Predator One (24 page)

But Circe was circling the drain, Toys was sure of it.

Rudy had taken the news very hard. He was already worn thin from having actually
been at the ballpark during the drone attack. Now this, plus the strain of a cross-country flight in a military transport jet.

The room was quiet except for the machine noises.

Junie sat with her eyes closed, either sleeping or meditating. Toys couldn’t tell.

He wanted to close his own eyes and drift away, but he dared not. Someone had to keep eyes on Circe.

Even as he thought that, he knew
it was an irrational thought. Circe was in a hospital, hooked to every kind of monitor in the catalog. There were nurses and doctors coming by every few minutes. There were armed DMS agents standing outside the door.

The place couldn’t be safer.

Nothing could possibly happen here.

But as he thought that, an older version of him whispered ugly secrets into his ear. Six years ago, the Seven Kings
had launched their Ten Plagues Initiative in a hospital. In a manner of speaking.

They’d blown up the London Hospital.

Killing everyone inside. Darkening the skies over the old city.

Proving to everyone who stood on the street and watched or who followed the news on TV that there was nowhere—no place at all—that was truly safe from the Seven Kings.

Get out,
whispered the old Toys. The malicious
lackey of Sebastian Gault. The toady of Hugo Vox. The Toys who had been a killer and an enabler of killers.
Leave now. Get out before it happens. Get out before you die with these people.

Toys raised his head and looked at Junie, her face lovely and serene, and at Circe, who struggled to stay alive, for herself and her baby.

“Leave…?” he murmured, his voice as soft as a whisper.

Leave while
you can. Save yourself.

Toys looked away, out the window at the scudding clouds.

“Never,” he said. Then, a moment later, he repeated it. “Never.”

Chapter Forty-seven

Thomas Jefferson University Hospital

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

March 30, 4:34
P.M.

“The men you faced,” said Church, “were they regular troops or Kingsmen?”

I had to think about that. The Seven Kings had used a lot of different kinds of fighters over the years, including security specialists—aka mercenaries—from Blue Diamond and other companies. But their elite shooters
were called the Kingsmen. These were men trained to be as dangerous and capable as U.S. special forces operators. Most of the trainers and some of the soldiers were, in fact, former special ops players. Fighting them was how I imagined going to war against Echo Team might be.

I shook my head slowly. “Not Kingsmen. They were tough, but I took them out too easily.”

Church called Aunt Sallie in
Brooklyn to tell her about the confirmation that we were dancing with the Kings. She was on her way to her townhouse for fresh clothes because it looked like she’d be pulling back-to-back shifts at the main DMS headquarters, the Hangar. I overheard her say that she’d pass the info along, initiate the proper protocols and ring all the alarms.

Church ended the call. “Captain, I think we can now
agree that this event is tied to what Echo Team discovered at the Resort.”

“No kidding,” I said sourly. “But it doesn’t tell us who’s running this. I mean, sure, the Seven Kings … but at last count all seven of them were dead. Who’s filled their slots?”

Church shook his head. “To be determined. What concerns me most is their use of drone technology. We’ve had too many cases involving them. There
have been some disturbing developments in the world of UAVs. Bug can explain it better than anyone, and I think you’ll want to hear this.”

Chapter Forty-eight

UC San Diego Medical Center

200 West Arbor Drive

San Diego, California

March 30, 4:39
P.M.

“There’s really nothing you can do at this point, Doctor Sanchez.”

The nurse wore one of those smiles that told Rudy what she really meant was “You’re being an obstructive pain in the ass, but I can’t say that because you’re too important.” The message was clear, though.

“I’d
like to stay anyway,” said Rudy.

The nurse shifted slightly to her left. She did not actually plant herself between him and the door to Circe’s room, but the motion was every bit as eloquent as her smile.

“They’re doing everything they can, doctor,” insisted the nurse, “and they are the very best.”

It was framed to leave no reasonable room for objection or argument.

