Meat and bones.
Bliss gagged and turned away for a moment, and Riggs placed a fatherly, calming hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” he said gently. “First time in the field?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Don’t sweat it. Everyone has a moment like this. God knows I did.”
She cut him a look to see if he was patronizing her.
“Seriously,” he said. “My first gig with the Deacon was a dirty piece of business down in Guam. One of those damn supersoldier programs. Steroids, cybernetic enhancements, implants dumping hormones and stimulants directly into the bloodstream. Very nasty. We busted the place up pretty good, and that was just business, but then we crashed into the surgical labs. Lots of works in progress, if you catch my drift. It was like something out of a horror movie. All those poor bastards strapped to stainless steel tables or chained in iron cages. I don’t think there was one single operator in that room who didn’t toss their cookies. Not one.”
“Even you?” asked Bliss in a croak of a voice.
“Hell, girl, I was the first one. Couldn’t find a trash can, so I threw up into a desk drawer. Sounds like something from a bad comedy, but it wasn’t funny.”
“No,” she said.
“No,” he agreed.
He fished in his pocket and produced a tube of ChapStick, uncapped it, and held it out. She could smell the strong mint. “Here, rub this on your upper lip. Put a lot on. The mint kills your sense of smell and helps calm your stomach. Go on, take it. You’ll feel better.”
She reached out and tentatively took the ChapStick, screwed out the lip balm, and applied it liberally to her upper lip and around her nostrils. “Mind if I ask a personal question, Colonel?”
“It’s Samson, and no, go ahead.”
She looked up at him. “How did you become strong? I don’t mean at the gym or good with a gun. I mean how did you, a human being like everyone else, become strong enough to do what you do? To go into battle? To kill. How? Were you born with it?”
She thought Riggs would blow the question off with the typical military trash talk, but he paused, giving it real consideration. “It’s all about choice,” he said. “If you have a calling, if you feel you know that this kind of work is what you want to do, or if you discover you’re good at this and you let your talent pull you in a certain direction, then you have to make a choice. You have to look it in the face. It’s like the way doctors do. The first day in Anatomy 101, when they wheel out the cadavers, half the med students pass out or throw up. Everyone feels sick, even the stoic ones, or the ones who believe they’re stoic. And the reason they do is because it’s a human moment and there is a very clear set of lines drawn in the sand. They have to cut into, dissect and therefore violate a human being. There are so many taboos, so many ancient dreads hardwired into our brains about not doing something like this that it feels perverse. However, the end goal is that the doctor learns things that will make him a good doctor and therefore a healer. Cutting into that corpse is like crossing the river Styx. Or maybe it’s the Rubicon, I have my metaphors messed up. The point is that it’s a rite of passage. You do what you have to do in order to be prepared for what you know will be expected of you later. It’s the same in the military. We train to fight. We visualize and imagine killing the enemy. We learn the mechanics of it, the sociology of it, and the psychology of it. Those of us who want to be good at it also dip our toes into the philosophy of it.”
“Which is?”
“Short version of that is we accept that killing is how we will survive, and it is through killing our enemies that we will guarantee the safety of those we love. Measure killing of that kind against the lives of those we hold precious, and the trigger is easier to pull.”
“That can’t be true for every soldier. Some of the men I’ve met in the DMS seem to be able to kill without emotion and maybe without remorse of any kind. It’s part of their job.”
“That’s true, in the moment. And between jobs it’s a useful mask to make. But we all take it home with us in one way or another. Hell, look at the current military, where there are more deaths from suicide than from combat.”
“And for the bad guys? Like the Hutus in Rwanda who slaughtered nearly a million Tutsis. They hacked off arms and legs, butchered babies, killed nuns and missionaries. Are you saying that they went home and brooded over those killings?”
“Ah,” said Riggs, “that’s a different question. You asked me how guys like me reconcile killing. I’m a moralist as well as a shooter. I will pull a trigger but I damn well want a reason. But you’re right when you say that there are plenty of people in the world for whom life is inconsequential. Ask a Nazi. Ask anyone in the drug cartels. The Russian Mafya. Yeah, there are coldhearted people out there. Some are sociopaths who have found their calling. Others have become dead inside because that is the culture in which they were raised. And maybe some are just plain evil.”
“But they’re powerful.”
“Oh, yes. And there are a lot of them.”
“Who is more powerful?”
Riggs laughed. “Ask the winners. In any fight, always ask that question of the winners.”
“Last question,” she said.
“Are you writing a paper or something?”
“No. I’m trying to understand how this all works. You know about the VaultBreaker software I’m writing? It’s all about trying to get inside the heads of the bad guys in order to predict how they might attempt an intrusion. I need to know to what lengths someone would go to get what they want.”
“That’s your question? How far would someone go?” He grunted. “If they wanted it badly enough … if having it was more important than anything else in their life, then that person might do absolutely anything, cross any line, break any taboo, do whatever it took to have that thing.”
Bliss nodded, letting it all sink in. She looked down at the dead baboon with all of the mechanical apparatus surgically forced into its flesh. The science displayed there was so radical, so cutting-edge. So powerful in its potential.
