Kingmaker (17 page)

Sublime, the boy thinks, but keeps it to himself. “Why do we have a nuclear reactor
and
hydrogen fuel cells? Why not just one or the other?”

“Good question. We can get a lot more power out of the reactor, but the fuel cells don’t produce any heat, so when it’s more important to be invisible than to be fast, we switch over.”

“What kinds of weapons are we carrying?”

“Unfortunately, that’s highly classified, but let’s just say that there isn’t a land mass anywhere on Earth that we can’t attack.” Helvenston smiles. “And when I say attack, I’m not just talking about busting a bunker
or two. I’m talking more in the neighborhood of total annihilation. But fortunately, that’s not my mission today. At least not yet.”

“What is your mission?”

“My mission is simple. Get you into international waters and keep you aligned with the Mercury array until you’ve completed your mission.”

“So what’s my mission?”

“That I don’t know. Your orders are for your ears only.”

Dre’s eyes narrow into a perplexed squint. “There’s something I don’t really get.”

“What’s that?”

“If we’re all on the same team here, why do we all keep so many secrets from each other? I mean I don’t even know which ocean we’re in right now. Wouldn’t we all work together much better if we at least knew each other’s orders?”

Helvenston smiles again, and something about the expression strikes Dre as inauthentic. “Don’t take it personally, Andre. It’s called information compartmentalization. You get used to it. Believe it or not, it’s actually for your own good.”

“I keep hearing that,” Dre says. “No offense, but it sounds a little like bullshit to me.”

Helvenston raises her eyebrows. This time she does not smile. “It may sound like bullshit to you, Andre, but it happens to be based on hundreds of years of military experience. Look at it this way: people like us have access to some of the most advanced and devastating weapons in the entire world. Imagine what the bad guys would do to know what we know. Imagine what lengths they would go to in order to try to get us to use those weapons in ways that benefit them instead of us. One of the best protections we have is the fact that we don’t even know where we’re going to be or what we’re going to be doing day to day, and if we don’t even know, that means the bad guys probably don’t know, either. The bottom line is the less we know, the safer we all are.”

“But it’s not like someone can make us do something we don’t want to do,” Dre says.

“Really?” Helvenston says. She looks mockingly astonished. “Not even if they kidnap your entire family and mail you a different body part each day until you agree to meet their demands? Let’s see… One day you
might get a little ring box with a tooth or an ear or an eye. The next day, a long skinny flower box with a pretty little bow, but instead of long-stemmed roses, it might have an arm or part of a leg in it, broken in several places under the gradual pressure of a vice before it was amputated with a machete or a dull limb saw. And then finally, a nice big square box with a head in it and your instructions neatly folded and placed in your mother’s or your sister’s or your daughter’s mouth.” She pauses while Dre’s expression changes. “That’s not hypothetical, by the way. You’re not playing video games anymore, kid. You’re dealing with people’s lives now. Are we on the same page here, or do I need to give the order to resurface?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy says quickly. He tries to communicate subordination by straightening his posture. “We’re on the same page. I was just wondering.”

“Is there anything else you were
just wondering
about?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good,” Helvenston says. Her eyes linger on the boy a moment longer, then she checks her watch. “Then I guess we’d better get you to your console.”

Dre follows Helvenston through narrow passages lined with intricate arrangements of ducts, lines, tubes, and conduits. The boy is surprised by how few people they pass, and by how much of the vessel’s operations must be automated. The floors continue to be coated in a soft silicon material, and as they descend a set of spongy stairs, Dre makes the connection that the material is probably more for sound dampening than for traction.

“The remote command and control center is divided into pods,” Helvenston explains. “Since every pilot could have different orders and missions, everyone works in isolation. You’re in pod number four today.”

“Are there any other pilots on board?”

“Information compartmentalization,” Helvenston articulates carefully. “Try to keep that in mind.”

