M.O.D.

Prologue

Tuesday, March 10, 7:30 AM

We’ve got him this time, said Special Agent in Charge Sheelia Tanner of the FBI. She rode in the passenger seat of a plain blue sedan driven by her partner, Special Agent Scott Carver. They were just arriving at the scene where two dozen agents awaited in the shadows to execute a search warrant.

I hope so, Scott answered, lacking confidence. Although his career thus far had been stellar, he was still intimidated by Sheelia’s superstar reputation within the FBI. Even her looks were daunting. Not that he was hard to look at — tall, trim, and athletic, with short sun-bleached hair and pale blue eyes — his beach boy appearance made him seem approachable and instilled trust in others. But Sheelia’s exotic features were more likely to provoke lustful thoughts, or impart an air of menace if she were enraged. Slightly shorter than Scott, she was still quite tall for a woman, also very fit and built like a dancer. Her father and mother were of mixed heritage, including black, white and Asian, and she seemed to draw all her features out of a hat from them, including a dark complexion, huge round eyes, dainty nose and mouth, and thin eyebrows which angled sharply inward when angry. Her hair was straight, glossy, and jet black, her eyes dark as midnight.

Sheelia reached up to her ear subconsciously, obviously listening to her earplug. They’re all in place, awaiting orders, she informed her partner as she rifled through some papers.

Tell them we’ll be there in two minutes. I want to park a little farther away instead of pulling up to the house, Scott answered. She relayed the message.

Tension enveloped the vehicle. This was their seventh attempt to nab the elusive and enigmatic ‘M.O.D.’ Nobody yet knew who or what M.O.D. was or what it stood for. They did know, however, that M.O.D. was wanted for several counts of every known form of identity theft, computer crimes, and probably several other crimes not yet invented. In each of these recent raids, he was positively traced to some unsuspecting location in Vero Beach, Florida, where Sheelia and Scott lived. Every time, the evidence turned out to be some ruse or false trail M.O.D. had purposely led them down.

He made a mistake this time, Scott muttered.

It could be a woman, you know, Sheelia reminded him, always sticking up for women around the world, even criminals.

Yeah, right. Sorry, but this is a man, Sheelia, I’m certain. And he made a mistake. He got greedy; he went for too much money and was tracked in real time when the computer flagged the transaction. Usually, it’s not found for hours, even days, and we have to sift through logs of…

Katherine Himmel, Sheelia interrupted.

Huh?

The owner of the house we’re going to is a Miss Katherine Himmel, 37, unmarried, lives alone. She fits the profile, Scott: four years as a programmer for the DOD, fired for insubordination last September. That alone gives her the motive and skills to deliberately mess with the government…

Like everyone thus far, Scott sighed.

Are you suggesting this one’s a setup as well? I thought you said this one was it, she challenged.

A grim look crossed his face. You’re right, it’s not her. It’s a man — I know it.

She rolled her eyes.

Listen, Shee, this guy is making a statement of some kind. A defiant statement. In all my years, I’ve never heard of a woman being so bold for so long. Sorry to punch you in the feminism, but women usually just don’t behave this way.

All your years? Do I need to remind you that you’ve only been here three years and I’ve been here fourteen? she shot back with a smirk. So we should just call off the search war…

Of course not, we have to execute the warrant. I’m just saying we shouldn’t be so harsh on the suspect this time.

Maybe, since she’s a woman, she was smart enough to know we’d never suspect her to be a woman, Sheelia predicted ominously.

Give it up, Gloria Steinem, Scott teased as he pulled to the curb a few houses from the suspect’s and shut off his car. Here we are, he said rather tensely.

Want to call it off now? she joked.

Scott grinned, then got out, talking into his microphone, Is anyone inside?

We’ve seen no movement, no car in the driveway. We have no reason to suspect anyone inside — there are no lights on and the mail is five days old, an agent responded.

Let’s knock then, Sheelia decided, holding up the warrant.

