CHAPTER 5

Special Unit 33

THE TAVERN WAS tucked away in a lazy part of the city. The taxi ride had taken less than twenty minutes. When she entered the darkened bar, she glanced nervously at the clientele scattered around the small room. No one looked suspicious, which didn't mean a thing. At the counter, a young man was busy washing glasses while a middle-aged woman poured drinks and chatted with three men. Pixie ordered peach and pineapple juice. The bartender gave her a strange look.

"Lady, this isn't a health club. The only thing I have in peach is schnapps."

"With pineapple juice?" Pixie made a face. "Just give me pineapple juice."

Shaking his head, he filled a glass and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said and took a sip.

Might as well make myself comfortable. It's up to Snoopingdog to make the first move, Pixie thought, moving to a vacant table.

For fifty minutes, Pixie waited. When no one approached her, she decided to call it quits. The pain in her neck and left arm was almost unbearable. Pulling a small vial from her coat pocket, she poured it into the pineapple juice and quickly downed the entire contents.

Damn government! she thought for the millionth time. Not a day went by without her cursing the people responsible for the constant pain she endured. Some days were better than others, but none were ever pain free.

*  *  *

Nancy was thirteen when she broke her left wrist. The doctors told her parents the break would heal without any complications, but two of the carpal bones had severed the radial nerve to her hand. She wouldn't be able to control her thumb, index and middle fingers. They did, however, offer hope. A clinical trial on nerve regeneration was about to begin. Nancy's age and injury made her a perfect candidate for the experiment drug being tested. Her parents were assured that the best scientists in the world had developed the treatment and it was perfectly safe. The worst that could happen was nothing.

Three times a week, for ten weeks, Nancy was taken to the clinic. The treatment was excruciating. Long needles were inserted into the injured area, as well as the nerve paths leading up to the shoulder. Although progress was slow, the procedure proved successful. Healthy new cells replaced the damaged ones and Nancy regained full use of her hand. An occasional twinge of pain near the break was the only reminder of the entire experience — a small price to pay.

Six months later, Nancy awoke with a stiff neck that lasted a few hours before going away. Two days later, the stiffness returned. Again it disappeared. No one thought much about it until the third time it appeared. Worried, her parents took her to the doctor. After a thorough examination, he advised them to consult with a neurologist. Nerve conduction studies indicated several transmission abnormalities. The electrical signals to her neck were slowing. Nancy was exhibiting all the symptoms of a disease known as Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, a debilitating disorder that would grow progressively worse over time, and was incurable. The cause was unknown, but her parents believed their daughter's condition was the result of the clinical trial.

All attempts to confirm their suspicions were continually thwarted by the pharmaceutical company. The Federal Drug Administration, a recently formed department of the FDA, refused to investigate, and politely suggested it would be in their best interests to retract the formal complaint. The Commissioner was satisfied with the trial results and had fast-tracked FDA approval. The Dunkirks understood the message: Back off and shut up!

As the pharmaceutical company grew richer, Nancy's condition and her trust in government and big business deteriorated. Her pain became her motivation to expose corrupt officials, even if it meant promoting the most farfetched conspiracy theories. At least it would cause someone a few sleepless nights.

*  *  *

The pain began to ease. Disgruntled at being stood up, Pixie left the tavern hoping to grab a passing cab.

What a waste of time and money. Poor Igor probably thinks she's been abandoned. I hope she isn't stressed out too much.

A tap on her right shoulder startled her. Spinning, she bumped into a young man and winced at the pain in her neck from the sudden movement. He was wearing a dark windbreaker and blue jeans.

"Pixie?" he asked hesitantly, glancing nervously up and down the street.

"Snoopingdog?" 

Nodding, he motioned toward a parked car.

"Did you read everything I sent you?" he asked and hesitated when she moved slowly toward the vehicle. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just can't walk very fast. Your email was quite interesting," Pixie replied.

"Do you believe me?"

"Maybe. I'm certainly not surprised. On the other hand, you could be a government plant."

"For what purpose? You haven't said anything new. People talk about conspiracy theories all the time. You're nothing more than a tiny thorn in an enormous side... barely worth the bother," Snoopingdog said.

"Hmmmph! You certainly know how to deflate an ego," replied Pixie.

"I'm sorry, but it's true. You realize that if you post anything I've given you, you'll be more than a thorn?"

"I should hope so. I've spent my entire life trying to uncover solid evidence about illegal government activities. This would be a dream come true. Maybe I'll become a stake if I stir up a real hornet's nest."

"You'll certainly do that," Snoopingdog promised.

"Good! What else did you want to tell me?"

"Well first, SU33 isn't your ordinary military ops unit. I can't find any information on the men and women assigned to it beyond their first six years of service. Once they're transferred to SU33, their records are sealed."

