Dark Web (DARC Ops Book 2) (8 page)

I
t looked like a normal house
. Nothing special, just a boring single-story ranch house in the middle of the desert. It was dust-covered and unkempt, clad in vertical wood siding that looked so parched that its boards might, at any moment, spontaneously combust into flames. They were a lightened sun-baked brown, and every edge and corner of the wooden exterior looked rounded, withered by years of hot wind. Maybe even the wind of a few nuclear bomb tests. That was the type of neighborhood they were in—Backwater Nevada. Where else on the continent could they have gotten away with detonating nearly a thousand nuclear bombs?

The ranch house and its grounds fit that milieu perfectly. Next to the house was a large storage structure, a Quonset hut that might have been plucked straight from an abandoned Air Force base. It had a distinct Cold War vibe, the heavy peeling of cream-colored paint off corrugated metal. No windows—not even at the front end. It was quite the mystery, rust-covered and grim. All it lacked was the black spray-paint-stenciled letters denoting some military code or address like A-4 or 429 Stratofortress Ave.

Tansy reached the end of the long hardpack dirt driveway. His Mustang would be the only car parked at the house. Where had Jackson stashed all the others? There were no animals, open windows, or billowing laundry. No signs of life at all at this little nondescript, Northern Nevada desert ranch.

Nor had there been any signs of life during the last half hour of driving to get there on dirt road after dirt road, past long-closed gas stations, intersections of nothingness, the road narrowing until it resembled something more similar to a rustic wagon trail. After that journey, was a nice, modern hotel too much to ask? Clean sheets. Maybe a pool. But hotels were unlikely to cater to the kind of toys Jackson always traveled with.

Exiting the car after cutting its engine and high-performance stereo, Tansy was suddenly faced with the ungodly silence of the desolate ranch grounds. There was no birdsong, or traffic of any sort—air, automobile, or horses. The wind had gone completely dead. In its place was a silence that only strengthened the volume of an ever-present ringing from Tansy’s battered eardrums. After experiencing the ambiance of the military—the low-flying subsonic fighter jets, the concussive blasts of mortars and daisy cutters—an early diagnosis of tinnitus was no surprise. Of course that came later, after the Middle East, in the quiet of a VA hospital in Virginia where the Doc, after sticking an otoscope in Tansy’s ear, said, “I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that you can at least hear the bad news.”

Alone with his inescapable soundtrack of 8000hz, Tansy trudged up a little stone path leading to the metal front storm door of the house. Before reaching the single-step porch, he gave one last look around the ranch, finally spotting the one landmark that might suggest that the place wasn’t as normal as it initially appeared. To the rear of the property, behind a dense cluster of mesquite trees, sat the large white dish of a parabolic satellite antenna. While staring at the half-hidden monstrosity, he heard the shrill scrape of an old door. It was the front door, swung open and held there by a thick-bearded rancher.

“Tansy, welcome to The Silo,” he said with a smile, not sounding at all like a rancher. He wore a tight pink golf shirt with designer jeans. And cowboy boots? It was a confusing juxtaposition, but one that seemed to match the mysteriousness of the ranch. Who better to answer the door of a telecommunications ranch than a preppy cowboy?

“What’s with the beard?” asked Tansy. “It took you just two weeks for that?”

Jackson shrugged. “Just trying to look the part.”

“In that golf shirt? Popped collar, even?”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “What’s with the car?” He stepped onto the porch to meet Tansy, giving his hand a hard shake.

“You don’t like it?”

Jackson made a soured face. “It’s so . . . 
red
. So much for staying low-key.”

“The red makes it faster,” Tansy grinned. “Faster means staying off the radar.” He noticed someone sneaking out of the doorway behind Jackson, a flash of color in a yellow sundress: Mira.

“You could’ve fooled me,” said Jackson. “You’re only three hours—”

Mira had wrapped her arm around his waist, catching him midsentence. “Hey, Tansy,” she said with a smile. “Nice car.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Nice color,” Mira looked up at Jackson mischievously.

