by Mich Moore
cloud of smoke appeared on the eastern shore, followed by a large fireball exploding on the starboard side of the lead ship. The crowd gasped and yelped in amazement. But they could see that the fleet was now slowing down. A shower of fine particles and chemical odors began to rain down. People covered their heads and faces with their coats and scarves. As they watched, another cloud of smoke appeared from the eastern banks, and this time they could clearly see a missile arc towards the water. But somehow it failed to connect with any of the cruisers. Suddenly there came a teeth-rattling BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! as a battleship unleashed a punishing salvo from its primary deck gun. A split second later, the lakeshore pulsed with a wicked yellow glow. And then about a kilometer of Indiana coastline disintegrated beneath a wall of ferocious flames.
The spectators in Chicago erupted in spontaneous cheers and chants of "USA! USA!"
After about an hour of celebrating, Hillerman turned the group around. They headed back to their hotel, where Dina, Colonel Higgins, and some of his military cronies were expecting them. A spontaneous reunion party was formed in the lobby's main bar. When things became too noisy there, it migrated to Higgins's presidential suite on the fourteenth floor.
The men from Lincoln Hills were nearly brought to tears as they took turns hugging and kissing their old friend. Dina herself ruined her makeup by crying too much.
Fields looked mightily pleased with himself. "I have brought you the jewel of the DAT program, as a gift for all of your hard work."
Everybody was immediately suspicious.
"You must know something that we don't," Chang said.
"Not at all," Fields replied with vaguely sincere tones. "But make no mistake. Management is pleased with your efforts."
Powell looked skeptical. "Even if we don't produce a reliable AI?"
"Guys, we have every confidence that you will."
Dina took center stage. "Anyway, we are all just so happy about how far we've come with this." She glanced at Chang with wet eyes. "From our very humble beginnings in Nevada and Amsterdam, we've grown from a tiny, fragile seed to a mighty oak!"
Several team members clapped.
"And now, before we take that next leap of science and faith, I would like for us to take a moment and celebrate our accomplishments ... in style! Beau and I just purchased a wild new condo here in town, and we want you all there tonight to help us warm things up. How about it guys?"
Everyone heartily agreed.
"Great! We'll have cars pick you up this evening. Dinner's at eight, so don't be late!"
In response to the happy burble of chatter all around her, Dina thrust up her hand in a queenly wave and then made her exit on the arm of Fields.
Walters tapped the other Lincoln Hills staff. "Meet me in my room in ten."
Ten minutes later, Broussard, Powell, and Bautista were gathered in Walters's suite. The computer scientist was fit to be tied.
"Dina and Fields are grinning and sinning about something," he snarled.
Broussard was tired and just wanted to take a quick nap before Bruce and Rose arrived at his room for socialization. "You're just being paranoid, Van."
"And you're just sticking your head in the sand, as usual. Look, four weeks ago Fields was all but telling us that the program was DOA. Now we're being feted like kings. Am I the only one seeing something wrong with this picture?"
"Well, what of it?" Powell asked with exasperation. "We're just worker bees. And I for one would rather be feted like a king than shivved like a dog."
Bautista snorted. "Amen."
But Walters was not going to be so easily deterred. "That's just it. We created the MIT technology. And Neal almost singlehandedly designed the DAT chassis."
"Van, Van, haven't we been down this road before?" Broussard asked.
Walters put his hands on his hips. "Listen up. Item one: Our original deal with Fields was for ten percent of all projected profits—MIT and DAT—prorated over twenty-four months. That was twenty-three months ago."
Lax ears began to perk up.
"Item two: Dina just doesn't appear out of nowhere to throw around her husband's time and money for 'friends.' It's a known fact that Beau Hodges is the cheapest a-hole in America. So who are these so-called 'friends?'"
Powell shrugged. "All circumstantial. What else you got?"
"Why is Fields here? We don't know if the Dead Tour worked yet. We haven't even started testing."
"Aren't he and Dina best buds or something?" Bautista asked.
Walters sniffed. "From what I hear, she hates his guts."
Broussard crossed his arms. "So in Van Walters's world, what does this all add up to?"