They walked down a narrow sidewalk to the house, which had a half-circle driveway and a fence all the way around, encompassing all but the front entryway. Scott admired the house as they approached. Situated in an older neighborhood of stucco-walled and tiled-roof homes typical of the building style of a few decades past, the concrete arches and warm colors left no doubt they were in the tropics. Even the pavement reinforced that feeling, with crushed shells embedded in the surface instead of gravel. He marveled at the carefully groomed lawn and shrubbery, imagining the time it must take to maintain the manicured look. Each blade of the thick, lush St. Augustine grass appeared to have been trimmed individually with manicure scissors to the exact same height, and all were a uniformly dark green. The edging along the walk and driveway seemed to have been accomplished with the precision of a scalpel. The plants and hedges had been placed with an eye for beauty and symmetry. At this point in his life he was glad he lived in a condo and didn’t have to worry about taking care of the grounds, but wondered what it would be like to be responsible for such a place.

Sheelia rang the doorbell as a dozen agents stood behind her with guns drawn and aimed at the ground. They waited several tense seconds before she rang again and added several loud pounds on the large, wooden double doors.

At the same time, agents approached the back entrance, by the pool. Nobody’s home, she called to them. Check the doors and windows.

A few seconds later, an agent announced the back door was unlocked. She ordered the rear team to enter and secure the area, and then let them in the front door.

Two minutes later, the front door opened and a beefy agent smiled at her, Come on in, ma’am, but I don’t think you’ll like what you see. This has ‘innocent victim’ written all over it, he said, standing aside.

Sheelia strode in and Scott closely followed, holstering his weapon. The agent led them directly to the left, through a wide arch and into the living room where a desk sat with a computer on it. The computer is on, but the monitor is off. We didn’t want to disturb it, said an agent who stood by the desk as they entered.

Turn it on, she ordered.

But, it could contaminate the… he started to protest.

All the computers so far were on and none of them were rigged to destroy any data. I want to see what’s on the screen, she told him.

With a shrug he said, Very well, you’re the boss. Then, with a latex-gloved finger, he reached out and pushed the power button on the monitor. It flashed and faded on. In bright, red letters, taking the entire screen, read M.O.D.

Sheelia snapped on a glove and moved the mouse. As she had expected, a message popped up, Kathy is in the Bahamas — she has been since Friday. You should do your homework, Sheelia. I thought you would like it to be a woman this time, though. Nice touch, eh? I’ll have an exclusive interview on ABC News tonight at 11:35. You might want to watch.

She stared at the message, reading it twice, her face knotting up with each word, then, angrily, she ordered the team to unhook the computer and seize it as evidence. Let’s go, Scott, she added in a huff, and stormed out.

Chapter 1

ABC news assures me there are no interviews whatsoever scheduled for 11:35, nor any close to it tonight; they will be doing the headlines then. We have people monitoring all possible ways to interrupt their signal, Scott tried to convince Sheelia just minutes before 11:30. They were in her apartment, sitting anxiously in front of the TV.

He’s already thought of that, or he wouldn’t have told us, she muttered.

So you admit it’s a man now? he asked.

Sheelia gave him one of her foul looks.

Here it comes, he said, deflecting her evil glare.

In our top story tonight, the anchor started after his introduction, Four F-18 fighter jets and a B-2 Stealth Bomber have disappeared during routine training flights today. These incidents are piling up now. Military spokesmen are being tight-lipped about the incidents and many sources have indicated that billions of dollars worth of military equipment has gone missing recently — vanished, without a trace. Some suggest over a trillion dollars. One source in the White House confirmed that more than forty high-tech aircraft and a hundred land-based vehicles have been stolen, along with millions of rounds of munitions, assault weapons, antiaircraft missiles, and tactical missiles. The list is staggering and, I quote, ‘Enough to take over a small country.’