She pushes open the pod hatch, but does not enter. Dre steps into the room and sees that it is larger than he was expecting, and entirely lined with display panels. His console is set up according to his personal specifications on a metal surface in the corner along with a tall padded chair. There are two canisters fixed to the table with long bent straws positioned
to be reachable without the use of hands. The flooring in the room is more of a mesh as opposed to solid silicone or rubber, and Dre sees that there are slots in the metal underneath—probably anchors to support changing the room’s configuration.

“You have water and protein at your console,” Helvenston says from outside the room. “We ask that you use headphones and speak directly into your mic in order to keep the noise down. Your commander will let me know when you need a break, and I will come get you. Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good,” Helvenston says. “I guess that means you’re finally learning.”

She smiles at Dre once more before pulling the hatch closed and bolting it from the outside.

Dre sits at the console and positions his headset. He adjusts the mic until it is directly in front of his mouth. “Andre Strasser reporting for duty.”

Pearl’s response comes through the headset. “Welcome, Lieutenant Strasser. Your console is now configured.”

Dre’s left and center screens come up, but they are dimmed. Dre places his hands over his control pads but does not lower them yet.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Strasser,” Dre hears. The voice is male and unfamiliar—young, but definitely older than Dre. “This is Commander Russak. Do you copy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. You ready to go to work today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Outstanding, Pilot. Your call sign for today will be Arclight. Confirm.”

“Copy that,” Andre says. “Arclight.”

“Arclight it is. Now we’re going to start you off with something nice and easy on your first day in the saddle. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds good, sir.”

“You can drop the formality with me, Strasser. As long as you follow orders and everything’s meshing like it’s supposed to, we’re friends. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Dre says. “I mean yes, I understand.”

“
That’s
what I’m talking about,” Russak says. “You’re taking over a mission already in progress, so all your toys are already out of the toy box. You got a Requiem on the ground and a Crossbow in the air. Tell me when you have visuals.”

As soon as Dre’s screens come up, he knows exactly where he is. The sudden recognition is like touching an unexpectedly live wire. He checks his aerial view for confirmation, takes a deep breath, and does his best to steady his voice. “Affirmative,” the boy says. “I have both visuals.”

“I love it when all this shit actually works,” Russak says. “Now, missions don’t get much simpler than this, so with a little luck, we’ll both be home in time for milk and cookies. You with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Here’s what we got. You see that wall to the northwest?”

“I got it.”

“And you see that massive fucking mob to the east?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Our one and only job today is to make damn sure those people don’t get over, under, around, or through that wall. Do you copy?”

“Copy that.”

“Good. This is basically the most expensive and high-tech babysitting job in history. They got plenty of small arms, but nothing that can breach a barrier of that size, and certainly nothing that can chip your paint. But still, your weapons are hot, so if we see someone so much as look at that wall funny, we’re going to deal with them with some extreme motherfucking prejudice. Our orders are to make an example out of anyone we consider to be even marginally lacking in compliance. You with me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dre says. “Do we know what all those people want?”

“Who the fuck knows. Either food or democracy, probably. That’s pretty much what everyone around the world seems to want these days. But whatever it is they want, they ain’t getting it on our watch.”

“What’s on the other side of the wall?”

“Officially, that’s above both our pay grades, but unofficially, the entire government of Sierra Leone is holed up back there. Apparently the people who sign our paychecks would prefer none of them get overthrown anytime soon. Personally, I could give two shits who or what’s on the other side of that wall as long as it’s all still there eight hours from now. You copy?”

“Copy that,” Dre says. “Let’s just get through our shift and get home.”

“
That’s
what I’m talking about, my man. Now all I want you to do for now is walk around a little bit like the big menacing badass son of a bitch that you are, and I highly doubt anyone will so much as spit in your general direction. You got any questions?”

“No, sir,” Andre says. “It’s all good.”

“Outstanding, Pilot. In that case, I am transferring control to you in three… two… one… Arclight is now in play. Confirm transfer of control.”

