinder. Carefully, I studied it from all angles. “So, the plane wasn’t emitting contrails. It was emitting chemtrails.”

  Graham gave me a puzzled look.

  “Ordinary contrails consist of water vapor. But conspiracy theorists claim some contrails are actually stuffed with chemicals. Hence, chemtrails.” I frowned. “I guess they were right.”

/>   “But why?” Graham asked. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “I can think of two possibilities,” Beverly said. “First, it could’ve been an advanced form of crop dusting. You know, to make the soil more fertile. But honestly, I don’t see how these chemicals would do the trick. Plus, this is an extremely sophisticated plane. It would be a waste to deploy it as a mere crop duster.”

  “What’s the second possibility?” I asked.

  “It could’ve been an attack.”

  “That makes sense,” Graham said slowly. “I’m pretty sure I saw chemtrails before the gunfire started. And an attack would explain why God’s Judges targeted the plane.”

  “Perhaps. But we don’t know if the plane was targeting them.” She paused. “It could’ve been targeting us.”

  An uneasy moment of silence filtered through the cabin. Anger boiled within me as I thought about Lila and all the other people who’d died as a result of the chemtrails.

  My gaze turned in the direction of the cockpit. I didn’t know if the pilot had survived the crash. But if so, he needed to pay for his crimes.

  “Why use chemicals?” Graham glanced around the plane. “Why not just equip this thing with guns and missiles?”

  Beverly shrugged.

  I furrowed my brow. “You said the soil contained hydrogen-sulfide, right?”

  She nodded.

  “That doesn’t make sense. Hydrogen-sulfide smells like rotten eggs. But I didn’t smell anything when the chemtrails reached us.”

  “That’s true,” she replied. “But hydrogen sulfide is just one of many chemicals I found in the soil. Plus, I suspect at least some of the chemicals have been engineered.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t have the equipment to perform rigorous tests. But according to my mass spec, each sample contains an assortment of chemicals. Hydrogen sulfide, ammonium, carbon dioxide, and sulfur dioxide, to name just a few. But they’re not ordinary chemicals. I’m picking up carbon cluster fingerprint signals for carbon nanotubes and carbon nanodots.” She exhaled. “In other words, the chemicals are actually engineered nanomaterials.”

  “You don’t need nanomaterials to kill off a bunch of people,” Graham said. “Hell, you don’t need chemicals at all.”

  Another moment of silence passed over the space. I began to think about the problem, consider it from all ends. Graham was right. There had to be another reason the plane had used nanomaterials.

  But what?

  Chapter 22

  “Get some tools.” I crouched next to a second panel. It led to the cockpit and was bolted shut from the outside. “We need to talk to the pilot.”

  “There’s no pilot, at least not the way you’re thinking about it.” Beverly paused. “And no cockpit either.”

  I cocked my head. “This thing is a drone?”

  She nodded. “It was probably developed as a long-range surveillance aircraft.”

  Drone was the popular name for an unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV. They were controlled by remote pilots and widely known for military usage. However, they were becoming increasingly common in areas like firefighting, policing, and geophysical surveying.

  My fingers curled into fists. I wanted to punish whoever had killed Lila and the others. Unfortunately, that now seemed impossible. “How come you didn’t say anything before?”

  “I had suspicions, but I wasn’t sure until we came in here.” She shrugged. “This model is new to me.”

  Graham walked forward, toolbox in hand. “So, the pilot is somewhere else?”

  Beverly nodded.

  “Any chance he or she knows where to find this hunk of junk?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. A very good chance.”

  I exhaled. “How close is the pilot?”

  “Who knows?” She shrugged. “This looks like a Tier III plane. In other words, it’s capable of high altitudes and long distances. The pilot could be almost anywhere on the globe.”

  “Most likely, we’re dealing with the Israeli Air Force,” Graham said. “Still, the fuselage is unmarked. And I haven’t seen a single symbol or flag, government or otherwise.”

  I looked at Beverly. “There’s got to be a way to locate the pilot.”

  “Maybe.” Beverly’s gaze flitted to Graham. “Feel up to some computer work?”

  He grinned. “Just show me to the vacuum tubes.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This thing is basically a flying computer, complete with navigation data. Catch my drift?”

  “Sure do.” Graham walked to the panel. Kneeling down, he began to loosen bolts and screws.

  A few minutes later, he lowered his tools and yanked a latch. Metal groaned. A musty odor filled the cabin area.

  Graham pulled a small electronic device out of his toolbox. Then he crawled through the panel. Clicks and soft dings rang out.