The scene behind the anchor had been showing various military videos of planes, tanks, missiles, and soldiers in action; it switched to the now familiar M.O.D. logo.

The FBI raided the home of another M.O.D. victim today — this time a 37-year-old single woman. Her name, as usual, has not been released. This is the sixth M.O.D. attack and the largest yet, at $1.5 million. The FBI is still not commenting on whether they have any leads or suspects on the cyber-attacks, which have now claimed $2.7 million stolen in the victim’s names. The scene then changed to a dollar sign with a graph simulating the stock market activity.

Gee, I wish they’d rub it in, Sheelia commented angrily.

The announcer continued, In financial news, stocks continue to fall as the economy fails to recover with stimulus packages and other governmental intervention…

The sound suddenly cut out briefly and a computer-generated character appeared beside the anchor on the screen. The character closely resembled Orson Welles.

The anchor stopped and stared at his monitor. I’m sorry; we must be having technical difficulties.

No, Bob, we are not having technical difficulties, the character said, putting on a hat with the M.O.D. logo on it and panning out to show him wearing an M.O.D. T-shirt. Everything is working just fine for once, thank you.

I’m sorry, but who am I talking to? the anchor asked skittishly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, eyes darting to the producer and technical staff to signal his confusion at the unexpected interruption.

It was nice of you to start out your program with three stories related to my appearance tonight, Bob. I am the M.O.D.

Um, what do you mean? The anchor was obviously struggling to maintain his composure and sustain the conversation without his teleprompter.

Bob, let me make this easier for you since you seem to need some help, M.O.D. offered. With those words, the teleprompter came to life and started spitting out dialogue for the newsman.

OK, Mr. M.O.D., what is the significance of the three opening stories in relation to you? Bob asked.

Thank you for asking, Bob. It’s simple. Obviously, the second story was about me directly…

Several technicians ran about the set frantically; back in her apartment Sheelia was on the phone, questioning the origin of the transmission, how it was being done, how it could be stopped.

I obviously hacked bank accounts in the name of others. The first story, however, is a bit misleading. I did not steal 247 fighter planes, three nuclear submarines, 13 naval warships, 652 tanks and over 15,000 missile systems and missiles plus millions of other pieces of hardware. He paused for effect. I bought them.

Where did you get those figures, Mr. M.O.D.? Bob asked on cue.

My accountants are either more efficient than the government’s, or more honest. You see, Bob, the government doesn’t want you to know that I now control the fourth most powerful arsenal on the planet, or that I will soon own the largest. They simply don’t know how to tell the truth, the Welles character stated casually.

What about the stock market? How do you explain your involvement in that? Bob read in his professional announcer’s voice as he quickly regained his poise.

The character shrugged, I’ve been liquidating, he answered flatly.

Bob knew the implications of that statement and answered without aid of the teleprompter, A liquidation capable of effecting a fifty percent drop in the market in six months would have to be an astronomical amount, Bob blurted.

Very astute, Bob, Orson praised him theatrically.

Oh my god! Sheelia said in shock.

We need to contact NSA, CIA, anybody with initials… and the President! Scott screamed, overwhelmed at the revelation.

Bob’s usefulness was over, only one sentence remained for him to read, which he did, with a heavy sigh, Mr. M.O.D., what do you hope to achieve with all this money?

The newsman was then unceremoniously shoved out of the picture and Mr. M.O.D. took the full screen. The United States of America was once a great nation, he started, but this United States is not the one our founding fathers set out to build over two hundred years ago. This United States stands for everything its citizens have fought against throughout its history: oppression, unwarranted violence against innocent and weaker countries or its own citizens, trampling of human rights, crooked legal systems and socialism. Yes, socialism. Erect the iron curtain again; we’re having a good ol’ cold war right here in this country. But we’re losing this one.