"In one word: money. I've been doing some research. Chicago is pulling in about eleven million dollars each month after paying for city expenses. That money is pouring in from Europe, the UK, Asia, Washington, even the Middle East. Twenty R&D firms are setting the DOW on fire right now, half of them based right here in Illinois. Of those ten, two—Applied Physics and Beta—have majority shareholders listed as Brett Hunter and Beau Hodges."
Bautista soured. "Crap."
Powell whistled. "You think Chang knows about this?"
"He'd be an idiot if he didn't. Remember: He works for Dina, not us."
Broussard's manner darkened. "So what do you think is going on?"
"I think Beau and Dina are lining up investors for the DAT. In one month, they'll have sole ownership. And when that happens, we start receiving zero percent of zero."
"How do you figure?" Broussard asked. "If anybody else can lay a claim on the MITs, it's Lincoln Hills. They have our original contracts."
"Lincoln Hills doesn't exist anymore," Walters said quietly. "There was some kind of mass killing there. They closed it down right afterwards."
The men fell silent. Walters continued.
"Whatever records of ownership or contracts or even the fact that we were ever there are gone. So it'll be the word of one of the richest men in the country against four felons."
Broussard was thinking fast. "You got a plan?"
"More like a suggestion. Cause if it goes wrong, you never heard it from me. Got it?"
There were silent assents.
"I think that we should get the hell out of Dodge. Tonight. Before they drag us back to Redstone. We've all got money stashed. Get to Canada. They don't have extradition on cases that would result in the death penalty, and believe me, that's what we would face if our government ever got their hands back on us. Treason is punishable by death now."
Broussard batted down Walters's last statement. "Since when is breaking out of prison an act of treason, Van?"
"Breaking out of prison isn't treason. But as of last November, crossing the border illegally to sell government secrets is."
Powell put up his hands. "Whoa! Whoa! Who said anything about selling government secrets?"
Bautista ran his hands over his face. "Canada? I don't know anybody in Canada, man."
Walters gave him a withering look. "Mike, if we all go, then we'll all know someone in Canada. Get it?"
Bautista looked embarrassed. "Oh, yeah. Got it."
"Okay, so we get to Canada. Then what?"
"We send for family. Then we hire a slick New York lawyer as soon as we get our feet on Canadian soil and renegotiate our contracts. And this time, we ask to have our sentences commuted to time served."
Powell laughed. "Van, you're dreaming. What's to stop them from having us killed? It'd be a lot cheaper."
"Nothing at all. But they still need us ... at least until next month. Then we become expendable." He let his words sink in.
Powell chuckled with a hint of bitterness. "Well, they won't be able to send us back to prison. At least not back to Lincoln Hills." His gaze went out of focus. "I wonder what happened to the Zycks."
"I'm sure they're all right," Broussard said without a shred of conviction.
"So what if we get to Canada, contact Fields about the deal, and they tell us to piss off?" Bautistak ask
ed.
"If they do that," Walters replied, "then we sell our wares to the highest bidder. And we won't be selling government secrets either. I'll make a case for intellectual property rights and it will stick."
Powell crossed his arms. "Go on."
"Well ... " Walters deflated himself a bit. "There's a speed bump. We're going to need all of the working files and specs and emails on MIT and DAT. We can't access them from here, so somebody has to go back to Redstone and send them to us."
Powell shook his head. "Impossible."
"It can be worked out," Walters insisted. "We can do this."
Broussard nodded. "Okay. But I'm not selling out to any thug who happens to wave the right amount of cash. We're going to have to vet any buyer. I don't think that any of us wants DAT technology falling into the wrong hands."
"Sure," Bautista said. "If we ever find out whose hands are the wrong hands."
Broussard exhaled. "Well, if we're serious about this, then we're going to need passports."
"One step ahead of you," Walters said. "I may have found an expert who can help us with IDs and passports."
"What? Are these friends of yours?" Powell asked. "Old work buddies?"
"No. And, actually, they approached me."
"What? When?" the other men asked.
"This morning. I received an email."
"Van," Powell began, "our email is monitored and encrypted."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
"Trust me," Walters said, "Mine isn't."
Powell threw up his hands. "You're right. You're the computer god here. Look. Just because Hillerman is a soldier doesn't mean he isn't smart."
Walters sniffed. "He isn't smarter than me."
"No, but Fields might be."
Walters was dismissive.
