by Tom Wheeler
Fifteen minutes later she arrived, barely conscious, at Ahmadi’s hangar. She called a friend and asked her to meet her at the base—a place she knew Tasha would recognize. Then she closed her eyes, wondering if she was taking her last breaths.
“I’m sorry, Emmanuel. Please forgive me,” she said, closing her eyes. She felt cold and distant, as if she was heading to the place where she would spend eternity.
24
The Discovery
September 4
The White House, Washington, D.C.
It was a quarter to nine on a clear and cool morning, something that came with the advent of fall, a season Crane liked for one reason—football. He smiled as he wondered if his team could have another winning season. He was a closet Patriots fan in the land of the Redskins, not that anyone believed the Skins had a prayer. “Tom Brady can’t live forever, nor can Belichick,” he muttered as he set down the newspaper, thankful for the distraction. He’d had the same nightmare last night: the one that showcased bombs dropping on his grandson as “collateral damage”—a phrase he had used before a small child was killed when they’d taken out Taliban forces in a bombing. He would never forget the look of that little boy’s face a second before he died. The thought reminded him of the one stop he had to make on the way to the Oval Office: the Basilica of Saint Mary in Old Town. He’d promised to ask the minister to pray for his grandson, who he’d just discovered was being bullied at school.
Crane had known something was wrong when he’d spoken to his son Josh last night; he just hadn’t been able to put his finger on what it was until he’d relentlessly probed. He also knew why Josh wouldn’t tell him. The lesson the strict general had taught Josh about bullies many moons ago was to knock the bejesus out of them, teaching them a lesson they’d never forget. Josh had taken his father’s advice to heart. The next time the white kid had called Josh the n-word, Josh had smashed his fist so hard into the kid’s head that he’d killed him.
It was a freak accident, of course. Everyone knew he hadn’t meant to kill the kid, except the law, which didn’t care that the one blow had connected with the one area that was most dangerous to life—the temple. Josh had been charged with manslaughter, even at 16 years old, altering the course of his life forever.
The good news, according to Josh, anyway, was that he had become a believer in Emmanuel. Crane was happy for his son. “Whatever works” was his new theory, although he didn’t understand why believers didn’t see how faith was a crutch to survive the crapshoot that was life. But who was listening anymore to personal ideologies?
Josh had taught his own son, Cody, to turn the other cheek, following Emmanuel of the Grand Book, an approach Crane was no longer in a position to refute, since his own antidote had failed miserably. He recalled that somewhere in the Grand Book it said, ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ although he’d never read it himself—he was just certain it was in there somewhere.
Josh had told the general that Cody needed a father who cared for him without shaking him until his teeth fell out when he did something wrong, which, evidently, was what Josh thought Crane had done in his efforts to discipline his son.
“It’s a new generation,” Crane said as he delivered his request to the minister. A moment later, the general hopped back into his car and drove from South Royal Street to Washington Street, past National Airport, across the 14th Street bridge, and to the White House, ignoring the normal sights most tourists couldn’t get enough of. Of course, that was always the case. People get used to seeing what they see every day.
“We have a problem, sir,” General Crane said, entering the Oval Office, where President Tense sat at his century-old Resolute Desk.
The president looked up at him before rolling his eyes and standing up as if to stretch. “Are you talking about the unfortunate deaths of Pak-un and General Hwang?” the president quipped as he turned, looking Crane in the eyes.
25
New York Times Article
General Crane took a deep breath as he stared at the eagle carved into the front of the president’s desk, part of the old presidential seal. The world around him was quiet for a moment, but only because the White House was still in control of his life. Or at least so it appeared. The fact that he was involved in black-op assassinations that impacted millions was unnerving when he thought about it. But nobody told the truth anymore, he reasoned, so while he didn’t like it, over the years he had accepted it as his fate and the only way to protect the country he loved.
“There’s a New York Times article about a cyborg or android rescuing Mason Thomas, and the possibility of another one robbing a bank in California.”
“Excuse me?” the president said, sitting down again in his brown leather chair, his forearms settling on the armrests as he leaned back.
“Nothing conclusive. Just reports of supernatural events that others witnessed.”
“Who wrote it?” asked the president.
“Lisa Cummings. Some guy was involved in a riot and said he saw a woman steal gold from the vault at a Wells Fargo.”
“Has Wells Fargo responded?”
“Not yet. Oh, and get this, the same guy said he saw a hovering car.”
The president rolled his eyes. “General, we have secret androids killing world leaders. You think a hovering car is out of the question? Unless you’ve personally been in Apple and Terrafugia’s secret warehouses, I wouldn’t rule anything out.”
“Flying cars, yes, hovering cars, no,” said Crane. “At least according to Dhilan. He says a hovering car is impossible, and, well, if he says it . . .”
“I know, it must be true,” said the president, who was well aware that Dr. Dhilan Hannah was the foremost NASA scientist—the same guy who had built their secret androids under the supervision of the former president.