  I glanced at Beverly. “I’m going to take a look outside.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure it’s still there.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Donning my goggles, I hiked into the passage. There was little I could do to protect the reliquary. But I still felt a need to keep an eye on it.

  I opened the rear panel. The wind pushed back, matching my strength. Gritting my teeth, I shoved my shoulder into the metal plate. Slowly, it shifted open.

  My eyes widened as I caught sight of the storm. The unanchored dirt billowed in the air, forming a veritable black blizzard. More dirt joined it by the second, helped along by powerful winds.

  Squinting, I caught a hazy glimpse of the reliquary, still covered by the plastic sheets. A thick dust cloud surrounded the sheets. Crossing winds whipped at them, causing them to flap loudly.

  Questions haunted me. What did the reliquary contain? Was it truly dangerous?

  And who had sent the drone? Was that person targeting God’s Judges? Or trying to keep us from salvaging the reliquary?

  “I’m done in here.” Graham’s voice drifted down the passage. “Where are you guys?”

  I cleared my throat. “Over—”

  “Quiet,” Beverly’s voice was soft, but fierce.

  Twisting around, I saw her kneeling directly behind me. Graham’s binoculars were glued to her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Her finger pointed into the distance. “We’ve got company.”

  Chapter 23

  “This is suicide.” Nick Mickles squinted. “I can’t see a thing with all this debris in the air.”

  Grover Herman stared out the front window. Dirt flew everywhere, spinning in mesmerizing fashion. “We can’t stop,” he replied. “We have orders.”

  “This is dumb. No one’s going to be traveling in this weather. We should just pull over, wait out the storm.”

  “Jeremy will have our heads if we do that. You heard him. He said to secure the drone as quickly as possible.”

  The SUV bumped over a small hill. Mickles gritted his teeth. “Screw him. I say we—”

  “Hold on.” A large silhouette materialized out of the darkness. “I think that’s it.”

  Mickles tapped the brake pedal. The vehicle rolled to a stop. For a moment, he stared at Nautilus. Then he twisted his neck to the right. “Looks like Pascal was right.”

  “About what?”

  “About that.”

  Herman followed his gaze to a medium-duty commercial truck. It was parked in front of a sand pile, a short distance from the drone. Producing his satphone, he dialed a number. “We’re on site, sir. Nautilus is in decent shape, but it won’t fly again.” Herman paused. “And it looks like you were right about the salvage team. We’ve spotted at least one truck in the vicinity.”

  After a short conversation, Herman hung up the phone.

  “Well?” Mickles asked. “Are we killing them?”

  “Not yet,” Herman replied. “Pascal wants them alive for questioning.”

  Mickles chuckled. “Poor bastards.”

  Cracking his door, Mickle
s climbed out of the truck. The sand was relentless, packing into his nose and scratching at his skin. Wind howled as it ripped across the arid land. Hunkering down, he soldiered forward.

  The medium-duty truck came into view. It had slammed headfirst into a wall of sand, which had been thrown up by the crashed plane. Mickles studied the rectangular-shaped object on the flatbed. Then he turned toward the cab. Most likely, the salvage team had been injured in the accident. Securing them would be a simple matter.

  He flashed hand signals at Herman. Herman nodded and began skulking along the truck’s passenger side.

  Moving cautiously, Mickles approached the driver’s side door. Stopping next to it, he tried to peer through the window. But dirt caked its uneven surface, obscuring his view.

  He glanced behind the cab, catching Herman’s eye. Lifting a hand, he counted down from three. Then he grabbed the latch and opened the door. At the same time, Herman opened the passenger side door.

  Mickles aimed his knife into the truck. His brow furrowed. A distinct sense of uneasiness crept over him.

  The truck was empty.

  Chapter 24

  The wireless revolution had made everything, including home burglary, easier and more efficient.

  Ed Hooper parked his car next to the cobblestone walkway. Glancing outside, he took in the massive stone residence. It was an elegant three-story structure, located on two acres of high hill property. The house, purchased by Barney and Patricia Samuels just three years earlier, was situated in the middle of Spring Valley, considered by many to be Washington, D.C.’s most affluent neighborhood.

  Popping his door open, Hooper stepped outside. He had it on good authority that the Samuelses were out for the evening. That gave him plenty of time to do what needed to be done.

  The lawn was manicured and bright green, with nary a patch of dirt to be seen. Lush greenery, the kind available only to those willing to pay for it, surrounded the house on all sides.

  Glancing over both shoulders, he was pleased to find he couldn’t see the surrounding properties. Like many of Spring Valley’s super-wealthy, the Samuelses had found a way to live in a country setting, smack in the middle of a heavily urban environment. And the price for such a slice of paradise?