Rudy, defeated, turned
and trudged away, leaning heavily on his hawthorn cane. A thin, dour black man he didn’t know very well followed him at a discreet distance. His name was Cowpers, and he’d met Rudy at the airport. A watchdog provided by Mr. Church. A new hire for the Pier. Rudy had tried to engage the man in conversation, but it had been a nonstarter. Cowpers was his minder, not his buddy.

So, with the lugubrious
bodyguard in tow, he walked the halls of the hospital.

He hated to leave his wife.

Since flying out from the horrors at the Citizens Park disaster in Philadelphia, he had hardly been away from Circe for more than a few minutes. He was jet-lagged, traumatized, and frightened.

So terribly frightened.

He also felt like a coward for leaving Philadelphia. His specialty within psychology was trauma,
and he knew that he was needed there. Probably more than he was needed here in California. People had died. People had experienced actual terror during and after the bombs. His best friend had nearly died. Rudy’s place was out there, helping to address the wounds cut into the minds and hearts of all those people, including the hundreds of professionals and volunteers who were working around the
clock to sift through the debris.

That’s where he should be.

But that wasn’t where he could be.

Circe was here in California. She was here, and their unborn baby was here.

And so Rudy was here.

For once—just this once—be damned to anyone and everyone else. It was a difficult thing for him to think, but it was his thought nonetheless. His family needed him more.

What, though, did they need
him to do?

The doctors would not allow him to participate in the testing or research of her case. The conflict of interest was crystal clear, and although Rudy could mount superbly crafted arguments, he had no conversational foothold. They built a wall, with Circe on one side and him on the other.

So he drifted like a ghost. Wandering the halls with a silent killer for company.

Chapter Forty-nine

Thomas Jefferson University Hospital

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

March 30, 4:42
P.M.

Church opened his laptop and tapped a key, and suddenly Bug’s face filled the screen. Bug was brown, young, bespectacled, übernerdy, and smiling. He was born Jerome Taylor but called Bug by everyone, including his mother. He was a thirtysomething computer sorcerer and one of the most trusted
people in the DMS. Church allows him—and only him—total access to the MindReader supercomputer. In the wrong hands, that computer could do untold harm. Catastrophic, and that’s not a joke. Bug uses it to help Church and the Department of Military Sciences fight the good fight. It’s possible that Bug believes MindReader to be a person, and it’s also possible he’s in love with it on a level that
would be creepy for anyone else. Well, actually, it’s kind of creepy even with him, but Bug is a friend, and he manages somehow to hold on to some of his innocence without being naive. That’s a tough trick.

Then Church turned to Bug. “Tell Captain Ledger about the Regis program.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Regis,” said Bug, jumping right in, “is a variable-autonomous-operations-software package
with military and nonmilitary applications. Developed by DARPA in conjunction with twelve independent contractors working with the Department of Defense. The first thing you have to know is that computer-network upgrades all across the Defense Department are about thirty years behind schedule, and something like seven or eight billion dollars overbudget. It’s a mess. We have some jets with next years’
avionics and some with stuff you couldn’t run on a Commodore Sixty-four. The why of this is too complicated to go into.”

“Budgets and bullshit. That part I do understand.”

Church removed a package of vanilla wafers from his briefcase, selected one, and nibbled it.

“The problem,” Bug continued, “is that we’re so big it’s hard to fix our own systems. Smaller countries can do it faster because
there simply isn’t as much to do. Which is frustrating, because we’re seeing the arms race become like a dead heat. Not because we don’t have the tech, which we do, but because of the logistics involved. And there are so many different kinds of tech—hardware and software—on any given ship, tank, plane, whatever, that we’re also losing operational efficiency because these systems were designed by
the lowest bidders and not built to work in peak harmony with other tech. You following, Joe?”

“Running with a limp, but yeah.”

“Since it’s faster and cheaper to install new software than to replace hardware, the Holy Grail of this whole process has been to develop a new kind of artificial intelligence that can recognize disharmonies between existing tech and write its own code for a workaround
so that all software works in harmony.”

“Wow. Sounds a little like MindReader.”

“Similar design theory. A chameleonic system that creates a harmonic alliance with disparate systems.”