“It’s unbelievable,” she murmured.
“Welcome to the face of war,” said Riggs, misreading her reaction. When she looked up at him, he added, “This is what the DMS is all about.”
“You see this kind of thing in movies, in video games. I mean, I’ve played first-person shooter games where I’ve fought things as bizarre as this, but—”
“I know. The real world is always different.” Riggs paused for a moment, studying her. Then he said, “I have two young nephews who play all those games. Sixteen and eighteen. Both of them plan to enroll in the army once they’re out of school. They want to go into Special Operations, like their dad did, and like me, I suppose. I think they think that spec-ops is like Call of Duty or one of the games they play.”
Bliss fought the urge to roll her eyes, expecting this to segue into one of those trite lectures where someone who’s been there pooh-poohs the version of combat presented even in the edgiest games. She’d heard that rant a million times and wasn’t interested. On one hand, she was well aware of the differences between real life and games; after all, didn’t she design game simulations? On the other hand, her game simulations were the result of exhaustive interviews with shooters like Riggs, Gus Dietrich, Grace Courtland, and even Aunt Sallie. Plus she’d interviewed the counterterrorism expert Hugo Vox a dozen times, and had grilled more than a hundred operators at his Terror Town training facility. Bliss had built levels of realism into her simulations that were unmatched by anything on the current game market. And she’d played her own games, wearing earphones and goggles that gave her a massive 3D experience. She even co-created a simulator chair that provided smells—gunpowder, blood, sweat and dozens of others—so that the person playing the game had as real an experience as possible.
So, despite the “if it’s a game, it’s not real” diatribe, Bliss was pretty damn sure she knew what real felt
like.
So to cut Riggs off at the pass, she nodded to the dead cyborg drone and said, “It’s a shame it’ll all get swept under the rug. We could repurpose this and—”
A shadow fell across the dead animal and Bliss pivoted to see Mr. Church. She hadn’t heard him approach, but he was like that. Sergeant Dietrich stood a few feet behind.
“Oh!” she said, and it came out as almost a yelp. “Hi. Um … we were just…”
Riggs came to her rescue. “The site’s secured, Boss. Nothing got out.”
“Very well, Colonel. My respects and appreciation to Shockwave Team. You may stand down.”
Riggs sketched a roguish salute, gave Bliss a wink, and walked off. That left Bliss smiling awkwardly at Mr. Church.
His face was impassive, a mask that told Bliss nothing about what he felt. She could never imagine him staggering off to vomit up his shock and disgust like the shooters in Shockwave had. Not him.
“What do we … um…?” She didn’t know how to finish the question.
“Everything gets cataloged,” said Church. “Bag and tag all the bodies, human and animal. Secure all computers and records. Trucks will be here in a few hours to collect everything. It will all be flown to Brooklyn.”
“No,” she said, rising. “What I mean is, what will happen after that’s all over? After we do our studies and dissections, after we run all of the data through MindReader, what happens then?”
“In terms of what?”
“In terms of the science.”
Church removed a stick of gum from his jacket pocket, peeled off the silver foil, and put the gum in his mouth. He folded the wrapper very slowly and precisely.
“This isn’t our science, Miss Bliss,” he said.
She did not dare respond to that. He’d just put a big bear trap on the ground between them and there was no way she was putting her foot into it.
Instead, she nodded.
Church put the folded silver paper into his pocket.
To Dietrich he said, “Gus, when everything is cleared out, set charges and bring the building down. Remove the debris and have the foundation filled with dirt. Three days from now I want a field here and nothing else. Are we clear?”
Dietrich gave him a sharp nod. After a moment, Bliss imitated the nod.
Church lingered for a moment, looking at her, then down at the dead animal, then at the building.
“This isn’t our science,” he said again.
Bliss could not have disagreed more.
Chapter Nineteen
Near DuPont Circle
Massachusetts Avenue Northwest
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, August 31, 7:26 a.m.
Vice President William Collins sat back against the cushions of the armored SUV and sipped his coffee as his motorcade rolled along the streets from his residence on the grounds of the United States National Observatory to his office at the White House. Coffee always tasted better after sex. Not after sex with his wife, of course, but always after sex with the wild woman he’d screwed twice last night and once again this morning. Coffee was the perfect after-passion taste treat. Good for the soul, good for the nerves.
And his nerves needed some help today.
Today of all days.
Beside him, his chief of staff rattled on about the affairs of the day. Bryan “Boo” Radley was a moon-faced Midwesterner with a computer mind and no discernible personality. A great number-two man, but he did talk a lot.
“Should I do that, sir?”
The question hung in the air and Collins had to fish around for whatever had preceded the question. But if it was there he couldn’t grab it.
“Sorry, Boo, I was miles away,” said Collins. “Give that to me again.”
“It was the immigration reform bill. Were you able to look it over? Calvin has this morning blocked out to rewrite it before the press briefing and—”
“Ah, damn, I was so jammed up I didn’t get to it. Put it on the top of my pile and I’ll go over it first thing.”