Dre does not let himself think. His heart is pounding in his chest, his fingers are trembling from the adrenaline rush, and his palms are cold with sweat. When his hands make contact with his control pads, his actions are fluid and decisive. He switches to his aerial view, arms the Raijin air-to-surface missiles, and paints two targets: the first is a section of wall a hundred meters north of his position, and the second is the core of the Requiem. He fires, lets his hands fall away from the control pads, and stares straight ahead at what he has just done.

There is sudden screaming in Dre’s ears.
“What the fuck, Strasser!”

There are tears on Dre’s cheeks as he snatches his headset off and slams it down on the console. Time takes on the surreality and underwater-pacing of a lucid dream as he listens to the hatch behind him being unsealed. When he turns, there is a figure coming at him, but it is Helvenston that he watches. She is moving slowly, her sidearm drawn and leveled at his face, her smile hateful and menacing.

In a single motion, Dre feels himself wrenched from his chair and pinned facedown to the rubber mesh. His arms are behind him and there is so much pressure on his chest from the knee in the middle of his back that he has to work hard to take in a breath. Simultaneously he hears the hiss of a jet injector syringe and feels a stinging in his shoulder.

“You little shit,” Helvenston says above him. He can see the toes of her boots and hear the scarcely contained rage in her voice. “I promise you that you will spend the rest of your life regretting what you just did.”

Dre can still hear screaming from the headset. He arches his back enough that he can lift his chin and turn his head toward the console, but the man on top of him drives him further into the mat. There is burning in his shoulders and his lungs are so compressed that he can no longer fill
them. The smell of the rubber begins to fade. He makes small sounds with the last of his breath and static begins to form at the edge of his vision. The last thing the boy sees before he loses consciousness is black smoke and orange flames and an incredible mass of humanity surging forward as one.

It was explained to Andre Strasser that Hotel California offered its guests a choice between two exclusive treatment packages. The Luxury Package consisted of comfortable and relaxing conversation under high-resolution functional magnetic resonance imaging capable of measuring the electrical field of each individual neuron, and P300 brainwave monitoring using EEG and a noninvasive electrode net worn over the head and face. As long as sessions progressed in a positive and productive manner, and assuming interrogators remained satisfied that the information being collected was both accurate and of acceptably high value, guests could expect a relatively stress-free and even reasonably comfortable stay.

The Alternative Package—or Enhanced Package, as it was sometimes called—was designed for guests who persisted in being less forthcoming. Hotel California staff had a great deal of technology at its disposal to ensure the validity of the data it sought; however most of it suffered from the same problem: it required the voluntary submission of specific details in a calm and highly controlled environment. If answers to questions were not provided willingly, therefore, the only alternative was to extract them.

Andre had refused to choose a package—in fact, he had little more than insults and vulgarities to offer anyone he came into contact with for his first few days of incarceration—so the Hotel California staff took the liberty of selecting one for him. Everything that happens to the boy now happens randomly—or rather, it is meticulously choreographed in a way that defies predictability. The lights might go off in the middle of a meal,
or they might stay on for several consecutive days. Sometimes he is fed regularly, and sometimes nobody comes to his cell for so long that his head throbs from dehydration and his lips crack and bleed and he must resort to drinking his own dark and viscous piss to stay alive. When food is brought to him and he lifts the cover off the dish, he does not know if he is going to find a decomposing bird swarming with ants and maggots, or a hot sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit sandwich. And after he eats, he waits to see if the meal was spiked with psychotropic drugs that induce intense fear and paranoia, or make him pace around his cell and mutter things to himself that he cannot later remember, but that are invariably used against him during interrogations.

Sometimes it is warm and dry, and sometimes the sprinklers come on and the air from the ducts turns cold and he is left drenched and shivering under a tiny blanket until he is hypothermic. When he tries to sleep, he is awakened erratically by horrifying sounds coming from the speakers in the ceiling: shrieks of intense pain, the angry buzz of swarming insects, an infant wailing inconsolably for hours, or violent and painful vomiting.