Our education system is no better than Hitler’s and Stalin’s propaganda machines. Our children are growing up being told it’s OK for the government to take all your money and tell you how to spend what’s left, because it’s good for the country. Every time a politician in this country says ‘for the people,’ I can guarantee it’s a tax increase and another step closer to a socialist state. Many people now pay well over half their wages in taxes and the government spends it all and tells them they need more of it, for the people. Then this money goes to a war machine, a war machine which attacks its own citizens and those of other countries to force them into submission. They spend billions, even trillions of dollars on foreign aid while our own citizens cannot dig out of poverty. They are shackled to their jobs and kept down in order to give them no choice but to keep serving the great empire.

"If I were to walk up to you and take all of your money, say $100, if you’re lucky enough to have that much now, then give you back $50, would you thank me for giving you $50? No! You’d call me a thief! Would you thank me for then telling you what you had to buy with the $50 I returned, since, of course, I gave it to you? NO!"

President James Cahill sat at his desk in the war room of the White House. A mid-forties Democrat, the youngest since Kennedy, he was athletic and just starting to gray around the temples. But the confidence, youthful charisma, and million-dollar smile which had put him in the Oval Office a few months earlier were all conspicuously absent this day. He ran his hands through his hair, tension and worry consuming him. His chief advisor, Henry Tarkenton, sat on his left; his military advisor, General George F. Clark, sat on his right. They all stared at the mock interview-turned-monologue in shock. How is this happening? the President asked.

I don’t know, Jim, the general answered, shaking his head in bafflement. The doors burst open and a tall, slender man dressed way too impressively, stormed in — Cary Brown, Director of Homeland Security. Behind him was the Director of the FBI, Warren Clemens, followed by Wellington Grant, Director of the CIA.

What have you got for us? the President asked the three men.

This is obviously a terrorist threat… Cary started, collapsing into a seat.

We certainly agree with that, Cary; I want to know what you have, the President cut him off.

He shook his head shamefully.

Jim wasted no time, looking pointedly at the next man to sit down, Warren Clemens, who sputtered, We are unable to locate the origin of the signal — the best we can determine is that it is coming from within the building, but technicians are doing everything they can, short of cutting power to the place. How that signal is getting on the air, nobody knows.

Tell them to cut every line going into the building, smash their transmitters, whatever it takes! If this nutcase is allowed to keep speaking, he’ll have every wacko in Montana joining his cause! Jim roared, pounding his fist on the table. Warren barked an order into his shirt microphone.

As the character continued, the men again turned their attention to the TV, hopefully anticipating his immediate removal. But this is how our nation treats us every day, and we take it. And smile about it proudly. We are used by this government, used as tools, as drones, to further them, not us, not the citizens of the United States, but the select few in charge. Our oppression is now rivaling that of China and old Russia, we… Ah, I see they have pulled the plug at ABC studios, nice try fellas, and perfect proof of their determination to shut up people like me…

Damn it! Stop this asshole! the President growled.

We have a list of terrorists with experience in computer espionage—

George, are those numbers of stolen equipment accurate? Jim suddenly interrupted the Homeland Security director to ask the general.

The general bowed his head, Dangerously so, he answered gravely.

Jim then looked to the others, Who has the ability to use all of this equipment against us?

None of them had an answer, but the general looked at him hesitantly.

What, George? Jim asked impatiently.

Well, sir, we didn’t see this as a very big problem until now…

Oh, for god’s sake, spit it out, George!

General Clark took a deep breath, We’ve had record numbers of AWOLs in the last six months — none of them have been located — and a steadily rising number in recent years. I suspect…

Jim instantly knew what he suspected. How many, George?

A lot, sir.

How many, damn it!

George swallowed deeply, Thirty-seven thousand.

All the air had been sucked out of the room by the revelation. The President finally spoke, How could this go unnoticed? Thirty-seven thousand! That’s a small army! he raged.

Well, sir, there are always spikes in desertion during tough economic and political times…

But 37,000?

Well, sir, with all due respect, this is the roughest economic time since the thirties. Politically, this is like Vietnam all over again.

