“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.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s supposed to limit the actions of hijackers without endangering innocent passengers. They wanted to install some kind of knockout gas, but that didn’t fly. There would be lawsuits.”
“There’s going to be lawsuits anyway,” I growled. “This is a bullshit idea.”
Church nodded. “It has some obvious advantages, but there are too many holes in the operational philosophy. Typical of something designed by engineers at the behest of Congress but without the input of people experienced in the variables of field application.”
“What he said,” agreed Bug.
“I’m no technophobe,” I said. “I love my gadgets—kind of—but giving over that much control to a bunch of ones and zeros does not seem like a particularly bright idea.”
“Not even to me, and this stuff’s kind of my religion,” said Bug.
Church shook his head. “It’s typical of a certain mind-set in both Congress and the military, where an improperly considered response is used because it’s either quicker, faster, or cost-effective. Though, in this case, many of the contractors are tied to corporations and persons who have powerful lobbies. They are owned by companies that make sizable and regular campaign donations.”
“Leaving working schlubs like us to clean up the mess when it goes wrong,” I said.
Church smiled. “That is as workable a description as I’ve heard for the DMS charter.”
I chewed on what Bug had told me. “This is what Davidovich was working on when he went missing? This weapons system?”
“It’s not a weapons system in itself,” said Bug. “It’s only a piece of software that makes everything work more smoothly and efficiently. Something that gets all of the other bits of software that have been designed by, like, a thousand other people over the last forty years to talk to each other. Or, maybe, to put it better, it lets all the software talk in the same language. Once the complete installation is done, it’s going to upgrade U.S. military efficiency by something like twenty-six percent.”
Church said, “You see now why they moved forward with this?”
“Right,” I said reluctantly, “it puts us back in front of the arms race.”
“Way out in front,” said Bug.
“Tell me, though, how thoroughly have they tested this stuff? I mean, what’s the margin for error in field tests and—”
Church sighed.
Bug said, “It’s been running at a field-efficiency rating of 99.001299 percent.”
I stared at him. “That’s…”
“Impossible? Pretty much. But we, um, borrowed a copy of Regis and ran it through MindReader. And I mean really ran it. It came up one hundred percent every single time. Joe, this is really amazing software. This is why everyone said that Davidovich was the Da Vinci, the Einstein, the Hawking of computers. No one—and I mean no one anywhere—has ever come up with anything half as good as this.”
“Not even you?”
“Hey, I’m good, Joe. Maybe the top twenty in the world—”
“Top three,” said Church quietly.
“But Davidovich was way, way out in front of all the rest of us. Guy was a social ground sloth and kind of an asshole to talk to, but he was the best of the best of the best. And Regis is work he started but didn’t complete. Imagine what he would have come up with if he hadn’t been killed.”
“Yeah, I am imagining it, and I don’t like it,” I said. “I distrust perfection except in baseball pitching, craft beer, and short skirts. Otherwise … there’s always something bad waiting to happen.”
“You ever talk to Rudy about that paranoia?”
“Sadly,” said Church, “Captain Ledger is frequently correct in his distrust of perfect models. How many times have we encountered a team who has bypassed unbreakable security? Or hacked untouchable defense computers?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Bug dubiously.
“Could someone have stolen Regis? Or made a copy and then used it to control the drones at the ballpark?”
“That’s almost impossible,” said Bug. “All copies of Regis are stamped with individual ID codes, and all copies are accounted for. And each individual software install has a built-in self-delete subroutine in case one of the planes or tanks falls into enemy hands. If anyone tries to copy or download it without the right permission codes, the CPU erases everything. Davidovich wouldn’t have had either the erase or command codes, and even if he had, they’d have been changed the day he went missing, just as all of his DARPA remote-access and Web passwords were changed.”
“Come on, Bug,” I said, “Davidovich invented this thing, right? You telling me he couldn’t have built in a trapdoor?”
“Back door,” corrected Bug. “Sure, that’s possible, but DARPA’s had years to look for it, and they haven’t found anything.”
“Maybe,” I said, taking a fresh swing at it, “if he’s still alive, couldn’t someone have forced him to re-create it for them?”
“Hey, Joe,” said Bug quickly, “if you’re as
king if he could sit down and rewrite the entire Regis software package for someone else … then, no, that’s crazy talk. Davidovich had fifty-some engineers working on different parts of it. We’re not talking something you can upload with a CD-ROM. This is a massive program. The installation process alone takes specialized training. I don’t think Davidovich could possibly rebuild all of that by himself. Second, even if he did, it wouldn’t be exactly the same, and DARPA spent three years on it after Davidovich was gone. It’s not the same program.”
“Okay, one last thing, and then I’ll let this go,” I said. “About a year before Davidovich was taken, there were two computer experts killed down in Texas.”
“What about them?” he asked.
“What if someone had all their research and a living, breathing Aaron Davidovich—what would that do to our Vegas odds?”
Church was silent, considering it.
Bug said, “Oh. Wow. Yeah, I see where you’re going with that. But those guys were killed, not abducted.”
“Their research could have been stolen,” suggested Church. “There was some indication of it, I believe.”
Bug hit some keys to look something up. “Yeah, okay, maybe. Their laptops were found in the ashes, but by that point they were melted slag. Someone could have swapped out their computers for dummies before the place was torched. It’s what I would do.”
“Give us a worst-case of how their research could be applied by a well-funded terrorist organization,” I asked. “Like, say, the Seven Kings.”
“Geez, talk about a can of worms. Milo Harrison was the deputy department chair of applied robotics, and the applications he was developing were the next couple of generations of mechanical autonomy. He had two DoD contracts tied, including the Regis project. He was a hardware guy, though. Integrative adaptive systems. That’s intended to allow multiple autonomous systems to work at maximum efficiency while conserving stored power. A lot of microminiaturization stuff for switches and relays. That was four years ago, and a lot of what he was developing is already in use on just about everything from the latest Apache helicopters to automated systems on submarines. Everyone uses Harrison’s stuff because it smooths out the physical application of software commands. Almost zero lag time between order and execution.”