“Right? I’m trying to convince Jackson to get you one just like it.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jackson struggled playfully out of Mira’s grip. “Especially with the kind of salary she’s making.”

Mira pushed him even further away.

“So, like I was saying,” Jackson said, looking back at Tansy “You’re late.”

Tansy shrugged and then looked away at the ranch property.

“I saw that roadblock on 318,” said Mira.

“It’s still all over the news,” said Jackson.

Tansy smirked when he saw the communications dish. “What a beast. . . . What are you doing watching the news?”

“Surface-level recon.”

“Did they show the MRAPs?”

“No. They never do. Kinda sends a bad message.”

“So what else did the news tell you?” asked Tansy. “Did they elaborate on the story yet, or do they just keep talking about active shooters?”

Jackson smiled. “You need to stop doing charity work for the news. We need you working
here
.”

“Hey, I just got the ball rolling. Put a little pressure on the FBI to release their narrative.”

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t get us in trouble.”

“How’s the team, by the way? You make it seem like they’re incompetent or something.”

“They’re not incompetent,” said Jackson. “They just need better direction. Better than what I can come up with. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.”

“Yep,” said Mira. “Me neither. And we didn’t even stop in Vegas.”

“Trust me,” Jackson told her. “With DEFCON going on there, you don’t even want to set foot in Vegas. Not even for a night.”

“Pssh,” said Mira. “I’m sure I’d like it more than living in a basement for almost two weeks.”

“Uh-oh,” said Tansy. “I knew I’d get the real story from Mira. How bad is it? Honestly.”

“The worst part is the house itself.” She turned to look at it, shuddered, and then looked back to Tansy. “But I guess that doesn’t really matter. I’m either in the basement, working; or out back, hiking. There’s some hot springs at the end of the foot trail.”

“Isn’t it a little too hot for that? I couldn’t even imagine. . . .” It made Tansy sweat just thinking about hot springs. Even in the shade of the covered porch, the heat was just a few degrees away from unbearable.

“It’s a lot better at night,” she said with a smile.

“I’m sure it is,” said Tansy as he tried not to give Jackson the “lucky you” look.

Jackson looked almost embarrassed for a moment, turning his now heated eyes at Mira before turning away awkwardly. “Okay, uh, anyway. . . . Want a beer?” Before Tansy could answer, he pointed to the Quonset hut. “Park your car first.”

Tansy turned around. The door of the Quonset hut had been opened sometime during their conversation, revealing several high-end vehicles parked inside.

“Gotta keep a low profile,” said Jackson.

That was Tansy’s clue to hurry up and hide his obnoxiously red car.

* * *

H
e moved
from a dreary seventies-era living room to an even danker and darker kitchen, the whole time wondering when the house would finally reveal its true identity, when it would cast aside the camouflage of normalcy and present its real self as a DARC Ops hacking hideaway. So far, the main level was just as run-down as the exterior, maybe even a little more so. The window sills were black with dust. The well-worn carpet had been spotted with accidents from various bygone eras, stains on top of stains, all of them different shades of disgusting. Everything about the place, even its damage, looked dated and preserved. Mira even walked around the place like it was a museum, or a crime scene, being so careful not to touch anything—especially the furniture. Or the glassware in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she asked when Tansy grabbed a water glass from the cupboard.

Tansy inspected the ancient glassware for a half second, just long enough to feel the urge to let it fall and smash into the sink. As he placed it down instead, he heard the plastic ticking sound of a light switch flipping on and off.

It made no effect on the dim, natural lighting, but Jackson was still flicking the switch as if Tansy needed further evidence that the structure wasn’t suitable to house human life. “Thought you wanted a beer, anyways,” he said, finally moving off the switch and leaning against the door frame.

“I do. I’m just thirsty.”

“The water doesn’t run up here.”

“Nothing works on the surface,” said Mira, heading toward a cobwebby exterior door. “Just the windows and doors. And even that’s a stretch.” She opened the kitchen door. “Anyone want any fresh pomegranates?”

