by F X Holden
I always told myself, one day I’ll try to write a book in the style of ‘Dawn Attack’. This pale attempt is that. So if you enjoyed this one, I strongly recommend you read the book that was the inspiration.
And thanks for supporting Indie Publishing! If you liked Bering Strait, please go back to Amazon and/or Goodreads and leave your rating – ratings are like gold to Indie Publishers and all sales of FX Holden books go to charity. Yes, all!
You can always contact me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/hardcorethrillers if you’d like to chat, ask questions, or just follow the page to find out about giveaways or teasers for upcoming novels.
Cheers,
FX Holden
PREVIEW FOR THE UPCOMING FX HOLDEN THRILLER: ‘LIAONING’
You know those days when you wake up in the morning, get that first cup of coffee inside you and the rest of the day stretches out in front of you like a runway in front of a superjumbo jet? Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to see, just a slow takeoff toward total freedom.
No? Me neither.
Like, today is supposed to be one of those days. I have my morning coffee Vietnamese style (as in with condensed milk because I still don’t have a fridge) and check my email inbox and there are just the usual thousand unread messages but nothing screaming READ ME! in the subject box so I’m thinking awesome, this could be a superjumbo kind of day.
Then Jenno knocks on the door.
“Hey O’Hare, wassup?” he says, with his usual lopsided Jenno the health nut Viking six pack wonderboy grin.
Wassup is that Jenno should be two thousand miles away in Sydney, not standing at the front door of apartment 25 of the salubrious Kim Apartments in Smith Street Darwin at eight in the morning. Wassup number two is that Agent Smith from The Matrix is standing there beside him. It is my incontrovertible experience that when a man in his mid 30s dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie and sunglasses turns up unannounced at your front door and just stands there without mentioning Jehova, then you are about to have A Very Bad Day.
I look at Jenno and he just shrugs, “This is Chuck, can we come in?” Chuck smiles, but doesn’t hold out his hand. He reeks of Spook.
I step aside and wave them into the loungeroom of my flat. My two room flat beside the Nirvana bar and restaurant in downtown Darwin which I can barely afford on my allowance but hey, it’s home.
Chuck doesn’t know where to sit. Jenno solves the problem for him by pushing my newspapers and magazines off my sofa and onto the floor and pointing to where Chuck can park his butt.
“I was reading those,” I tell Jenno, pulling over one of my dining chairs.
He looks down at them, “Same magazines and papers that were on the sofa three months ago when I visited.”
“There’s some good articles. Long read features kind of thing.”
“Open at the same pages,” he says.
Chuck is holding out some sort of badge thing for me to see and waving it to get my attention, “Ms. O’Hare, I’m from the NSA.”
“It’s Bunny,” Jenno says. “Get it? O’Hare - Bunny.”
“To friends,” I say, looking at Agent Smith. “And we’re not there yet.” I frown at Jenno. Jenno is with the Australian Security Service, and we met during a terrorist training exercise. But he doesn’t do Foreign Service Liaison, he does Middle East Terrorism, so what is he doing with Chuck here? NSA is the National Security Agency of the USA, or as you probably know them, the world’s biggest, ugliest, Cyber Spooks - or at least up there, with China’s PLA Unit 61398.
These guys read all your emails, strip your solid state drives, listen to your phone calls, they know what websites you visit and what you do there and they could pull up your last three years of supermarket purchases if they wanted to. But if you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to hide right?
OK, so Chuckie is from the National Security Agency. He’s a cyberspook. What does he want with a lowly DARPA test pilot, like me?
Of course, the first question you should ask is, what is a lowly DARPA test pilot doing in Darwin, Australia, since DARPA is short for US Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Well, duh, I was headhunted specifically for this assignment.
OK, it didn’t quite go like that.
“We have a new opportunity in the Antarctic, working on the AI systems for an autonomous submarine replenishment facility under the ice sheet,” my Program Manager says, staring at his screen.