“Very well, Mr. Vice President.”
Collins shot him a look. “Oh, don’t sound so disapproving. Jeez, you’re like my tenth-grade math teacher. She used to make me feel like shit if I forgot to do my homework.”
“Not at all, Mr. Vice President.”
“And here’s how I know you’re pissed at me, Boo.”
“Sir?”
“You only call me ‘Mr. Vice President’ in that tone when I’ve been naughty.”
“No, I—”
Collins laughed and reached over to clap Radley on the shoulder. “Christ, lighten up. It’s a beautiful day in the capital. Take a breath. No, I’m serious, actually take a breath.”
Bradley’s mouth was pinched but then he drew in a deep lungful of air, pulling it in through his nostrils. He held it for a second and then exhaled, long and slow.
“There,” said Collins, “now doesn’t that feel better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Collins gave him a rueful shake of the head. “You need to get laid, Boo. I’m serious, you are in more dire need of getting your ashes hauled than anyone in the District of Columbia.”
Radley made no comment.
“Okay, okay, I know, back to work,” said Collins. He genuinely liked Radley and wished that he could bring him into his confidence. What did they call it in that movie, he mused. Into the circle of trust. But although Radley was absolutely ruthless in the prosecution of his duties as the chief of staff to the vice president, he was also a patriot. Worse yet, he was a Constitutionalist, one of those patriots who was a fierce proponent of the letter of the law rather than the spirit of what was really best for the future of America. The kind of patriotism that kept the lights on and provided for the general welfare. Blah, blah, blah. Not the kind who would take a risk and do what was necessary to change the game. The Boo Radleys of the world were always looking to get America “back on track,” instead of taking America to the next level. That rather amazed Collins, too, because the Founding Fathers were innovative rebels before they created that restrictive piece of bad legislation called the Constitution. The Founding Fathers would never allow America to have fallen into the state of disgrace in which she currently wallowed. Escalating debt to China and other creditors. A continued off-the-books allegiance to old-money families like the Rothschilds. Allowing the bankers to constantly butt-fuck Congress. And a demonstrated fear of truly embracing the potential of radical new technologies.
In Collins’s view it was a widespread problem. Republicans and Democrats were both pussies, with maybe a few exceptions. Even though he was a party man according to the voters and election strategists, Collins privately considered himself to be a staunch, unflinching, and proud member of a much older party than either of those. The True American Revolutionary Party.
A party that, granted, existed only in shadows and private conversations, but which was growing very fast. It was gaining friends and power with every day.
And today …
Collins had to turn away to hide a smile. Today was going to be a very important day. A day of great social change. Not just for America, but for the entire world. Collins believed with his whole heart that by the end of today the world would be a different place. Public awareness would be tuned in to a newer and clearer frequency. Congress would no longer be allowed to remain complacent, or to put personal agendas ahead of the needs of what Collins prayed would be a renewed America. A reborn America.
“Sir?” said Radley, and once more Collins realized that his attention had drifted from what his aide was saying. He would have to watch that. Today was not a day to allow anything unusual to show, not even here in the relative privacy of his car.
“Sure, sure, Boo,” he said expansively, “I’m all ears. What else do you have?”
The motorcade moved on, closing in on the White House in so many different ways.
Chapter Twenty
Dutch Trader Tavern
North Main
and East Twenty-third Streets
Farmville, Virginia
Sunday, August 31, 7:27 a.m.
Colonel Samson Riggs leaned wearily against the wall. He held an empty pistol in his right hand, the slide locked back. Shell casings littered the floor all around him and blue-gray gun smoke clouded the air.
The unfinished brick walls were slimed with mossy dampness, and tendrils of creeper vines and the roots of weeds trailed down through the cracked mortar. Above him, the ceiling was a gaping hole that still smoked from the blaster-plaster they’d used to breach the wall into this place. The building had once been a mill in Colonial times, and a tavern for more than two hundred years. Eight years ago the economy crushed it into a silent and empty husk that waited for the sheriff to sell it for back taxes. Recently, someone else had moved in and taken possession of the extensive cellars. Perhaps “some thing” was more apt, because the hulking figures that lay sprawled around him did not look human.
They were massive, grotesquely muscled, and their faces had a distinctly simian cast. Riggs knew what they were.
Berserkers.
But that made no sense. The Berserker program had been shut down years ago by Joe Ledger and his team at a place called the Dragon Factory. That’s where a group of fanatical scientists had used gene therapy to blend the DNA of silverback gorillas with that of a team of mercenaries. The result had been a kill squad who had all of the mass and muscle of the great apes and the total savagery of the world’s number-one apex predator. Man.
It was a deadly combination, but it was damn well supposed to be past tense. All of the Berserkers had been killed. Every last freakish one of them.
So where did these monsters come from?
It was a question with no answer.
A rattle of gunfire made Riggs jerk out of his reverie. This fight wasn’t over.
As he began running he slapped his pockets for a fresh magazine, found none. No grenades, either. All he had left was the fighting knife strapped to his combat harness.
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