Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  She considered the last time she’d had feelings for another man. Capucine had hesitated back then, too concerned that she might miss out on a career, even though Jacque had told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and she had felt the same. Still, she’d said no. She was too young; too much life in front of her. Jacque had delivered an ultimatum that night—marry him or follow her career. She didn’t blame him; three years in a serious relationship was long enough to know. If it had been a year earlier, she might have said yes. She’d been head over heels then. But then she’d gotten used to him and had felt like she was no longer in love with him the way she thought she was supposed to be, so she had passed him by.

  The phone rang. Capucine pulled the small device off the dresser.

  “What did you find out?” Carlos DaSilva asked curiously without introduction.

  “Mason doesn’t know about an android at Phoenix, but NASA has androids in play,” she said as she sent him a file. “That file has my report with all my findings.”

  “How many androids?”

  “I don’t know. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “One may have been in the meeting with me,” she said. “Actually, I am certain of it.”

  “Did you get a picture?”

  “It’s in my report. They said his name was Tom Emmrich, a NASA scientist. But he was called in last-minute because of the loss of Dr. Hannah.”

  “Is Hannah dead?”

  “No.”

  “You have feelings for Mason?” he asked as Capucine stood up, her body temperature heating up at the query. She’d convinced herself that her feelings for Mason were in check and that nobody would be likely to notice. It was the only way to beat lie detector tests—by controlling emotions so well that there was no change in body temperature.

  “Feelings can lead to dead bodies,” Carlos reminded her, as if it was his normal line now. “Don’t let the honey trap trap you.”

  Capucine was offended. She didn’t like the way he’d said that. She was well aware of her skills, having been trained by the DGSE. She was fit like a soldier, but without the look of one, causing men to disregard her as a threat until they went head to head with her in a fight. Normally she didn’t think she had to convince her handler of her ability, but something about his tone was suspicious.

  “I’m fine, please.”

  “Are you? I’ll be in touch,” he said, and disconnected.

  She recalled her time with Mason as she walked through her apartment, looking out the window as the sun rose higher in the background. She walked to her bathroom, checking herself in the mirror, then back to her room. The phone rang again. She ignored it as she moved toward her closet and pulled out a simple black-and-white-striped outfit. Before dressing, she brushed her short blonde hair, surveying herself in the mirror and wondering if she wasn’t missing out on the real purpose of her life.

  Once dressed, she jumped into a taxi and ordered the driver to take her to the DGSE. She looked at her watch. It was 7 a.m. The thought crossed her mind to mention her “secret” assignment to her directorate, but if Carlos was playing her, she didn’t know where it started or ended. Instead she headed to an off-site location and called an agency friend, forwarding the picture she’d gotten from the security camera at the restaurant.

  

  90

  Dhilan’s Transformation

  October 17

  7:30 a.m.

  “Finish your paperwork?” I asked Dr. Mescher as I entered the scrubbing area at Cape Canaveral Hospital. I grabbed the surgical hand scrub, opened the chlorhexidine sponge as instructed, and set it down as I began cleaning my nails and hands at a long, deep stainless steel sink with several water faucets.

  “Yes, I did, thank you,” said Mescher, scrubbing beside me.

  “Earlier, you asked me if I was ready. I’m not sure how to answer that, although I read up on your work,” I said, still thinking of how miraculous this operation was to pull off.

  “Oh?” he replied with a curious look.

  “I at least try to be prepared,” I said, continuing to wash my hands and arms.

  “So, are you?” he asked as he grabbed his surgical hand scrub and began cleaning his nails with the abrasive side of the sponge. “Thirty times,” he reminded me as I was now moving the chlorhexidine sponge back and forth over my nails.

  “As long as you don’t hand me a scalpel,” I said stoically.

  “That’s my job,” he said as he moved from his nails to his wrists and hands with the nonabrasive side of the sponge. I followed his lead. Three minutes later, he lifted his wet hands above his elbows, away from the scrub attire and nonsterile surfaces, allowing the excess water to drip into the sink.

  “Any questions before we get started?”

  “Yes, actually. I am aware that neural connections happen through electrical impulses . . . ,” I said as he interrupted, both of us now drying our hands with the towels.

  “Energy spikes in tiny proportions reaching a certain voltage, binding neurons together, which allows memory to exist and thoughts to flow to and from the brain.”

  “But,” I said, “implanting thousands of transistors into living tissue doesn’t seem possible, besides the fact that the neurons must be sterile and that, ipso facto, is problematic.”

  “A greater threat, besides the fact that making one wrong move and tearing a vein or artery could lead to a stroke or death, is that cells or bodily proteins can come between the neurons and transistors, which could prevent coupling. In fact, many things can prevent the successful implementation of the microchips and the microbrain.”

  “Microbrain?” I asked, then clammed up as someone entered and put a blue apron on each of us and another person put the gloves on our hands. Then masks went over our mouths and noses and goggles over our eyes. Mescher waited until we were completely dressed and alone before answering.

