Free The Eighth Day by Tom Avitabile

he made these White House briefings. It was HASP and password protected and if someone tried to monkey with it, a program shredded everything on the hard drive, insuring FBI secrets wouldn’t be compromised. A screen came up containing Professor Holm’s uncomplimentary driver’s license photo, next to which appeared a black-and-white security video made virtually unwatchable by a blizzard of static.
    “Prior to this mangled security tape, which provided enough evidence to prove him guilty in the destruction of the Intellichip building, this man’s most violent behavior was slamming the side of his computer when it locked up on him.”
    He hit the touch pad, bringing up Martha Krummel’s photo. A picture of a smoldering freight train pileup was displayed in an adjacent box on the screen.
    “Martha Krummel, a grandmother, derailed an eighty-car train. As far as we have learned, the only thing that seemed to make her angry was the weeds in her garden.”
    Displayed next on the screen was Doris Polk. “This woman was a secretary and taught Sunday school. After she opened two valves as if she were a trained technician, the entire Mason Chemical Plant dissolved into liquid muck.”
    Her photograph was replaced by that of a young boy. “This Boy Scout merit badge holder started a fire that destroyed the corporate office of the number two accounting firm in the country. On his FaceBook page he said he wanted to be president someday.”
    Tate clicked repeatedly now, his point made. “And thirteen others, every single one of them exhibiting no known ties or sympathies to any group, real or imagined; just average citizens.”
    “You said imagined?” Hiccock questioned.
    “Mr. Hitchcock, I don’t have the time …”
    “It’s Hiccock,” Ray Reynolds said. “I asked Bill to attend because he was there when Intellichip blew. Ever since, he has been weeding through any science issues and advising us on policy.”
    “Very well,” Tate nodded to Ray stiffly. “Field agent reports have indicated …”
    “Excuse me,” Bill interrupted again, “a moment ago you said ‘imagined.’ I would still like to know what that means in this context.”
    Suffering fools was not the director’s strong suit, and he sized up this science whiz as being nothing short of a nuisance. “We have teams at Quantico that stay up all night thinking up the wildest scenarios, and this one’s got them stymied.”
    “Okay, but this level of devastation isn’t something you learn on the Discovery Channel or in a YouTube video. In every case these people knew something intimate about the means of destruction.”
    “We know that,” the director said. “We utilize cutting-edge modern police procedure and we show nothing, nothing in common.”
    “Except one thing.” All heads turned to Hiccock. “They’re all dead.”
    There was a perceptible smirk on the director’s face as he punched the pad once more and Martha Krummel’s photograph reappeared. “Except her.”
    “Are we talking suicide terrorists now?” Reynolds asked. “How do they get these people to do this?”
    “Because these perpetrators all have squeaky clean backgrounds, we believe they are deep-cover moles. Agent provocateurs lying quietly until they are called on to act.”
    “How could you possibly reach that conclusion?” Hiccock said agitatedly.
    The director closed his eyes for a second and swallowed deeply. “Deep cover. We have recognized and prepared for the possibility for years. The Russians were constantly getting caught trying to plant moles in the United States. In fact, they even had an American town built in Russia where they would train their agents to live in our society without raising suspicions.”
    “Does the Office of Homeland Security concur with your scenario?” Ray asked, prompting a confident nod from the director. “Then that’s good enough for me. Let’s go see the president immediately and inform him of your investigation’s focus.