Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

What the hell? Because we’re the right tool or just the easiest tool?

Kurt replied, “Uhh … yeah, well you realize we’re coming dangerously close to compromising the project, right? Maybe we should discuss this with the full council. Put other agencies in play. Get the State Department to lean on Mexico to produce Jack or get the DEA to start working it.”

“We don’t have time for that, and engaging them would mean pulling you off. We can’t do both, and you already have a lead. Something we can work with. It’s slim, but you haven’t been compromised yet doing operations that were worse than these. Remember what Pike did in Europe a couple of years ago?”

Kurt said, “Yes, sir, I do, but the situation’s a little different now. Someone is probing all of Project Prometheus’s computer networks, possibly making connections that they shouldn’t.”

Kurt laid out what he knew about Anonymous, the YouTube threat, and the potential for the entire effort to be exposed.

Taken aback, nobody said anything for a moment. Finally, Palmer broke the silence. “I thought your cover backstopping would prevent this. Isn’t that the whole reason we created such a gigantic beast?”

“It will, to a point, but the actual protection was hiding below scrutiny. If anyone really wanted to dig into one of our companies, like Grolier Recovery Services, they’d find something that was a little off-kilter. I mean, seriously, the only way to look exactly like a real business is to be a real business. You can’t do what we do without looking a little strange.”

The SECDEF said, “That’s not what you briefed when we started this. We were told it would be untraceable.”

Kurt looked at the D/CIA for support, the one man in the room who should have understood. When he received no help he said, “Nothing is untraceable, especially nowadays. Shit, the CIA had their rendition flights cracked by a bunch of amateur tail-watchers at airports. They did everything right and someone made a connection between a flight taking off in Pakistan and one landing in Egypt. Next thing you know, the entire history of the aircraft is out, mainly because of the interconnections on social media.”

All looked toward the D/CIA for confirmation. He sighed and said, “He’s right. There’s only so much you can do. There will always be a digital trail that someone can piece together. The best defense is not giving them a reason to start piecing. Which begs the question: Why is someone probing Grolier?”

Kurt said, “We have no idea, and we’re looking hard. Whoever it is is pretty damn good. We’ve got the best hackers in the world and they can’t track them back. The bottom line is someone is probing our networks. If that YouTube video comes out and CNN smells a story, they’re going to be all over Grolier Recovery Services. It’ll stand up to basic scrutiny, but it won’t survive if Pike’s still in Mexico chasing after drug cartels. It’ll be the crack that breaks the dam, leading back here, to this room.”

Alexander Palmer said, “The video isn’t being released for four days? Is that what you said?”

“Yeah, most likely because they don’t have any smoking gun yet. They’re still digging.”

“So you’ve got four days to figure out this GPS thing, then get back here and smile for the CNN investigation. Sounds like a normal Taskforce day for Pike Logan.”

“Don’t put that on him. We don’t pay Pike to make decisions on the fate of the organization. He’ll do what we say, but only because we say it. Don’t put him in the cross hairs like that unless you’re willing to back him up when it goes to hell.”

Everyone remained silent, understanding the insult Kurt had just thrown out. Palmer said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. You created this organization for a reason, and that reason is here. Continue with the search.”

“Sir, in good conscience I need to formally state that I’m not sure I can handle the repercussions. Suppose CNN takes a cursory look at the CEO of Grolier Recovery Services’ flight history? They’ll find that both Pike and Jennifer flew to Turkmenistan on a leased G-Four belonging to the company, but flew home separately on commercial birds, only they didn’t go home, they went to El Paso, then traveled by car to Mexico, where the G-Four linked up with them. It’ll stink to high heaven.”

Alexander Palmer raised his voice for the first time. “Then I guess you’d better stop that YouTube video from getting out. In the meantime, find out who’s fucking with our GPS constellation. Is that clear?”

Kurt glared at him, wanting to say what he knew he should not. Understanding he was on fragile ground after he’d bucked this very council six months before, he settled for “Yes, sir.”

Palmer softened his voice. “Kurt, we get the threat to the organization, but it’s nowhere near the damage of someone having a remote control to our GPS constellation. I can’t believe you’re fighting us on this.”

“Sir, I understand, and I’m not fighting the fact that it’s dangerous. I just don’t think I can do anything about it. The thread you’re talking about is nothing. A rumor that Jennifer believes.”

“Then I guess we’re fucked, because Jennifer’s brother is all we have.”

42

Booth walked through customs, shocked at the lack of English-speaking people. It was a boiling mass of humanity, but everyone he attempted to engage simply smiled and shrugged. It was disconcerting, to say the least. He’d been to Europe and the Far East, and in both those locations, while he definitely felt like an outsider, most everyone spoke at least some English. Here, nobody did.

And they live just across our damn border.

He exited with a throng of people, then stood, looking around in a daze. A man came up and said, “Taxi?”

He said, “You speak English?”

The man repeated, “Taxi?”

Booth said, “Yes, yes. I need a taxi.” And began following him out the door. He walked five feet before a policeman intervened, shouting at the man. Bewildered, Booth simply stood, watching the exchange. The unlicensed cabby took off at a fast walk, and the policeman handed Booth an envelope.

He opened it, seeing instructions from Carlos to take the metro to a stop called Insurgentes. Taken aback, he said, “Where’s Carlos? Why did he pass me this?”

The policeman simply stared at him. Seeing he was getting nowhere, Booth said, “I don’t know where the metro is.”

The policeman scowled and walked away. Booth saw a line at the end of the hall, ending at a glass window with a woman behind it. Most of the people were Hispanic, but a few were foreign. He joined them, and when he reached the front, he found to his relief the woman behind the glass spoke English. She asked where he was going, and he said he wanted the metro.

She said, “This is the taxi line. The metro is at the other end of the hall.” She gave him instructions, then turned to the next person in line before he could assimilate them. Brushed aside, he left the counter.

He fumbled about, following the directions to the best of his ability while dragging his little carry-on suitcase, and eventually found the stairs leading to the Terminal Aérea metro stop.

Reaching the bottom, he was once again confused as to what to do. The place was a dirty, swirling mass of humanity. He watched people go to a counter behind glass, not noticing that several men were now studying him as well. A plump, lost gringo wading into a school of piranhas.

As instructed, he bought a ticket to the Insurgentes metro stop, then moved to the train platform. When it arrived, he was swept on board with everyone else, all Mexican and all rattling in Spanish. He took a seat at the end of the car, crammed in by the people continuing to board. Three men were hovering over him, two looking out and one staring at Booth.