“Been there, done that, got the frostbite. What else?” I ask. “Somewhere … warmer.”
“Serial interactions in imperfect information games applied to complex military decision making? It’s in Singapore,” he says, hopefully.
“In English please?”
“You’re a coder, and an ex-fighter pilot,” he says. “This one is about teaching AI to hit targets without knowing exactly where they are.”
“Sounds … weird. How about something not weird, but still warm?”
“Well, there’s Darwin, but no …”
“No? I’m Australian remember? Darwin sounds great.”
“Yeah but it’s just a routine next-gen ‘test and tweak’, run out of the Aerospace projects office…”
“Love it already.”
“It’s Marine surveillance drones. Bell V-247s. Barely one generation ahead of the stuff hobbyists are flying.”
“Unarmed?”
He looks up from his computer, “Yes, of course unarmed.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You haven’t even asked what pay grade it is.”
“I’ll be paid too? Awesome, I’ll take it.”
“You’ll need to interview, with the program coordinator in Darwin.”
“Great, I’ll book my flight and …”
“By Skype.”
I guess I theoretically had a chance of failing the job interview with Max Renaud, Program Coordinator, DARPA Aerospace, Darwin (which was exactly how he answered his phone). To make the time zones work I had to wait to 1700 to Skype with him and he screwed it up because I was on the US West Coast, so there was a 16 hour time difference and he called me three hours later than we arranged. Which didn’t bode well for his coordination skills. But we eventually connected, “Max? Hi, I’m Karen O’Hare,” I say.
“Yes, you are,” his pixelated self nods warmly. “Excellent! What time is it there? Where are you again?” We do the small talk thing. He is way too happy to see me. And the more we talk, the happier he gets.
“So tell me Max,” I ask him at one point. “Am I currently the only candidate for this contract?”
He frowns a little theatrically, “Oh no. We had … we have, a very long shortlist. It’s a choice job, remotely piloted aircraft research pilot…”
“In Darwin…” I mention.
“Funky place. Very hip these days. Six months in paradise, six months hellish humidity that makes you want to take up axe murder, yes,” he admits. “But at least it keeps you on your toes - they call the period before the first rain, the suicide season, but they’re not serious.”
“Except they are. So, you had a long shortlist of former fighter pilots who have experience coding on the NVIDIA Jetson AGX Xavier platform?”
He looks at me, then down at his notes, “Not as many as you’d think, no. You certainly have an impressive CV. And all your certifications and security clearances are up to date?”
“Still current in and on everything.”
“Good, good. When might you be free from your current commitments?”
He’s talking as though I already have the job, which it turns out, I do.
The thing that has my curiosity now, as I piddle around in the kitchen making tea for Jenno (black) and coffee for Chuck (black) and a double shot Vietnamese for me is why Chuck from the NSA didn’t ‘reach out’ to me through DARPA channels. The way this should have gone down, being as it is official US government business and not personal, is I get a message from Lieutenant Commander Harley Davidson (not his real first name but
I can’t remember his real first name) who is Executive Officer to the boss of the Australian military base, HMAS Coonawarra. Her name is Commander Alison Pickford (awesome). And then HD would pass it on to Max who would pass it on to me. And I would say to Max, “What the hell does he want with me?” and Max would shrug and say, “Hell do I know? I registered him as your visitor, you deal with him Bunny.”
Chuck should not be turning up unannounced on a Thursday morning in August at my flat in downtown Darwin with Jenno in tow. Jenno being here tells me there’s some angle to this which I am definitely not going to like because they think they need Jenno here to ‘manage me’.
And they’re probably right, I decide, looking at Chuck sitting there impatiently while Jenno stirs sugar into his tea and reaches for a Ginger Nut biscuit.
I hand the plate to Chuck, but he just looks at the Ginger Nuts like he’s never seen a biscuit before in his life and then looks at me, “Ms. O’Hare, we need your help.”
I give Jenno my WTF look, but he just shrugs.