“Wait,” I said, “I think I actually understood that whole sentence.”

Church shook his head and tapped crumbs from his cookie.

“Until a few years ago,” continued Bug, “that master AI program was a pipe dream.
Then someone figured it out. Aaron Davidovich, remember him?”

“Sure, the guy who was snatched in Ashdod a few years ago. Don’t we think he’s dead?”

“Probably,” said Bug.

“Tell me again why we think that.”

“Because,” said Church, “if he was in captivity, there is a high likelihood that he would have been compelled to complete his design work for a foreign power or to build something new. In
either case, his designs are so unique and advanced that they would have his fingerprints all over them. So far, nothing like that has appeared.”

“So, he’s probably dead,” said Bug. “Point is that Davidovich’s research was already being developed for active use by his team at DARPA. He called it Regis, but really it’s three integrated combat systems and one alternate-use system. The first one,
code-named Enact, was designed as a smart system backup for manned craft, mostly for instances when the pilot is incapacitated. That one will even try to land a plane—or ditch it safely—after a pilot has ejected. Enact will also interface with the avionics and weapons control systems in the event the pilot is doing something else. One scenario would be a pilot who is injured from battle or midair
collision damage and needs to do immediate first aid like stopping arterial bleeding or reconnecting ruptured oxygen. Enact continues to fly the plane and will even, to a limited degree, attempt to complete the mission. It can be deliberately initiated by the pilot, remotely initiated by a ground station via satellite, or switched on if the jet’s internal diagnostics deem it critical.”

“Okay,”
I said.

“Then there’s ComSpinner,” continued Bug. “That’s a true high-end, self-guidance system. This is the one they’re installing in missile systems and automated combat satellites. Mostly the weapons are controlled from live operators, but in the event of a catastrophe like the destruction of the command center, the AI will continue to fight the battle.”

“Um … that’s kind of cool, and kind
of sick and twisted.”

Church merely smiled.

“The third program,” Bug said, “is BattleZone. That’s your true combat AI. It’s what we’re putting into drones that we need to operate outside of the range of human control or that are in the presence of jammers that would interfere with remote controls. For countries that can’t afford a drone program, developing long-range, high-tech jammers is a
growth industry. BattleZone is also being installed into fighters like the QF-16s, the QF-16X Pterosaur superdrones, and a few other birds. There’s even a DoD group in Washington State working on adapting it to a bunch of Apache helicopters so they fly missions without human pilots.”

“Oh, swell.”

“Tell him the truly disturbing part,” said Church.

“Wait—that isn’t the disturbing part? Self-guiding
warplanes?” I said weakly.

“Ah, well, that’s the problem with modern cutting-edge tech,” said Bug. “There’s always something creepier in development. That’s where we come to the alternate-use system. It’s called SafeZone.”

“I can’t wait to hear this.”

“Because of 9/11 and other hijackings, the Department of Defense is working with Homeland and the FAA to install SafeZone, which is a version
of BattleZone, into every passenger jet. They’ve been doing it on the sly, supposedly so hijackers won’t know it’s there, but really it’s because they know there’d be public pushback.”

“Why install a battle program? I don’t get it.”

“It’s not exactly the same system,” Bug said quickly. “Say a plane deviates unexpectedly from its course. The assumption is either mechanical problems or hijacking.
If the pilot is still in control, SafeZone requires him to enter a reset code within two minutes. If he doesn’t—if, say, he’s been hijacked—then SafeZone locks out the controls and flies the plane. It interfaces via coded link with air traffic controllers working for Homeland. The program will land the plane at whatever airfield Homeland dictates.”

“That actually doesn’t suck,” I said.

Bug sighed.
“There are countermeasures built into the system. This isn’t public knowledge yet, and probably won’t be unless it gets leaked. Or unless there’s a technical glitch and it fires accidentally. Planes like Air Force One can deploy external countermeasures like flares to attract heat seekers. But SafeZone has internal countermeasures. It can modulate temperature and airflow inside the cabin.”