“Speaking of androids, according to Dhilan, Mason isn’t backing down on his assertion that Ahmez is an android. Dhilan told Mason to keep his mouth shut, which he apparently did, but if we keep Mason in the dark long enough—he will talk,” said Crane.
“I thought Dhilan was going to hire him,” President Tense replied with a curious look. He rocked back in his chair, hands clutched. “Or should I say NASA was going to hire him.”
“Didn’t you speak to Mason after the State of the Union?”
“He didn’t mention it—nor did I find it appropriate to broach the subject.”
“Mason is still in the due diligence process,” Crane said. “NASA can’t give top security clearance without going through the standard channels.”
“What was Crumpler thinking when he decided to keep those androids a secret from Congress—and from me?” asked the president, now crouching forward while looking General Crane in the eyes.
“Is that an honest question, Mr. President?”
The president turned his chair and looked out his window.
“No, I suppose not. Are you certain we don’t have a flying car, General?” he asked with his back toward Crane.
“I am certain,” Crane answered as President Tense turned to face him, flashing an intense look. “But unless you want the same reputation as the former president’s, you’re going to have to tell Congress about the androids,” he said as their eyes met.
“I know,” said President Tense, turning his gaze back to the window.
“And I mean before they find out from the New York Times.”
“Can we control the narrative?” asked the president.
“In the short term, yes. But the longer we have the press snooping around, the less likely this will remain a secret unless you start arresting them,” said Crane, raising his eyebrows.
The president pursed his lips.
“You been talking with Mason?” asked the president, evidently because of the comment.
“No, sir. I’m not a religiou
s man.”
“There’s something else, General.”
“Sir?”
“I met with Wesley this morning. I don’t know how he found out or what he knows about the details, but he came in telling me that he knew we were behind the death of Pak-un,” he said, standing up and walking to the front of his desk.
“He knows about the androids?” Crane asked. The president’s eyebrows rose. “How?”
“I’d say he suspects an android.”
“How would that man—” said Crane, stopping short. “Sam. Did Sam tell him? Geez,” he said, exasperated. “It had to be Sam. He was mad as hell that I kept him in the dark. Then I fired him.” Crane tried to keep his temper in check while speaking about the former CIA director who’d taken the brunt of the blame for Diablo 8-16. Finally he took a deep breath. Sam had been the fall guy last time. Crane knew he himself would be the fall guy now if an operation to assassinate the supreme leader of North Korea leaked—particularly one using secret androids. And that caused him concern.
“Doesn’t matter,” the president responded.
Crane sat facing the desk, tapping his fingers on the side of his leg, considering the president’s comments as Tense sat back in his chair.
“I’m sorry, how can a leak not matter?”
“Wesley’s not a Democrat.”
“Please. So he’s keeping his speculation to himself, is that what you mean?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?” Crane pushed, taking a deep breath. His mind raced as he considered what it would mean if the press got hold of the truth.
“He wants to be CIA director. It’s the only way he won’t spill the—”
“That is blackmail, sir,” said Crane. Planting his feet on the floor, he moved to the window, noticing the Grand Book sitting on the side table, along with a large black sculpture of an eagle. “Besides, we don’t even know what he knows.”
“And all this time I thought it was politics,” the president replied as Crane shook his head in disgust.
“It wasn’t politics 15 years ago,” said Crane.
“Right, the good ol’ days,” said President Tense sarcastically. “Wesley is qualified, besides the fact that he has a stellar reputation. You can’t deny he’s the perfect candidate, particularly since he’s already in the job.”
Crane sat in silence.
“Wesley was the only one who did raise the red flag about possible breaches in security at Port Los Angeles weeks ago, not that the CIA can release that information,” Tense continued. Besides, he has been the assistant director of the CIA for a decade. He knows everyone, everyone trusts him internally, and he was smart enough to figure out that a robotic asset was sent into North Korea when nobody else has. I like that. Nor will he keep secrets from me.”
Crane bit the inside of his cheek. “Sam says he raised the red flag and the documents that verified his assertion mysteriously—”
“Disappeared. I know. Marína told me Sam used a private server, the real reason he was dismissed. When did you take over as senior counselor to the president, General?” Tense asked, apparently moving on.
“I was appointed by President Bush after 9-11 and brought back by President Crumpler in 2017,” responded Crane.
“You graduated West Point, right?”
“A hundred years ago, yes, sir,” he said. The president smiled slightly.
“Served under Schwarzkopf in Desert Storm?” Tense asked rhetorically.
General Crane nodded, wondering where this was going.
“Everyone knows you’re a highly decorated general. Similarly, Wesley is a highly decorated career intelligence officer. While you were fighting in Grenada in the ’80s, Wesley was stationed in Russia as an operative. Then he was moved to the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center.”
“Please. I’m well aware of the background of the former assistant director of the CIA,” Crane said, knowing Wesley’s first day in the CIA was September 11, 2001.