“I am a DARPA Remotely Piloted Aircraft Pilot and Sensor Operator,” I tell Chuck, emphasizing the capital letters. “Attached to the US Marine Rotational Force, Darwin. I am still getting stopped at the gates to the base every day having to explain to the idiots there that I really work there and reminding them they should be saluting me.” He looks as though this does not surprise him, which is annoying because I know he is basing his judgement entirely on my short cropped white hair, nose stud and visible tattoos. “There is no capacity in which I can possibly be of help to the US National Security Agency, unless you wish to join DARPA and want career advice.”
He smiles his non-smile again. In the movies at this point he’d be pulling out a big fat manila folder from his briefcase, and it would have ‘O’Hare, K’ written on the front and he would unclip it and take out some surveillance photos of me and start telling me my life story just to let me know he know everything about me so there’s no point me being smart with him. But he doesn’t have a briefcase. So he doesn’t have a manila folder. He doesn’t even take out his smart phone and look up some notes. He’s memorized it all.
“Well, it seems you’re wrong there. I understand your latest US security vetting was less than a year ago…”
“Yep. I think it was right before your Secretary of Navy pinned a Navy Cross on me. Or maybe it was after?”
“After,” he says, without a pause, “But you do not have sufficient clearances for what we are about to discuss.”
I point at Jenno. “But he does?”
Chuck doesn’t look happy. “We’ve had to indoctrinate agent Jensen, for the purposes of our discussion today.”
“Oooh, you’ve been indoctrinated,” I say to Jenno. “Did it hurt?”
“Walking like a cowboy,” he says. “Seriously though O’Hare, just hear him out so we can go and get a proper breakfast, OK?”
That’s his nice way of saying STF up O’Hare, so I do.
“Can I just confirm a few details?” Chuck says. He takes off his sunglasses now, showing ice blue eyes. You knew they would be, right?
“Sure.”
“Thankyou ma’am. You served six years with the Royal Australian Air Force, and were recruited by DARPA Aerospace during the Turkey Syria conflict, where you were based at Incirlik Air Base…”
“Classified,” I tell him.
“Yes, flying F-47 drones.” He’s good. He’s all over my CV, I got to give him that. Still not even looking at his notes.
“Maybe.”
“Then transferred to the F-47/F amphibious conversion program…”
“Also, classified.”
“From where you were posted to a covert second strike facility on Little Diomede Island in the Bering Strait, during the Russia-USA maritime dispute…”
“War, not dispute, and still classified. And now I’ll have to kill you.”
“…In which service you became the first Australian since Admiral Harold Farncomb in 1945 to be awarded a US Navy Cross for valor under fire.”
“They hand them out like crackerjack prizes these days,” I tell him.
“Then you were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and placed on long term medical impairment leave…” he says it like he’s reading off a shopping list.
“Shortish,” I tell him. “Shortish-term medical leave.”
“Fine,” he says, all polite about it. “And now, as you explained, you are attached to DARPA Aerospace again, testing the Bell V-247/C unarmed recon variant in exercises with MRF Darwin.”
“I live to serve,” I tell him. “Mine is not to reason why. Or where.”
“Do we have to go through O’Hare’s whole life story?” Jenno asks. “Coz there’s some really ugly stuff in there if you get to her taste in music…” He’s just trying to protect me, bless him. He actually loves bro-country.
Chuck ignores him, “So your PTSD is currently, what … under control would you say?”
“I haven’t woken up screaming for months, if that’s the question.” There’s no point bluffing him, he’s NSA so he’s probably already downloaded the records from my doc’s PC. And the hospital. And the pharmacy. And my local liquor store.
“Seriously, can we speed this up?” Jenno says now, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “I’ll be turning forty in a few years.”
Chuck gives Jenno a polite death-look. Wipes his face clean from the inside, reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a couple of pieces of paper and a pen.
“You should read this one first,” he says, handing a page to me. “It’s a letter from General Paul Rogers, Director of the NSA.”
