Jerome Preisler: Net Force--Attack Protocol

Bringing his fingers together, Carmody pulled out for a high overhead view of the entire fortress. It had windows on all sides—sixty-seven windows. Despite the blackout, he saw lights in about a third of them. Predictably. The Wolf would have emergency generators on premises. His intruder alarms were likely online and would signal his personal guards. But they wouldn’t connect to the Rosalvea police department or any other local gendarmes or militia that might be protecting him. Kali’s outage was too widespread. Too many electrical distribution centers were down. The decrepit power grid in this backwoods territory would not have the built-in redundancies of modern networks. He was isolated.

“We didn’t see guards on the rooftop,” Cobb said. “Nobody outside the building, either.”

Carmody mulled over that a second. “It only looks like medieval times around here,” he said. “They don’t need to climb the ramparts. They’ll have monitors inside.”

“You think they suspect something’s up?” Luna said.

“What do you think?”

“The Wolf launched a cyberattack on New York. He’s responsible for hundreds of deaths,” she said. “They’ll be on the alert. Maybe even waiting to spring an ambush.”

“Potentially. That’s why we blacked out the whole area. Or part of the reason. So they don’t feel too special and threatened.”

“And if they do?”

“Worst case, there’ll be some extra helpings of turkey in the mess tomorrow.”

Luna didn’t answer. Carmody looked at the avionics display. The mission countdown clock read zero minus ten minutes.

“Bring my team down,” he said. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

She glanced over at him.

“Sir?”

“Yeah.”

“The more the merrier at Thanksgiving dinner.”

Carmody nodded.

“I can’t argue with you there,” he said.

Five thousand miles to the west in Teaneck, New Jersey, Stephen Gelfland pulled his Toyota Corolla into his driveway, turning its tires neatly into a blanket of unraked autumn leaves. It was 6:00 p.m. on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and he was returning from the supermarket with his groceries.

Gelfland planned to spend the holiday at home, and had bought some things for fixing himself dinner. A small frozen turkey, packaged stuffing mix, canned cranberry sauce, and a couple of sweet potatoes. For dessert, he’d found a packaged pumpkin pie and some whipped cream to dollop on the crust. Though he wasn’t much of a drinker, he had also picked up a six-pack of microbrewed India pale ale. Gelfland enjoyed having a bottle or two with his college football.

He walked around to the rear driver’s side door, opened it, and leaned inside for his grocery sack. It was a chilly night and he had his car coat open. Up until three years ago, Gelfland had always gone to his father’s place on Long Island when ashore for Thanksgiving. The year after his passing, he celebrated on a tanker vessel off the coast of Australia and then, last year, went to visit a married cousin in Pennsylvania. A nice and fairly short drive away. He liked his cousin, her husband, and their two kids. There was a spare bedroom and plenty to eat and he’d enjoyed spending the weekend with them. But he preferred staying home nowadays. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, not in his eyes. When he was at sea, he was constantly around other crewmen. He just liked keeping his own company, and doing things in his own time.

Now Gelfland hefted the reusable grocery bag off the seat, slung its strap over his shoulder, and shut the door. The Toyota’s lights flashed to indicate it was locked up tight.

He turned toward his lawn, the dry, brown leaves underfoot piled over an inch deep. He was thinking he really needed to haul the blower out of the garage. Clearing the driveway would be a good start on his long to-do list. With the CloudCable cruise just five, six weeks off, he would be shipping out before he knew it. Time flew by.

Gelfland stepped onto the front walk, motion lights turning on around it. There weren’t many leaves scattered on the grass. Those on his driveway had mostly fallen from his neighbor’s property, the rest drifting in off the street. His few shrubs and trees were all evergreens—junipers on each side of the walk, a hedge of tall arborvitae across the lawn, a couple of blue spruces out front. Low maintenance, which only made sense. He spent four out of every six months at sea.

He took out his keys. The street running past his house was quiet. It was always quiet the night before the long holiday weekend. Although people were off from work, everyone was either away or busy with preparations. Cooking and cleaning and getting their guest rooms tidied and set up.

“Steve, hi.”

Gelfland stopped and turned toward the voice. It had come from the far end of the lawn. A male voice, somewhere near the row of arborvitae.

He peered into the darkness. He didn’t see anyone, or know who it possibly could be. The neighbor on that side was a single mom, and the voice for sure wasn’t hers. Which wasn’t even the strangest thing about it...

“Hello?” he said. “Who is it?”

A moment’s silence. Then the voice again. But from a different spot. Off to his left, in the shadows near the bottom of the lawn.

“Hello??”

Repeating his words like an echo. Except it wasn’t an echo. A second ago, when it called his name, he’d thought the same thing—that it sounded like him —but realized that was ridiculous. This second time, though, he was positive.

It sounded exactly like him.

Confounded, he stood looking down the lawn. The spruces were about thirty feet high, with fairly thick trunks and long, outstretched limbs. He’d pruned their lower branches to seven or eight feet above the ground to create some shade.

He didn’t see anyone standing under them.

The back of his neck prickled.

“Who’s there?” he asked. “Where are you?”

“Who’s there? Where are you?” said the voice.

Gelfland was still. Now it wasn’t just his neck tingling with gooseflesh. It was his arms, his back, even his chest.

The voice, his voice, hadn’t come from anywhere near the trees. It had moved again. Come from behind him. The driveway, seemingly.

He turned a complete hundred-eighty degrees and stood facing his Toyota, his grocery sack hanging from his shoulder. He could see the car clearly from here. The driveway, too. The motion lights around the walk brightened it so there were barely any shadows.

“Look, this isn’t funny,” he said. “What do you want?”

Silence. He stared up ahead toward the driveway. Then looked around. “Hello?” he said. “Tell me what you...?”

The question dropped off his lips. He’d glimpsed the slightest flicker of movement from his right side, near the front door. And not just movement, a shape. A tall, thin silhouette of a man.

He was spinning toward the door, toward the flickering shadow, when a hand clamped over his mouth from behind. It was gloved and large and covered the entire lower half of his face.

Gelfland was strong and physically fit. He’d been an able-bodied seaman on dozens of commercial tankers, carrying heavy tools and loads, climbing and descending ladders. He handled deck machinery and cargo, and was trained in emergency lifesaving procedures. Between cruises he worked out and jogged. He was no weakling.

Yet he was helpless to break free. He brought both hands up to the one smothering his mouth but couldn’t pry it away. He struggled to get his elbows into whoever was behind him and was unable to gain any leverage. The hand didn’t budge. Its grip was unyielding. Groceries spilled from his bag. He heard the clatter of the beer bottles on the ground.