Jim turned to his Intel guys, I want you to find all 37,000, hell, just one of those deserters! Find out why they left, where they went, what they’re planning. I want to know when every relative or contact of theirs takes a shit! They can’t hide all of that equipment anywhere for very long, find it! Don’t those tanks and planes have locators in them?

The general nodded, Yes sir, they do, and not many people know about them, but these people must because they are not transmitting.

Jim pounded his fist again. He looked to Henry, Should we just go ahead and declare war? he asked, frazzled.

On who, sir? Henry asked.

Why are you three still here? Jim suddenly blared at the Intel leaders. Get me some answers, now!

Cary, Warren, and Wellington hurriedly gathered their things to leave.

Warren, stay a moment. Haven’t you been tracking this guy for a while? he asked the FBI Director, who stopped his packing.

Yes, sir, or trying to, for eight months. Two of my best agents have been on his trail, but he’s very elusive and seems to be toying with them now. This M.O.D. has some unimaginable resources, sir.

Jim stood, Is this a request for more funds? Or an excuse? Find the asshole responsible for this! If you need money, we’ll print all you want. Just get him!

Yes sir. I’ll put the best agents in every division on it and provide them with any tools they desire, he vowed.

Thank you. I want hourly updates.

Warren nodded quickly and scurried out the door.

Henry, I want to know what you think. How do we fight this threat?

I think you should have a press conference immediately to calm all fears and assure the people that we are still in charge and... Damn, sir, I don’t know, I’d have the FBI offer a billion dollar reward for this guy.

Jim slouched back down in his seat, in deep thought for a moment. Henry, you’ve never steered me wrong, that’s how we got here. We’ve taken down some pretty ruthless and resourceful characters in the political arena, but do you think it’s that serious?

Henry cleared his throat, I think the general will agree… as he glanced at George, who nodded, this may be the biggest threat we’ve ever faced. Somehow, someone has amassed a huge arsenal, and right under our noses. Serious? Hell yes it’s serious!

Fine, get the press team rolling, get speeches written to dispute this terrorist…

He hasn’t made any threats, sir, The general reminded him.

Dammit! No, you’re right, let’s wait before calling him a terrorist. But he’s definitely a criminal, and I want the entire country looking for him!

At that moment, on the TV monitors still playing in the background, as if eavesdropping on the President’s meeting, M.O.D. abruptly changed course, We are not terrorists. We are the last true defenders of the Constitution. We want our country back and we’re willing to fight for it. It’s time for a revolution and we’re going to deliver it. Thomas Jefferson wrote of the right to bear arms as being required to protect us from an oppressive government. We have an oppressive government, and we’re protecting ourselves. No government which is not oppressive would attempt to disarm the people as this one has. It’s an ultimate, last-ditch effort to control us. It’s too late to bargain, too late for diplomacy. This government has declared war on its citizens by holding them hostage against their will. We have no choice but to revolt. Revolution has always cleansed government, it is the only tool made to do just that. It’s nearly spring, and I for one believe it’s time for a spring cleaning.

You will be seeing more of us in the near future as we take back this country and restore it to its old glory. Once again Americans will be proud, and other countries will envy instead of detest us. If you wish to find out more, check our progress, join us, or simply show your support, you can check our website at www.revolution.com. Thank you, and may God bless America once again, M.O.D. concluded, signing off, leaving just his logo and an eerie silence in his place.

Son of a bitch! He’s a terrorist now! I want every word of this broadcast analyzed and every speech writer disputing it! Get a copy to them immediately! The President started to storm out of the room and stopped, Call a meeting first thing in the morning; I want answers from everyone by then!

Every TV, radio and Internet site was reporting on the transmission. The Press Secretary promised a response by 12:30. Friends called neighbors, family, and coworkers. They had already estimated Mr. M.O.D. had a staggering forty million TV viewers by the end of