I’m reading it. It’s a nice handwritten letter on US CYBERCOM letterhead saying basically ‘Hello O’Hare, we’ve never actually met, but I’m boss of the NSA, and we’d be terribly grateful if you could please help my man Chuck, he’s totally kosher’.
“It’s not signed,” I point out.
Chuck takes it back, “No. And this is from your Program Coordinator, Renaud.” He hands me another letter saying, more or less, ‘Dear O’Hare, they asked nicely. I said yes. Don’t involve me or anyone else in DARPA please.’
He hands me a pen, “And this is a Secrecy Agreement, please sign at the bottom.”
I look at Jenno. “I already signed,” he says. “I’m good.”
The paper has the standard guff across the top: TOP SECRET UMBRA ORCON blah blah. Then the standard threats of death and dismemberment if the signatory (me) discloses anything about said project to anyone not authorized to receive information about said project. And then the project name…
“Project HOLMES?” I ask as I’m signing.
“Yup. Thankyou,” Chuck says, taking back his paper and pen and putting them both in his pocket. As he reaches across I pick up a whiff of…what? I’m usually pretty good at aftershaves and perfumes, but I can’t nail his. Probably because he also smells like he just got off a plane after a 15 hour flight. “Now…what do you know about natural language memory neural networks Ms O’Hare?”
He says it like it’s a test. “I’ve done a little coding, but…” I stall, scratching my head. “Mammary networks? Sounds like a club for ladies with large…”
“Memory networks O’Hare,” Jenno sighs. “Artificial Intelligence. AI. Like what you work on every day.”
“Ah, right,” I brighten up. “No, my stuff is all ones and zeroes. Neural networks, that’s like in that old film, Deus X. With the awesome Swedish girl and that cute ginger actor.”
“Yeah, the one from the original Harry Potter,” Jenno says.
“He wasn’t in Harry Potter,” I say.
“Yeah, he was. Rupert something,” Jenno insists.
Chuck puts up his hand, “OK, let’s stay with Deus X. That’s the old film where the millionaire invites a programmer out to his lab to talk with one of his robots right, to see if he can tell whether it’s human or not?”
“Yeah.”
“OK, so the robo
t in Deus X was an example, a science fiction example, of what a natural language memory neural network might one day be able to do,” Chuck says.
“Paint pictures, wear pretty dresses and kill its creator?” I ask him.
“Hey! Spoiler alerts please, I haven’t seen it!” Jenno says. “Thanks O’Hare.”
“No, converse in natural language and think with the power of a quantum supercomputer,” Chuck says.
“Just tell her about HOLMES,” Jenno says.
“Project HOLMES is a robot?” I ask Chuck.
Now Chuck sighs, “No, Project HOLMES is not a robot. Tell me you at least heard about the first IBM memory neural network called ‘WATSON’.”
I stare at him blankly. I got nothing.
“Apparently WATSON won a game show,” Jenno explains. “Against some human contestants.”
“Jeopardy actually,” Chuck says. “The quizz show.”
“Like how that chess computer beat the grand master?” Jenno asks.
“It’s not a computer,” Chuck says, apparently frustrated at tirelessly repeating himself for idiots. “WATSON was a collection of technologies, algorithms and systems that IBM built to show it could create a system to defeat a human in Jeopardy without any special inputs, just answering questions as they were asked, in natural language.”
“What else did it do?” Jenno asks, “After it became the Jeopardy champion of the universe?”
Chuck leans back, “Drug companies used it to answer research questions.”
“How? It couldn’t do experiments on humans could it?” I ask. That would be creepy. “Could it?”
“No. But drug companies asked WATSON to read every single clinical study that had ever been published on diabetes and suggest the most likely research targets for a cure.”
“And…”
“WATSON identified five targets they were already planning to study, and another ten they weren’t,” he says. “Of which three were targets they would never have thought of to look at. It took about five days. One of those became the cure for type 1 diabetes.”
