The Utopia Experiment

by Robert Ludlum

  “As you know, we have no signed exclusivity agreement with the U.S. military and we’ve received no payment from them that would obligate us. It’s nothing more than a verbal agreement that Dresner made. Another example of him trying to save the world.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve quietly spoken to the Chinese government and they’re willing to use a number of private corporations they control to infuse enough cash for us to cover our short-term obligations. In return, we’ll provide them with the same ability to link to offensive weapons that we gave to America.”

  “And do they know about the Koreans?”

  “No. And there’s no reason for them to. They aren’t buying a controlling stake in the company. They’re essentially paying us to abandon our exclusive agreement with—”

  Dresner shut off the sound and accessed LayerCake’s mapping program, bringing up a satellite image of the area Bailer was driving through. His position came up, as did the position of another car about two kilometers behind.

  The man in that car had been following the CEO for two months and Dresner sent him a brief text. One that he’d hoped wouldn’t be necessary.

  The dots representing the cars began to merge as the chase vehicle accelerated and closed the distance between them. When they appeared to be nearly touching, Dresner turned back to the monitor to once again see through Bailer’s eyes. The car was visible in the rearview mirror but Bailer didn’t seem to notice, continuing to shift his gaze between the road and Tresco, who was speaking silently on screen. There was no need to turn the sound back on. What the two men had to say was no longer of any importance.

  Dresner pulled up an icon that existed only on his unit and could be activated only by commands from his mind. A list of names fanned out and he selected Bailer’s, bringing into existence a pulsing “activate” button at the edge of his vision.

  He watched for a few more minutes, waiting until Bailer started into a sharp right turn. He would have preferred something more tangible like a rock wall, but the satellite image showed no such obstacles ahead. The curve, and more specifically the steep slope at its edge, would have to do.

  23

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  USA

  I LIKE THE NEW DIGS,” Smith said, entering a room that didn’t look much bigger or more luxurious than a storage closet. Maggie Templeton frowned but didn’t look up from the laptop she was working on. Without her massive monitors and battleship-bridge of a desk she looked kind of naked.

  He’d received orders to immediately report to this forgotten corner of Fort Bragg right after wrapping up his training exercise. The smart money was that it was General Pedersen screwing with him and he was a little shocked to see Covert-One making an appearance outside its Maryland hideaway. Klein—and by extension President Castilla—were clearly taking the Merge seriously.

  Maggie thumbed behind her and Smith started obediently toward a doorway with a missing door.

  The room he entered was slightly larger, but even more full of junk—stacked folding tables, rusting file cabinets, and even a few old footlockers. Somehow, though, Fred Klein’s presence made it all feel like polished mahogany and portraits of George Washington. The man had a way of creating his own gravity.

  “I hear you got the flag.”

  “I was down to my last man, but yeah, we won,” Smith said, falling into a rolling chair with a broken wheel.

  “So what is your initial impression of the Merge’s field capability?”

  “Well, I just took out an entire Delta team with one ranger and four noncombat personnel—a couple of whom probably get winded taking out their garbage. I think it’s fair to say that my initial impression is positive.”

  “Then you believe this is something the Defense Department should be putting resources into.”

  “No question. The advantage in a simple ground-combat scenario where one side has it and the other doesn’t is incredible. I proved that today.”

  “Downsides?”

  “Dresner has a fair amount of control. He could decide to walk away from his agreement and start selling it on the open market. Or he could flake out and refuse to let us add apps to the system. Is there anything we can do about that?”

  “Probably not,” Klein admitted. “My hope was that we’d just be able to crack the encryption and keep that in our back pocket if Dresner tries to shut us out. I gave the NSA one of the prototypes, though, and they don’t even know where to start with breaking into it.”

  Smith nodded. It was basically the same thing his people were telling him. “As far as him opening up sales, it’s a risk we have to deal with anyway. Foreign militaries are going to use the commercial version and we’re going to have to develop countermeasures. While we’re at it, we’ll be thinking about how to defend against military versions, in case they ever hit the street. Worst case, we get a significant head start on countries like China. Also, you have to consider that we’re focused on unsophisticated opponents right now and it’s going to be a huge advantage against those kinds of forces.”

  Klein leaned back and lit a pipe. The elaborate ventilation system that he had in Maryland was lacking, though, and a moment later Maggie Templeton’s shout came through the door. “Smoke!”

  He frowned and put it out. “You spoke directly with Dresner, didn’t you? What’s your take? Assuming he doesn’t stab us in the back, how hard is he going to be to work with?”

  “It’s going to be a constant give-and-take. We’re going to lean hard toward defining everything as military-specific and he’s going to come up with fifty civilian uses for whatever we propose. The ability to connect directly to weapons is pretty objective, though. That’s never going to filter down to the civilian version.”

  “So your advice is to bend over and take it.”

  Smith shrugged helplessly. “’Fraid so, Fred. The world keeps moving on whether we like it or not.”

  “So much for military budget cuts.” Klein sighed.

