by Brian Nelson
He shook his head in disbelief. It was such an injustice that a jarhead like Curtiss would end up sitting on the most powerful weapons in history. A queer twist of fate . . . or perhaps just dumb luck.
After his stunning victory in Syria, Walden had expected Curtiss to retire quietly. Perhaps write a memoir, do the lecture circuit, appear on a few talk shows, then disappear. But not Curtiss. Instead he had shunned the press and had somehow gotten assigned to the floundering mission at the Naval Research Lab. God knows it must have looked hopeless when he arrived, with the Chinese project over a year ahead of them. Yet somehow he had turned it around . . . or, more likely, Bill Eastman and Jack Behrmann had turned it around.
Now Curtiss found himself at the tip of the spear, the indispensable expert of the new technology. What a waste, Walden thought, that a two-star like Curtiss should become the most powerful man in the US military, with the ear of not only the CNO but the president himself.
He was the golden boy.
No, that wasn’t quite right. He was more like Achilles, the most prized warrior in the US military.
But, Walden reminded himself, Achilles had not been born a god, and neither had Curtiss. Despite his appearance of invulnerability, Curtiss must have an Achilles’s heel. But what was it?
No memoir about Syria.
He shunned the press.
Was it simply that Curtiss didn’t want to cash in on his experience or was it something else? He was a hero in many people’s eyes. It would have been so easy.
Walden nodded to himself, knowing he was on to something.
Personally, something about Syria had never sat right with him. From the onset it looked like a complete fiasco. Worse than Iraq and Vietnam combined. With so many factions on the ground being fed by proxy from Tehran, Istanbul, Moscow, Tel Aviv, and Washington it looked like it would be perpetual war. And at first, Walden had been right.
Fifteen hundred US casualties in the first month.
Twenty-four hundred in the second.
Then came the bloody battle in Damascus when two hundred marines were gassed and slaughtered in a single afternoon.
The public outcry had been enormous, and for a few weeks it looked like America would pull out, bruised and bloody.
Then suddenly all the mullahs and the imams, the Kurds and the Shia militias, even ISIL and President al-Assad were suing for peace. Curtiss had somehow brought them all to the table to sign the Zurich Accord. Even more surprising—it had stuck. Syria was still at peace three years later.
How had Curtiss done it?
How had Curtiss, a former SEAL, a special ops guy, gotten them all to the table?
Walden reached into his pocket and pulled out his iSheet and unfolded it until it was the size of a tablet.
“Show me the negotiations for the Zurich Accords.”
A moment later the video started. Walden saw an elaborate hotel hallway with red carpet and heavy chandeliers. The principals were entering a large banquet hall one by one, shaking hands with the US delegation, Curtiss and CNO Garrett among them.
The assembled belligerents were powerful men, each ruthless and brutal in his own fashion. They were the survivors, the ones still standing after fourteen years of civil war. But now they seemed cowed, their eyes toward the floor, showing submission to the US brass. As he watched the men file in, he realized it was not all weakness. He zeroed in on Abu Bakr al Kafri as he approached Curtiss. While the admiral was all smiles, impeccable in his navy whites, there was a look of the deepest hatred in the Syrian’s eyes. This man didn’t want peace. Far from it. He wanted to rip Curtiss’s throat out. But something was stopping him. Curtiss had something on him . . . on all of them.
Admiral James Curtiss. Former SEAL. Special Ops. No memoir. Shunned the press.
There was a story here. Walden could feel it. Something that had been buried.
Walden swiveled in his chair and looked out the window at Arlington once more. Digging up bones is a dirty business, he thought. But I have a feeling the rewards will be worth it.
Across the Potomac River from the Pentagon, Ryan Lee sat at his workstation thinking that life couldn’t get a whole lot better.
At the age of thirty-one, he finally felt like everything was coming together. He was a leader in AI, working on some of the most revolutionary technology in history. He had unlimited resources and funding. He was treated with honor and respect by his peers. And he was in love.
He knew there was a reason for it: China. Something had happened to him after his mission there. His captivity, his sabotaging of the Chinese weapons program, and his harrowing escape with Eric, Mei, and Lili had made him into a different man. A man who believed he could do anything. Which meant he’d finally outgrown the stigma he’d had since junior high—the pudgy Asian kid. The computer nerd.
Upon his return he had changed a lot of things about his life. His diet, his exercise routine (meaning that now he actually had one), the way he talked to people (he’s stopped being such a smartass). Gone were the cargo shorts and kitsch Hawaiian shirts. Gone were the Spider-Man ties and Avengers socks. He was finally dressing like an adult—designer jeans, Italian wingtips, and Express button-ups. A new man.
And then Olivia Rosario had walked into his life.
She was beautiful and smart. The only woman he’d ever met who had the same passion for AI as he did. In fact, the only person who could hold her own in a conversation with him. And because they had connected on that wavelength, it seemed that nothing else mattered. Okay, perhaps he was still a nerd in many ways, but with Olivia, being a nerd was an asset.