“No thanks, Dear,” said Jackson, sounding astonishingly domesticated. After Mira had left the kitchen and disappeared into the sunny rear of the property, Jackson turned to Tansy, “Easy on the pomegranates. They’re fine, but, after days and days. . . .”

“Don’t burn out on the pomegranates,” said Tansy. “Check.”

Jackson guided Tansy through a door in the kitchen, down a short flight of stairs, and through a narrow hallway lit by a single naked bulb. At the end of the hall was a freshly painted door. It looked heavy and secure, and distinctly out of place. And then Tansy watched Jackson as he pressed a few buttons on a keypad next to the door handle—which was definitely not a standard feature of an old derelict ranch house. “Seven triple-nine, three eight sixty,” he said while typing. “Got it?”

After a heavy click, Jackson opened the door to another set of stairs. This time they were steep and spiraled. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

“Yeah. How far down does it go?”

“Far.”

Far indeed. They kept spiraling round and round with no end in sight.

“It almost gives me the creeps a little bit, thinking about that nuclear warhead.” Jackson slapped his palm against the stairwell wall as he descended. “It used to sit right behind this. A few feet away, just waiting for someone to push a button and end the world.”

Tansy kept silent as the soles of his sneakers slapped against each metal step. He felt a quiet, almost solemn mood creep over him at Jackson’s word. The weight of it. . . . Even the air smelled musty, like history.

“Can you imagine what it was like for those guys,” asked Jackson, “having to walk up and down this shit every day? I’ve only been here for ten days and my knees are shot.”

It seemed to have taken at least a dozen rotations before they arrived at another door. It was similar to the first. Heavy, secure, and with a keypad.

“Go ahead,” he told Tansy as he moved out of the way. “It’s your turn. You’ve gotta learn it.”

Tansy squared up to the keypad, and then paused for a moment to remember the combination.

“You forget it already?”

Maybe. But he tried anyway.

7-9-9-9-3-8-6-0

The heavy clicking sound meant he hadn’t forgotten.

“Nice memory,” said Jackson.

“Just with numbers.”

The clicking sound also meant that he could push the door open and finally enter the hack room, an entirely different environment than the rest of the house. No stains, no weird smells. It was a large room with clean and sterile lighting, walls that were freshly painted white, a floor of epoxy paint, and a lot of wires everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling were four projectors, each pointing to a different blank, white wall. Clusters of workstations sat with state-of-the art computer equipment, and at each station, a resident nerd. They stopped working when Tansy walked in, each of them turning his head away from one of the many monitors that dotted their desks.

“Gentlemen,” said Jackson, “meet Tansy, our guest of honor. As some of you might know, he was part of the original seven, a forefather of hactivism, way back when you were all still learning how to type in elementary school.”

Tansy couldn’t help but roll his eyes at all the smoke Jackson had just blown his way. “Come on, Jackson,” he said with a wince. “Take it easy.”

No one needed to hear his accolades. Especially him. But Jackson kept telling the story, enjoying putting his friend on the spot. He went on and on about Tansy’s double role in the military, his fighting on the front lines as well as the corrupt back channels of the US military.

“And then he went professional,” said Jackson, grinning. “Some of his ‘official’ exploits include breaking into CNN, Goldman Sachs, and NASA. Most recently, he hacked into Osprey, which
used
to be the world’s most heavily fortified air-gapped server. Maybe he’ll tell us a bit about that.” He glanced at Tansy, his eyebrows raised.

But Tansy just shrugged. “It’s not that exciting.”

“Well, how do you like that?” Jackson said, turning back to his audience. “I told you he’s modest. That’s something else you guys could learn off this guy. Maybe if you ask him later, politely, he might give you some hints about Osprey, or anything else.” Jackson looked at Tansy one last time, checking in, before realizing that he should wrap things up. “Anyway, he’s also done a lot of other stuff that I won’t mention, most of it for a good cause. And now he’s here, from our home office in Washington. And we’re thankful, because that means we can probably get out of here a month early.”