  “Microbrain is a neologism for a brain built from microchips—what we are implanting in Dr. Hannah,” he said as we entered the operating room purposefully several minutes early.

  I nodded.

  “How can flesh and blood connect to an artificial brain?” I asked as we approached Dhilan’s bedside, where a long stainless steel table held various surgical tools all lined up in perfect order. Dhilan was attached to an array of wires, a three-armed robot sitting next to his head with what appeared to be four operating hands with pointed, needle-like ends and several microscope viewing lenses.

  “We used therapeutic hypothermia to keep his body temperature at 34 degrees for the surgery,” he said, apparently noticing I could feel the coolness of his body.

  “Won’t that kill him?”

  “If we left his temperature that low, yes, but this reduces the swelling enough to operate,” he said as my heart sank, looking at Dhilan.

  “I am optimistic,” Dr. Mescher said, “but like I said, I want you to be realistic in understanding the risks. It is brain surgery.”

  “Why hasn’t the swelling already killed him?” I asked.

  “A craniectomy removed a part of his skull, relieving the pressure.”

  “Is that the area where you’ll be operating?”

  “Yes. In the other areas, we’ll use this device,” he said, pointing to a large mounted cranial drill. “It will make tiny holes, allowing us to insert the microscopic neurons.”

  “What is that?” I asked, pointing to another machine.

  “The laser-controlling computer,” he said. “I’ll use it to cut through other areas of the skull to implant the threads to the microbrain.”

  “Neural thread is what you use to rewire the brain?” I asked, remembering my studies as he nodded. “How can you see that level of detail to do this?”

  “Everything is controlled by this computer, led by yours truly,” he said confidently. �
��No human could pull this off. Think of this as a robotic sewing machine capable of automatically embedding tiny microthreads that communicate between neurons. That is how we connect flesh and blood to the microchips—answering your question. Here, look,” he said as he motioned for me to look through the microscope.

  “They are 4 to 6 micrometers in width, a fraction of the width of human hair, outfitted with thousands of electrodes per array across hundreds of threads,” he said as I peered at the hairlike fibers.

  “You’re going to embed these in the brain without damaging the surrounding tissue?”

  “That’s the idea, yes. Once in place, the threads relay information to a microchip at speeds faster than light, which in turn transmits it to an external device, achieving a symbiosis with intelligence we have installed artificially.”

  “Incredible.”

  Dr. Mescher raised his eyebrows as he noticed the other members of his team about to enter. He waved them in as he turned to me and whispered, “Remember, Mason, my associates believe we found multiple high-grade astrocytomas in the cerebellum, frontal lobe, and parietal lobe of the brain that are prohibiting Mr. Newman from being able to function properly. I will install the microchips, and then I will install the microbrain on the back of Dhilan’s neck as we are giving Newman a titanium plate to help his spine. If you have any questions about the operation, save them for later.”

  “Got it.”

  It was time to begin.

  

  91

  Yuzuru Katoro

  October 17

  Capucine’s Flat

  Sochaux, France

  “Her name is Yuzuru Katoro, although she earned the name Ninja by attempting to assassinate the prime minister of Japan and escaping,” said Capucine’s contact at the DGSE.

  “She tried to kill the prime minister?” asked Capucine, sitting on her bed now, completely baffled that Carlos hadn’t told her the truth. “Did she work for the Keimutai?” she asked, referring to the Japanese internal police. “Or kōanchōsa-chō?” (the agency like the Directorate in France, or the United States’ CIA).

  “Yes and no. The attempted assassination was over some leaked documents that showed the Japanese government spying on its citizens, similar to the NSA spying on Americans. The opposition-controlled upper house of the parliament called for the prime minister’s resignation, but he ignored them. One of the dissidents hired Katoro, who ended up firing a poison dart that missed him by an inch. She climbed a wall before jumping from a five-story window. He subsequently resigned. Nobody knows who actually hired her,” he said, then went silent for a moment.

  “Is there more?” Capucine asked.

  “She was living under the alias Rihanna Zeva, working for Supreme Leader Ali Ahmadi. The moniker she appeared to be using in France was Émilie du Châtelet. She recently entered the country illegally.”

  “Huh, so there is a tie to the Iranians,” she said, still thinking of Carlos. “Why France?”

  “No idea. But I doubt she would have warned you about that drink if she were a threat.”

  “Yeah, and the fact that she got so close to me means she isn’t the average Jean Dupont. Anything else about her? Is she a pilot?”

  “A pilot?”

  “Mason was being delivered by a woman when he was kidnapped,” she said. “I don’t know, something he said made me wonder.”

  “It is rumored she was Ahmadi’s helicopter pilot, but that is unconfirmed.”

  “How difficult was it for you to get this information?”

  “Well, I had to dig, but once I broadened the search with facial recognition it wasn’t too difficult. Why?” he asked.

  “Just checking. Listen, Ramon, please don’t share this with anyone, okay?”

  “I understand, Capucine. I owe you anyway. Watch your back, you hear me?” he urged.