"So who has access to them?"

"Apparently only Colonel Cranley. Even the President isn't authorized."

"How can that be? He's the Commander-in-Chief," Pixie said.

"Exactly... and there's no evidence of a Congressional oversight member to review their actions, either."

"There's got to be someone somewhere. What else do you know about this SU33?"

"I know they're bad news. No one is willing to talk about them. When I overheard two men discussing an assassination, I asked a buddy of mine about them. He told me to stay clear of them and Colonel Cranley. The man is fanatically patriotic." Unlocking the doors to his car, Snoopingdog signaled for her to get in.

"A lot of people are," Pixie said. "Political assassinations are still fairly common. They're just covered up better. Conversations aren't much to go on. Is that it?"

Snoopingdog again surveyed his surroundings and then shook his head. Reaching into his jacket, he removed a small photo imagining device and handed it to her. Pixie looked at the screen and squinted.

Why do they always use such small print? No wonder we're all going blind, she thought.

Two words in the document caught her attention: Hubot Project.

"What's this?" Pixie asked.

"I'm not sure, but if it's associated with Cranley, it can't be good."

"Where did you get it?"

"I... did a little snooping after my encounter with his men."

"A little? And came up with this?" Pixie was impressed.

"I have a high-level security clearance because of my job and I'm a pretty good hacker. Between the two, I was able to access certain files. Unfortunately, I only had time to copy this. It's from Cranley to Future Dynamicon's former CEO. He mentions the project and a completion date. The last paragraph refers to AIs and their role in shaping the military's future."

"AIs? You mean artificial intelligence?"

"Yes. That must be what this Hubot Project is about — government experiments with robots."

Pixie made a wry face.

"That's not surprising. Everyone is working on those things."

"True, but not everyone wants to use them to shape our military's future... and Future Dynamicon's CEO was killed awhile back. The details are all very hush-hush. HomeSec got involved, not that they found anything. Why would they be interested in his death?"

"Good question," Pixie replied. "One I think I'll raise on my website."

"You need to be careful, Pixie. I’ve followed your website for years and know you aren’t afraid of the government, but these people don't play around. If they think you're on to them, they'll do whatever it takes to silence you."

"Good advice. Make sure you follow it too, Snoopy."

Pixie appreciated his concern, but was not deterred. Blogs that hit nerves were especially satisfying. That night, she posted her first exposé about SU33, Colonel Cranley and the Hubot Project. Most of it was speculation, but Pixie knew government officials were paranoid. Most likely her site was already being monitored. She was now raising the stakes, gambling that someone would take the bait.

*  *  *

For almost two weeks, Pixie relentlessly campaigned against SU33 and Future Dynamicon. Small tidbits of information about the unit began filling her mailbox from other sources preferring to stay anonymous. The emails she received about Future Dynamicon were a different story. A lot of people seemed to hate the company and were more than happy to contribute to its downfall. Pixie grew optimistic that she would soon have enough evidence to take both organizations down.

Late one evening, while sifting through an unusually large number of emails, she noticed one with the word "obituary" in the subject line. A link took her to a list of recently deceased people. Next to one name was a photo of Peter Wood, aka Snoopingdog. He had been found dead in his apartment. The official cause was 'suicide by overdose.' The drug cited was Paradaze.

Paradaze was the newest craze, a psych-bio-molecular enhancer. Peter's friends denounced the medical examiner's findings and accused the military of a cover-up. As a dedicated soldier, Peter never touched designer drugs. After several attempts to involve an independent investigator, and some friendly advice from the local law enforcement agency, they gave up.

Pixie wasn't surprised. Someone had probably discovered his hacks. They may have even followed Peter the night he met her at the tavern. Another possibility, though, was that her computer had been infiltrated and was being monitored. The practice was illegal, but that wouldn't stop the government. It wouldn't stop her, either. She had crusaded for years. Peter's death only hardened her resolve to carry on the battle.  

It's all or nothing now, she thought. Pixie decided it was time to upload her entire files on Special Unit 33, the Hubot Project and Colonel Cranley. Copies of the letter Snoopingdog had given her were forwarded to almost two-hundred individuals who believed in her and her cause. There! You can't stop us all. It's the least I can do for you, Peter. Picking up Igor, she pressed the cat against her cheek and chest. Someone out there will believe us, won't they, precious? I think it's time to call Celeste, sweetie. You know, just in case? She'll take good care of you if mommy has to go away.

*  *  *

Disconnecting from the Webnet, Solaria deleted the computer's history and left the cafe. Thirty seconds later, every server involved with her search was tracked, identified and then crashed. Fifty-four government spybot systems suffered inexplicable and irreparable damage.