  “Tell Treasury to fire up the printing presses because I can personally guarantee you that we’re going to want a hundred percent penetration in combat personnel.”

  “What about the technology itself? Downsides and dangers?”

  “Obviously, that’s something we need to evaluate, but I don’t see many. I can tell you from personal experience that the body modifications are pretty much irrelevant—a couple of days of discomfort that a few aspirin will knock out. I’ve talked to a number of top neurologists and they see no real potential for physical or psychological damage. The audio and video signals created by the Merge aren’t any different from the ones generated by your eyes and ears. We’ll have to guard against soldiers getting overly dependent on it, but that’s true of any technology: Guns jam, Humvees break down, planes crash. Basically, it’s just a question of what the tech gurus can develop and how practical it will be in the field.”

  “You mean what you can develop.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll be heading up the development of the Merge’s military potential.”

  “Me? I’m a medical doctor, Fred. A microbiologist.”

  “False modesty doesn’t suit you, Jon. You’re a gifted leader and an extremely capable scientist with extensive combat experience. Who better?”

  “I really don’t think this is going to be workable, Fred. General Pedersen will go absolutely ballistic if I end up running this thing.”

  Klein’s expression turned thoughtful. “And yet, the president still doesn’t care.”

  24

  Southern New Mexico

  USA

  SEAN MAHER ACCELERATED to within fifty meters of the Ford in front of him and then slowed to match its speed. Even at that distance, it was impossible to keep it fully in sight as it ducked and twisted through the rocky landscape. A far cry from his home in Ireland, but perfect for the task at hand. The last car had passed in the oncoming lane almost fifteen minutes ago and the wind was starting to gust strongly
enough to rock his SUV. No-man’s-land.

  He’d been told what to expect, but still wasn’t fully prepared when it happened. The vehicle had been traveling at exactly the posted speed since he first got a visual and it maintained that monotonous pace as it started into a sharp right-hand curve.

  This corner was no different from any of the hundreds of others in the area. This time the Ford veered left, heading toward the steep, unprotected slope at the road’s edge. Through the glare coming off the rear window, Maher could see the man in the passenger seat lunge for the wheel.

  The vehicle lost traction and the sound of straining rubber rose above the rumble of his engine and the wind. It might have actually stayed on the road had the passenger not panicked and overcorrected. Instead, the rear drifted out over the slope and gravity did the rest.

  Maher released the accelerator and let the SUV drift, watching the car drop backward onto the steep grade and pick up speed. It hit a rut near the bottom and rose up on two wheels, teetering precariously before rolling onto its roof.

  By the time Maher came to a stop on the shoulder, the Ford had flipped again and come to rest on its wheels with a boulder rammed into the left front quarter panel.

  He jumped out and began running as best he could down the loose terrain, looking for movement through glass spiderwebbed by the partially collapsed roof. Nothing obvious. Maybe this was going to be one of those rare instances of easy money.

  As he got closer, though, he spotted motion in the passenger seat and was forced to abandon his fantasy of collecting payment with clean hands.

  He swung around the trunk and gave the driver’s-side door a few hard jerks, only to find it jammed. A rock and his elbow were enough to break out what was left of the safety glass.

  As he’d been assured, the driver was dead—staring sightlessly at the ceiling with his head crammed between the pillar and the edge of the seat. Unfortunately, the man in the passenger seat wasn’t in the same condition. He was badly dazed but fully conscious, blinking hard and pawing ineffectually at his seat belt.

  Maher confirmed that the road above was still empty and pulled himself through the window frame, using the driver’s body for leverage. The surviving passenger finally realized that he wasn’t alone and squinted at him, confusion turning to relief.

  “Help me get this—”

  Instead, Maher grabbed the man’s head and slammed it into the side window. He was caught entirely by surprise but quickly began to fight. Not that his resistance was the issue—he was old and weak from the crash. The problem was that the broken safety glass was soft enough to absorb impact.

  The dashboard would have been better but the deployed air bags could raise the suspicions of an overzealous medical examiner. Not that it was likely anyone would give two traffic deaths on a treacherous road that much thought, but there was always a chance. And this operation was sloppy enough as it was.

  Maher kept at it, breathing hard and working up a sweat as he hammered the man’s skull into the glass, dodging fingers clawing weakly at him. His public role as unsuccessful rescuer would look suspect if his skin was found beneath the old man’s meticulously buffed nails.

  His shoulders burned with fatigue and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled the confined space, but he continued until the man finally slipped into unconsciousness. There was not time to rest, though. Not yet.

  He shoved himself back through the window and dropped to the ground, sliding beneath the car to tear through the fuel line with an array of multi-tool implements that wouldn’t leave an obvious cut mark. Again, probably unnecessary, but it was impossible to be too thorough in his line of business.

  Fuel leaked onto the sun-heated ground and he used a lighter to ignite it. The smoke rose quickly, curling thick and black in the unpredictable winds.

  Maher held a sleeve to his face, choking as he retreated to a safe distance. The sound of an engine became audible above and he saw a car pull up behind his rented SUV. A middle-aged couple jumped out and he swore under his breath as he moved back into the smoke and tugged uselessly on the superheated door handle—a quick and extremely painful show for his new audience.