He wanted to believe that this was the beginning of something, that she felt the same for him. When she smiled and laughed and held an embrace a little too long, he felt certain it was more than friendship. Yet something inside him still didn’t fully believe. Perhaps, he realized, he wasn’t completely free of his old self.
Maybe it was Jane’s words of caution: You don’t want to be caught on the wrong side of a political fight. Walden and Rosario are clearly trying to screw Curtiss.
Olivia was definitely trying to make her mark. Was her interest in him just part of her plan to advance her career? How could he be sure that she was being sincere?
He bit his lower lip in concentration, then an idea struck him.
Immediately he began tapping away at his keyboard.
One additional benefit from his mission to China was that Admiral Curtiss trusted him completely. What’s more, given Ryan’s expertise in AI and computer networks, Curtiss regularly consulted him on lab security, which meant that Ryan had permission to monitor the activity of every lab employee.
He pulled up Olivia’s employee file then began looking at her activity in the Virtual Library. This was where all the lab’s most important discoveries were kept. Files could only be “checked out” by employees with the right clearance.
Just as he was about to pull up her activity, he hesitated, feeling a sudden rush of heat that might have been guilt. He was doing this under the auspices of lab security, but he knew he was really doing it for himself. But his hesitation didn’t last long.
It only took him a few minutes to see that something wasn’t right. While Olivia had Top Secret clearance and access to most of the library, she was spending very little time in her own department—AI. Instead, she was scouring through the nanotech files: Forced Evolution, recognition tunneling, and the synthetic virus applications. The scary stuff.
Her job is to make an advanced AI system, so why is she spending so much time looking at viruses?
But what he found even more surprising were the time stamps. Each file checked out from the library was tracked every second it was in “circulation” by facial recognition. If you checked out an item and someone else sat down at your computer, the screen would go blank. What’s more, the system kept a running clock of how
long you were looking at the files. Even if you turned you head away or went to the bathroom, the clock would stop.
File Name: Force Evolution and Second Generation DOD applications. Author: Eric Hill, Olexander Velichko. Checked out 23:31. Returned 05:27. Total usage: 5:16
File Name: Synthetic Virus Prototype—Pneumonia. Author: Jane Hunter. Checked out: 00:58. Returned: 05:01. Total usage: 04:37
Olivia was staying up all night, every night, poring over their most sensitive files.
She must be barely sleeping, he thought. But what was she doing? And why the urgency?
He needed to know more. He checked her internet search history but found nothing. He sat back, thinking. Then he nodded to himself. That’s it, he thought, remembering a trick he’d learned from Eric Hill that allowed you to track someone’s cell phone.
First he took her phone number, then by using her phone’s IP address and its GPS he created a map of her movements over the past five days. Not surprisingly, she had spent almost all of her time between her apartment in Rosslyn and the lab. There were two trips to the pharmacy and . . .
What’s this?
A trip to Northwest DC. He zeroed in on the address where it appeared she’d spent two hours on Monday. Optima Pharmaceuticals. He pulled up their webpage: Innovative gene therapies using state-of-the art technologies.
Oh no, he thought, as his mind put two and two together.
A rap came on his door, and there she was, suddenly, standing in the doorway. “Good morning,” she said, smiling big, an expression that, once again, struck Ryan as impossible to fake. She really was happy to see him.
He smiled back reflexively. Up until a few minutes ago, he had been looking forward to seeing her too. But now . . . he didn’t know what to think. She was wearing her hair up, with those thick-framed glasses that were equal parts nerdy and attractive.
Seeing her here, so suddenly, made him want to forget about his suspicions, but that desire was quickly overcome by a stronger feeling—a mix of anger and betrayal. He felt like he had been used.
She read his expression immediately. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, unsure of what to say.
She came closer and put her hand on his shoulder.
“What is it?”
“What is Optima Pharmaceuticals?” he asked.
Her head rocked back a little in surprise. “I . . . how do you know about them?”
“Are you here to steal our technology?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then why have you been spending all your time looking at our nanotech files and viruses?”
“Have you been spying on me? You have. Ryan, how could you?”
Ryan faltered. She seemed so genuine. So sincere.
She continued: “For your information, I’m doing my job. I’m learning all I can about the fascinating things you’ve been doing here. I just started a week ago and I have a lot to learn.”
It was plausible of course, but it still didn’t feel right. The long hours. The urgency. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he insisted.
She hesitated and pursed her lips. And that told him he was right.
“I don’t want to lie to you.”
“Then don’t.”
Her eyes darted away, then came back to him. “It’s not what you think. Nothing illegal is going on.”
“Has Walden put you up to something?”
“No, it’s got nothing to do with him. It’s personal and, well, quite honestly, I’m not ready to tell you.”
He eyed her for a moment. He was strangely conflicted. On one hand, he was obligated to report any suspicious activity he came across, and yet now, looking at her, he believed her and he knew that if he told Curtiss about it, it would come to nothing.