  “Why would you say that, besides the obvious?” “I don’t know, a feeling . . . ,” he said as she inhaled deeply, knowing Carlos was keeping something from her but not knowing what or why. “Carlos said something that was odd.”

  “Well?” asked Capucine.

  “He said you were Dominika. Then he laughed. But something about the way he said it wasn’t funny.”

  “He said something to me, too. Do you think he’s trying to set me up?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, watch your back.”

  “Thanks, Ramon.”

  92

  First Cyborg

  October 18

  NASA

  Cape Canaveral, Florida

  “How’s Dhilan?” General Crane asked me as he entered the lab at NASA with a cup of coffee. I was examining Nero’s schematics after having put Jerome in a secure location, since he was useless without his brain.

  “Alive,” I said. “Dr. Mescher said we won’t know if the surgery was successful for several days.”

  “And you?”

  “The sleep helped; my headache is gone.”

  “I realize I’m asking a lot of you, but we need to transform Nero into Anna Butwina.”

  “I’m looking at the schematics of Nero right now,” I said.

  “The first step is for you and Nero to visit her.”

  “I thought she was in prison.”

  “Jail, yes. Don’t worry, she’ll be released into your custody to take her to lunch. On the way, you will be in an accident. Her seat belt won’t work.”

  “Wait, what about an accident?”

  “She needs to hit her head fairly hard. She will be rushed to the hospital, where Dr. Mescher will install a microchip. Once it’s in place, you will question her about her past.”

  “You’re saying I’m going to be in a car accident?” I asked. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Just wear your seat belt,” he said as I swallowed hard.

  He paused. “It’s the only way we know to pull this off,” he explained as I turned around.

  “And if it doesn’t work according to plan?” I asked.

  “We have a backup plan. You good, Mason?” Crane asked with an intense look.

  I hesitated.

  “Mason?”

  “This just never ends, does it?” I asked rhetorically as my mind tried to consider the impact of an accident on my fragile brain.

  “The accident will only hurt Anna, well, enough to . . .”

  “It doesn’t appear I have much choice. And, if Dhilan believed I could do this . . . ,” I said, trying to convince myself I could, in fact, do this although I don’t think Dhilan would be keen about accidents that involved him as the dummy. Of course it couldn’t be as hard as installing a computer into a human being’s brain.

  “Dhilan also assured me Nero would have vital signs to pass a polygraph,” he said, looking at me as if it were a question.

  “The androids don’t have hearts.”

  “Dhilan said he didn’t need a heart, just vitals that fluctuate based on questions that pique emotions, etc.”

  “You want me to emulate a heart?” I asked, thinking of how I would pull that off.

  “That is what he was going to do, so yes.”

  I nodded, still processing the details. “Anna won’t be aware of what you are doing, either. I’m sending you with Agent Ashton, who will be asking her more questions about her work with the NRA. If we’re successful, Anna will believe you are there on my behalf to question her in order to further understand her interactions with former president Crumpler.”

  “So I work for you now?”

  “As an assistant, yes.”

  “And Agent Ashton . . .”

  “. . . will know why you are there without knowing what information you’re gathering.”

  “More secrets,” I muttered.

  “Until the president makes these androids known to the public, we must foll
ow protocol.”

  “You mean orders.”

  “Yes, orders,” he said. “You sure you’re all right, Mason?”

  “I can assure you I’m not all right, General. But I’ll do my best,” I said as he nodded and headed for the door. I watched, wondering again how I had gotten here and if this truly was the will of the Almighty One or the devil himself.

  93

  OPERATION GEMINI TWIN

  The trip to Washington wasn’t as exciting as my recent flight with Colonel Wilson, but going straight up in an F-15E Strike Eagle fighter jet with 22,000 pounds of thrust allowing it to accelerate the entire time can hardly be matched. At least this flight gave me needed time to consider how to simulate vitals for Nero, without interfering with the millions of other lines of code. As soon as we arrived, we were escorted to a waiting limo, which took us to the jail in Alexandria, Virginia.

  “According to reports, you worked closely with Paul Erickson, a GOP political advisor from South Dakota, who managed the 1992 presidential campaign of Pat Buchanan. Is that true?” asked Nero, attempting to find out what kind of information Anna was willing to share as part of his orders.

  “It’s in my statement,” answered Anna Valeryevna Butwina, the “twin” implied by the name “Operation Gemini Twin.”

  “How much interaction did you have with President Crutin? How about former president Crumpler?” asked Nero. I watched.

  “I’ve said all this before. You’re wasting my time. I’m just a tourist who happens to follow the NRA.”

  “We know you’re scheduled for laundry duty. Would you prefer we let you go before hearing us out?”

  She gave us a sarcastic look, rolling her eyes.

  “We’ve been authorized to take you to lunch. You ready?”

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You’d prefer to stay?” asked Nero.

  “It depends on whether you are taking me to lunch or I am lunch. People are known to disappear in your country.”