  They shouted at him as he retreated, but it was impossible to understand what they were saying. Both were seriously overweight and neither looked capable of getting down the slope. Just to be sure that there would be no futile heroics, though, he let them off the hook by a cautionary wave that indicated he was fine and there was nothing more to be done.

  Maher moved back a few more meters as the flames grew, keeping a close watch on the man in the passenger seat through occasional breaks in the smoke. He was consumed without ever regaining consciousness.

  25

  Khost Province

  Afghanistan

  RANDI RUSSELL FIRED a quick burst at the Afghan fleeing up the slope, but only managed to kick up a cloud of shattered rock three meters to his left. It would have been nice to get lucky, but the real purpose of wasting the ammo was to give her two teammates time to find cover.

  She’d spent the last three months tracking the men who’d carried out an attack on a CIA outpost. Her normal zeal for this kind of work had been magnified by her guilt over being in Sarabat indulging Fred Klein’s curiosity instead of watching her colleagues’ backs. If she’d been where she was supposed to be, maybe she could have stopped it. Maybe her friends wouldn’t have died.

  Five of the six men responsible were already in the ground. And the last was less than a football field away.

  Behind her, Billy Grant slid on his hip and dropped into a rocky furrow just deep enough to make him disappear. Deuce had found similar cover and from her position all that was visible of him was the top of his helmet.

  It wasn’t the normal government-issue headgear she was familiar with, though. This one was created by a retired SEAL who now made a living building custom racing bicycles. Molded to the owner’s head, it bristled with the ever-increasing array of gadgets that fed information to the Merges that had become nearly ubiquitous in active special forces. Apparently, he couldn’t churn them out fast enough for the ops guys, who were willing to trade the dismal protection offered by carbon fiber for the weight savings.

  Deuce’s head didn’t move, but his rifle snaked around the side of the boulder he was behind. Randi used her scope to look downrange and watched the Afghan dive to the ground when a round barely missed him. There was no denying that it was an impressive feat. Not only had the shot been incredibly difficult, but Deuce had fired it without breaking cover.

  While she would take talent, courage, and character over technology any day, when you combined all four, the results were hard to deny.

  Grant hadn’t given himself over to the Merge quite as completely. He appeared over the lip of the ditch, sighting pointlessly over his rifle to take advantage of the fact that the target was briefly fixed. A moment later a chunk of the Afghan’s left calf was torn away.

  His pained cry was clearly audible as he bolted, fumbling something in his hand before leaping awkwardly over the top of a boulder. Both Deuce and Grant were firing now and Randi barely registered another spectacular shot that penetrated the back of the man’s thigh right before he disappeared. Instead, she focused on the object he’d dropped as it rolled across the ground.

  “Grenade!” she shouted, but neither man heard her over the sound of their weapons.

  It exploded well before it reached them, but the force of the blast sent boulders careening down the slope in a cloud of reddish dust. Grant, maybe thirty meters east of her, was in the path of the worst of it. He leapt from the shallow groove but was almost immediately engulfed by the dust.

  “Shit!” Randi said in a harsh whisper, trying to will him to reappear. Luck wasn’t on their side, though, and when the air cleared she saw the dazed man struggling to reach his rifle with a leg pinned beneath a rock that probably weighed the better part of half a ton.

  A shot hit the ground ten meters in front of the trapped so
ldier and she swore again. With too many bullets in him to go farther, the Afghan had dug in and was going to keep fighting until he bled out.

  The next round was closer—four meters short and three right. It wasn’t going to take long for him to zero in.

  “Deuce—are you all right?” she said, touching her throat mike.

  “Fine. But Billy’s pinned and my angle on this asshole is crap.”

  “I need you to keep him busy for me. On my mark. One, two, three.”

  She darted from cover as Deuce let loose a series of controlled bursts upslope. It had been a hastily conceived plan and worked even worse than she expected. The Afghan either didn’t care if he took another bullet or recognized the strength of his position. He’d been ready for her to try to get to her injured comrade and a round burned through the air just in front of her face.

  There was no going back, though. She let her momentum carry her, charging toward the debris left by the grenade as a round impacted the butt of the rifle on her back, spun her around, and dropped her to the ground.

  Deuce’s weapon had gone silent in an effort to conserve ammunition and the Afghan used the opportunity to squeeze off another round. Randi tensed, but realized she was no longer the target when the bullet impacted less than a meter short of Billy Grant’s right arm. He immediately abandoned his effort to reach his rifle and instead grabbed his blood-soaked thigh in a futile effort to free himself.

  There was no question that the Afghan was going to hit him—if not with the next shot, then with the one after that. Randi was only ten meters from her trapped man, but that was ten meters too far in the present situation. And what would she do even if she could reach him? There was no way to free him that didn’t involve at least a shovel and maybe a winch.

  The next round was even closer and Grant scooted toward the boulder trapping him, contorting his broken leg into a grotesque shape in an effort to get as close as possible.