Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

“This could be the mother lode,” Teddy says, lifting the lid of Randall Shane’s small 13-inch MacBook Pro. “Let’s see if she boots.”

We’re gathered in the command center-everybody but Dane, still holding vigil at the hospital-more or less standing over Teddy’s narrow shoulders, watching with keen anticipation as he presses the power button.

There’s a low-key dong and the screen illuminates, soon followed by the gray Apple logo in the center.

“System loading,” Teddy says, hushed.

Twenty-eight seconds later-by his count-he’s trolling for downloaded video files.

“I’ll start with the most recent,” he says, selecting from a pop-up menu. “This was attached to an email that originated from jvkeener@mit.edu.org. I’m assuming that’s the professor.”

“Bingo,” says Naomi, almost before the video-player image has a chance to form on the screen.

A little boy on Harvard Bridge, looking into the camera with what could be fear or nervous anticipation, hard to say. A little boy, possibly Eurasian, maybe five years old, with a mop of thick dark brown hair in a bowl cut, straight across his forehead. Intelligent, wary eyes glancing upward and to the side. The camera zooms back to reveal a skinny Caucasian woman holding the child’s hand. She has a similar, wary look when her eyes flick nervously at the camera. She says something but we can’t hear it, and then the clip ends abruptly.

Teddy runs it again-the whole clip lasts a mere seven seconds-and I start to take in some of the details. For instance the child and the woman are close to the bridge rail, facing south, with the Cambridge shore behind them.

“Sound?”

“There’s an open audio track,” Teddy says, tapping a finger on the screen, indicating a graphic. “No volume. My guess, this was recorded with a cell phone. I’ll run lip recognition software, see if we can figure out what she’s saying.”

“She’s saying, ‘where do we go?’” I tell him.

Teddy reruns that segment several times, and we study her moving lips.

“Alice is right, it fits,” Naomi says, nodding.

“‘Where do we go?’” Jack says, musing. “Like she has no real idea what’s going on, or what’s supposed to happen next, or why they’re in that particular location.”

“Who’s shooting this, do you think?” Naomi asks.

“Not Shane,” says Jack. “She’s frightened, or at the very least uneasy. So is the boy. Kids don’t respond to Shane with fear. Quite the opposite.”

“The woman isn’t his mother, obviously,” Naomi says. “Is she in league with the kidnapper?”

Jack shrugs. “Run it again, please.”

We see it all again. Close-up on little Joey, then a shaky pullback revealing a slender, nervous-looking woman clinging to the boy’s hand.

“He’s not afraid of her,” Naomi says. “He’s not trying to get away. See how he leans in her direction? She’s his caregiver.”

“Like a nanny?”

Boss lady shrugs. “Like someone who knows how to make a child trust her.”

“This is real,” I say. “She’s worried for the boy’s safety.”

“Maybe.”

“If she’s in league with the kidnappers, why show her face? Why not keep it close on the boy?”

Naomi, looking thoughtful, gives me a nod of approval. “Good point. This was done with a purpose. Teddy? Check Shane’s search history, his email. Who, if anybody, did he search for or contact after downloading this video?”

“On it.”

“I suggest we back away, give the young man some breathing room,” Naomi says. “There will be much to download and ponder. Iced tea on the rooftop deck, I think.”

She buzzes Beasley.

“Can I smoke a cigar?” Jack asks, straightening his blazer. “In celebration?”

“If you have one for me,” Naomi says, not missing a beat.

“Are you kidding?” Jack says, taken aback.

“Yes, I’m kidding. But permission to wreck your lungs is granted.”

“I never inhale.”

“That’s what they all say,” Naomi says, leading the way to the roof.

Taylor Gatling, Jr., steps from his office to the second-floor balcony overlooking the airfield, lifting the binoculars to his eyes. Thinking, not for the first time, that to call this an airfield isn’t to do it justice.

The former Pease Air Force Base in Newington, New Hampshire. Miles upon miles of wide concrete runways built heavy enough and long enough to accommodate squadrons of B-52 bombers. Now reconfigured into a civilian trade port, but back in the day this was a fully manned SAC base. Strategic Air Command, charged with keeping a third of the fleet in the air at all times, armed with nuclear weapons, just in case the Russians decided to go for the final option, a first strike. The golden age of atomic bombs and mutually assured destruction, long before Gatling was born. Method of delivery, the magnificent B-52 Stratofortress, with a wingspan of nearly two hundred feet and an enormous tail section towering more than forty feet above the tarmac. Loaded weight of a hundred and thirty tons, which explains the overbuilt runways, since one of the heavy beasts was landing every fifteen minutes, like clockwork. More like deathwork, really. That was the point. Making sure the Russians understood that a first strike would leave hundreds of the enormous bombers still airborne, capable of destroying at least three thousand targets in the old Soviet Union. A million megatons of atomic madness delivered right to your door, Mr. Khrushchev, turning Mother Russia to glowing dust. Your call.

Glory days. Back when not even U.S. presidents dared mess with General Curtis “Bombs Away” LeMay, who personally selected the enemy targets and didn’t bother to share the list with the Pentagon, for security reasons laid out by the general himself. There was no second-guessing in LeMay’s Air Force, just a perpetual readiness to unleash Hell. And it worked. The Russians never dared to pull the trigger and the old Soviet Union eventually collapsed under the weight of all that armament. All because one righteous man was willing to take a stand.

Something to keep in mind when the going gets tough, as it surely will in the next few days and weeks. The reckless insubordinate Kidder being just one of the many problems to be solved.

“Sir? Bird One on vector, sir.”

Below the balcony one of the young technicians calls up, notifying him that the drone aircraft is about to be recovered. Taylor sweeps the binoculars to the southwest and is pleased to pick up the glint of wings just above the tree line. The new Predator RQ-Mini isn’t easy to see, for obvious reasons. The Mini has a wingspan of only twelve feet, and is transparent to radar. Virtually undetectable once airborne, unless you know exactly where to look. The little craft is limited to low altitude and has a fairly short range, but is capable of making the fifty-mile trip to the designated target, in this case downtown Boston, and hovering at low altitude for up to three hours before returning to base. Armed not with weapons but with state-of-the-art hi-res video cameras and signal detection receivers. A million bucks per unit, not including the remote-control console, and well worth the cost, although this particular bird hasn’t delivered, for reasons yet to be determined, although he has strong suspicions in that regard.

Gatling joins the tech on the tarmac, awaiting recovery.

“Bird One is down,” the tech announces. “Bird Two in place over the target, circling at seven hundred feet.”

“Any joy?”

“Like before. Nice pictures, no signal.”

No signal meaning the drones have been unable to recover data from the bugs the recovery team left in place. There’s only one possible explanation. Gatling waits until the little unmanned aircraft-there are model airplanes bigger-taxis into the open hangar under remote control. Then he heads for the control room, housed in an unassuming one-story cinder-block building that was once a bunk room for bomber crews, and therefore christened the Bunker.