“I’m trying to do the right thing,” she said. “Just have a little faith in me . . . please.”
Ryan fidgeted a moment, looking down at his hands. Ostensibly she was telling him nothing, yet it also felt like she was bringing him closer. There was an intimacy in her plea. It was almost a promise.
“How long do I have to wait?” he asked.
He had hoped that she might flash him her coy smile, but she didn’t. And that told him that whatever it was, it was deeply personal.
“When I know I can trust you,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Aigamuxa
November 15, 2026
Namibia
In a mere twenty minutes the whole tribe was ready and began walking. At first Karuma held Eric’s hand, but after a while Eric felt confident enough to walk behind him. If he listened closely, he could hear the steady rhythm of the young man’s footsteps and by that alone he was able to keep pace, only occasionally correcting his direction and distance. It required his full concentration but it was hypnotic in a way, and kept him from feeling so helpless. Luckily the terrain was flat. Only now and then would Karuma warn him of a rocky area and come and guide him.
As they marched on, he worked on honing his remaining senses. He listened to the birds and asked Karuma their names. The boy could name every one by its song.
While they walked, the Sān talked easily and laughed.
Eric listened to their words, trying to improve his vocabulary, but he also listened to where the words went. He was discovering that many things produced echoes, despite not being truly solid. A tree line, for example, would give back an echo almost the same as a rock formation or a sand dune. And if he listened closely, he could even gauge the distance . . . at least roughly.
It was a hot day, and by early afternoon the sun began to take its toll on him. This environment felt very different from the tropical jungle near the mining camp. It was so dry he could literally feel the moisture evaporating from his skin. Karuma had given him a leather pouch with three ostrich eggs full of water. But he was so thirsty, he ran out by midafternoon. Karuma laughed at him and shared one of his own. All day they walked, and Eric’s legs grew stiff and weary. But knowing they were making the journey for his sake, he wasn’t about to complain.
By late afternoon Eric could feel the intensity of the sun beginning to fade. Khamko came and walked with him for a while, holding his hand.
“You did very well today, and we traveled far. Even if the Chinese find our last camp, I think we are safe. They will know we have been there, but they will not know which way we went or that you were with us.”
“Thank you. I sincerely hope that someday I can repay you.”
“You do not need to repay me, my son.”
Eric was touched by the sentiment, but also by the salutation: that this very gracious man should call him son.
They made camp. Eric was amazed how quickly it was done. Within half an hour Karuma had a built two lean-tos for himself and Eric. The work complete, the children played and sang songs. The Sān had decided there would be no fires tonight.
Exhausted and weary, Eric sat near Karuma and massaged his battered feet.
“Do you know what happened to my boots?”
“Oh, yes, we took them off when we found you.”
“Why?”
“To check your feet.”
“What for?”
“For eyeballs, of course.”
Eric’s face furled in confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Karuma gave a grunt of annoyance, as if it should be obvious. “We had to make sure you didn’t have eyeballs on your feet.”
“Is that common?”
“Of course, all Aigamuxa have eyeballs on their feet.”
“Aigamu-what?”
Karuma laughed. “Grandpa says you are a smart man, but sometimes I wonder. Aigamuxa are man-eating creatures who live in the dunes. They look like very big men—like you—but their eyeballs are on their feet, so th
ey stand on their hands when they need to look around.”
“And you thought I was one of those.”
“Yes, so we took off your boots to check.”
“Oh, okay.”
That night Eric slept on the ground with a buckskin blanket to keep him warm. Sometime during the night he heard people arguing. It was Khamko and Naru.
Naru wanted to leave Eric behind.
Khamko refused.
Eric listened with all his might, trying to translate their words. But they spoke too fast, and it was difficult.
“Why are you still looking out for him? Have you [unintelligible]? He’s hiding something.”
“It doesn’t matter, without us he will die, it is our [unintelligible].”
“He is a white man! His people have destroyed ours. Have you forgotten what happened to your own father? My [unintelligible].”
“My heart [unintelligible].”
“You are an old fool. Perhaps we should leave both of you behind.”
Then it grew quiet.
Eric lay there for a time, listening for more, but he heard only the crickets and the night sounds of the desert. He began to fear that perhaps Khamko was having doubts about him. Maybe he would decide that Naru was right.
He was suddenly afraid to fall asleep, fearing that when he woke up he would find himself alone. So he lay there a long time trying to figure what he would do if they did. But there was no solution. If they left him, he knew he would die.
When sleep finally came he dreamed that he was back home in Washington, DC, on the National Mall near the Smithsonian. It was the height of summer, hot and dry. The day was full of light and people were everywhere: families picnicking on the lawn, teenagers playing Frisbee, children running and screaming in delight.
It was a perfect day. Eric’s vision had returned, and the sky was so gloriously blue and there was so much light, it seemed to seep into him like energy.