“He’ll keep our secret until we’re ready to let the congressional committee in on our assets, Jerome and Nero. Wesley’s on our side, despite what he knows,” the president said warmly.
“What about Jermaine? I thought he was our—”
“Jermaine is a good candidate, but being chief of a ‘black site’ CIA base that tortured prisoners in Thailand won’t go over too well with Congress. Wesley is a better choice. Anyway, I’ve already made up my mind.”
Crane took a deep breath as he considered that last remark, after the president had clearly told the general he would be involved in the decision. “What about the Congressional Oversight Committee?” Crane asked, having decided the appointment of Wesley wasn’t a battle he wanted to fight, not after running a black op that had taken out Pak-un. But having an active Congressional Oversight Committee was essential to the checks-and-balances system of the US government.
“So far, the only person on the committee is Alexandra Martinez.”
“You’re kidding,” Crane said skeptically. “Martinez?”
“My good friend Speaker D’Alesandro told me if I don’t put Alexandra Martinez on the committee, she will be kicking my heels over DECREE 2020 under the threat of impeachment.”
“Impeachment?”
“The Speaker knows the Congressional Oversight Committee wasn’t involved in the development of our robotic assets. She has no idea they are androids, which is the reason I don’t need to rock the boat. If I add Martinez, D’Alesandro said she would be more cooperative. I’m assuming I will need the support once the cat is fully out of the bag.”
“Politicians,” Crane said as his head moved from side to side. “Is Martinez qualified?” he queried, surprised that the president was actually listening.
“She has a master’s in robotics, so yes, fortunately, she is, or unfortunately, depending on your true feelings. What have you found out about Hassan bin Laden?” asked the president, obviously wanting to end the discussion about Masters.
“Wesley said our intel hasn’t concluded that Hassan is in that compound. He still believes we killed him in a drone strike.”
“Isn’t that the point of our birds? Tell Wesley to have Captain Rank get eyes in the sky today. Do it, Chesty. I want to know what’s inside that compound, pronto.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about DNA on the assailants of Diablo 8-16?” the president asked.
“So far we’ve traced two of them back to the Midwest.”
“Americans?”
“Sleeper cells from Saudi Arabia in 2000,” said Crane.
“What about the third?”
“Trying to confirm it is Rama, but that’s a difficult process because we haven’t had DNA on him. We may be chasing a ghost. We have to assume we got him.”
“Is Homeland making that assumption?”
“Niki is still trying to make sense of the holes in our security because of all the turnover,” said Crane. The president shook his head. “Wesley believes he’s dead.”
“I don’t need to remind you of the need to confirm the death of Rama Rhamine yesterday, right? I got Nick at SOX to delay the story, but he won’t hold it forever. And remember Mason—”
“I know—he had a dream that Rhamine’s alive. But unless Mason can dream up where he is, that information is useless.”
“He said Anacostia Parkway. I’d say that is a location.”
“We checked. There is nothing there.”
“Yet. You have something against Mason?” asked the president, his facial expression intense.
“It’s not that I have anything against him. It’s just . . .”
“Yes?”
“The science behind reason is logic. Dreams aren’t either one. Besides, if I believe Mason, then . . .”
“Your entire world may be turned upside down?” the presid
ent interrupted. Crane nodded. “I understand, General. I don’t like it, either, but his dreams should at least concern us enough that we consider them. He did warn us once.”
Crane nodded.
“Well, if you think I’m cynical about religious people, wait until Wesley gets your ear.”
“You know something I don’t?” asked the president.
“Wesley’s an atheist.”
“Geez, Chesty. For a moment I thought you were going to tell me he was gay.” Crane’s heart sank.
“You’re homophobic? What about your State of the Union address? ‘We all must unite under tolerance and peace . . .’ ”
“The Grand Book makes it clear, that behavior is abhorrent to the Almighty One,” Tense interrupted.
“But you—”
“I don’t say it in public? Hell, no. It would be the end of my political career,” he said as Crane rolled his eyes.
“Have you spoken with Mason about that hypocrisy?”
“You mean the dreamer you have difficulty with, General?”
Crane took a deep breath.
“I am not administering a purity test, Mr. President.”
“You sure? You can’t have it both ways, General.”
“Right, unless I’m a politician,” Crane responded. “One last thing. It’s in your intelligence brief, but . . .”
“What is it?”
“The FBI intercepted a phone call in South Dakota. Bottom line, they are looking into Jonah Soul.”
“The chairman of Phoenix Corporation?” asked Tense. Crane nodded. “For what? They can’t randomly listen in to his calls. Who authorized this?”
“This wasn’t random.”
“Then what was it?”
“The FBI was following up on a lead for an American-based jihadist group. It’s probably nothing, but . . .”
“Right,” said the president as Crane departed. “Be careful, General. I need facts before we make accusations.”
