Operation “Stray Dog”. Chapter 9

The Effective Antichrist and World of Tanks

14:55 EST. 15 minutes after Alavi’s call. Cambridge, Massachusetts. Lincoln Laboratory

Zeynab quickly but intelligibly (using three-story Farsi profanity and a diagram on a napkin) explained the crux of the problem to Kevin. Kevin nodded, put on a serious face, and opened Google Maps.

“So, North Korea…” he mumbled, dragging his finger across the screen. “That’s somewhere near Australia, right? Where the kangaroos are?”

Zeynab closed her eyes. She realized science was powerless. She needed an “Adult.” Someone with epaulets, security clearance, and a grasp of geography at least at a fifth-grade level.

She had one. Major Bradley Cooper (no, to his deepest regret, not the actor, although he emphasized the resemblance whenever he could). Her DARPA handler who funded her hummingbird drone project. A man with a square jaw, square shoulders, and square thinking that fit perfectly into the box of military regulations.

“Fine,” Zeynab told her phone. “I’m calling the Pentagon. If they arrest me for espionage, you, Kevin, will bring me care packages. And only oat milk matcha lattes, got it? No soy.”

She dialed the major’s emergency number.

Secret bunker beneath Palantir headquarters. Washington, D.C.

The hall was filled with a twilight that smelled of expensive cologne, leather armchairs, and high-grade intellectual snobbery. On stage, illuminated by a single spotlight beam, stood Peter Thiel. He looked like a vegan vampire who had just successfully invested in a synthetic blood startup.

The audience consisted of the elite: four-star generals, Silicon Valley venture capitalists, Elon Musk (who was tweeting Dogecoin memes from the back row), and Major Bradley Cooper.

Major Cooper felt he was part of a Great Mystery. He sat with a straight back, listening with his mouth open.

“We are approaching the singularity,” Thiel broadcast in a quiet, hypnotic voice that made you want to give him all your money. “Democracy is an operating system that hasn’t been updated since version 1.0. It is full of bugs. Glitches. Viruses of populism. We need a hard reset. We need a Katechon. The Restrainer.”

A phone vibrated in the major’s pocket. He winced. Who dared call during a sermon by the Prophet of Efficiency?

He glanced furtively at the screen, shielding it with his palm. “Zee (Drones).”

Decline. Not now, girl. Uncle is busy saving the West.

“The new Antichrist will not come with horns and a pitchfork,” Thiel continued, making a theatrical pause. “He will come with an algorithm. He will be decentralized. He will be a blockchain demon, a distributed ledger of sin. A Digital Leviathan that will devour the sovereignty of states…”

Cooper’s phone buzzed again. Persistently, hysterically. Like a fly beating against glass trying to escape to freedom.

A notification popped up on the screen:
“Zee: BRAD, PICK UP THE PHONE! THE KOREANS LAUNCHED A NUCLEAR VACUUM CLEANER! IT’S FLYING AT YOU!”

Cooper read the message in the preview. “Nuclear vacuum cleaner.”

“These scientists,” he thought with irritation. “Always with their metaphors. Poets of physics. Probably asking for a budget increase for microchips again or complaining about the coffee machine. Not now, honey. The fate of civilization is being decided here.”

He switched his phone to “Do Not Disturb.”

“…And only the Monarch-Corporation,” Thiel said, his eyes glinting in the dark with the cold light of pure reason, “is capable of halting entropy. We must build an ark. Not for everyone. For the worthy. For those who understand the code. For those with high IQs and no moral prejudices.”

Major Cooper nodded. He understood. He was worthy. He felt his IQ growing.

Meanwhile, in the real world, at an altitude of 230 meters, a missile with Korean characters on its side, guided by an overheated Xiaomi vacuum cleaner chip, decided that the Hindu Kush mountain range was a chair leg that needed to be navigated around, and sharply turned toward Africa.

Cambridge

“He’s not picking up,” Zeynab said, staring at the screen in horror. “He declined. Twice.”

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” Kevin suggested, finishing his croissant. “Military guys get diarrhea too.”

“Kevin, this is an emergency line! They have to pick up even if they’re delivering triplets! It’s protocol!”

“Well, then he’s busy with something more important than nuclear war.”

“Than what?! What could be more important?!”

“I don’t know. Maybe listening to a podcast about efficient time management? Or meditating?”

Zeynab groaned and dropped her head onto the desk.

“Great. Just great. Dad in Iran can’t hack the missile because they have no internet. The Pentagon isn’t answering because they’re apparently at a lecture on saving the world from abstract evil. Meanwhile, concrete evil with a plutonium core is flying here, irradiating half the world along the way.”

She lifted her head. Tears of helplessness stood in her eyes.

“Kevin, do you know any hackers? Real ones? Not the ones who hack soda machines.”

“Well…” Kevin scratched his pink nape. “There’s this one guy. Ukrainian. We played World of Tanks in the same clan. We were the best on the server!”

“Tanks?” Zeynab froze. The memory hit her in the gut. Mom. JagdpanFer_83. Tanks.

“Yeah. His handle is ‘Bandera_Sniper.’ Or ‘Kyiv_Ghost,’ he changes nicknames. He’s cool. I think he’s in Africa right now, freelancing. Says the internet there is better than in California, and nobody asks about taxes. Works for some PMC, but streams in the evenings.”

“Call him.”

“To Africa? To a PMC? Zee, that’s expensive. And sketchy.”

“Kevin!!! I will pay for the roaming with my kidney! Call this Sniper! Right now!”

Kevin sighed, opened Discord, and found a contact with an avatar of a Cossack smoking a pipe against the backdrop of a nuclear explosion.

“Hey, bro,” he typed with trembling fingers. “Here’s the deal… Remember you said you had access to electronic warfare systems? We need to crash something.

Chapter 10. Martha’s Vineyard and Vegan Turkey →
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