The torpedo tube doors and missile launch doors, however, did not open.
Ghose saw all of this in a second.
And then there were no more seconds of her life.
Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
Air Force One
In Flight
April 1, 12:59 P.M. Pacific Standard Time
The president asked Church to go over the Regis thing again for the benefit of the gathered generals and senior advisors. Church took them through it step by step, adding to it the fact that the Kings clearly had abducted Doctor Davidovich and had hacked a DMS drone to kill the scientist.
As Church spoke, though, the president shook his head and kept shaking it. So did most of the military officers. Alice Houston sat next to Linden Brierly, and they kept exchanging worried looks. This was not going well. No matter how it would ultimately play out, it was not going well.
Finally, he slapped his hand flat on the tabletop with a sound as loud as a gunshot.
“Damn it, Deacon,” he growled, “you do realize that what you’re asking is impossible.”
“It’s not impossible, Mr. President,” said Church. “It’s merely difficult. You need to shut down every piece of military hardware that has had Regis installed, and then you need to remove that program. There is no other reasonable alternative.”
“I can’t and won’t do something like that on the say-so of a captain in the DMS.”
“You don’t need to take Captain Ledger’s word for this, Mr. President. Would you like me to replay the tape of him interviewing Doctor Davidovich inside the crashed truck? You heard him say, in no uncertain terms, that the Seven Kings have control of Regis.”
“But nearly everything has Regis. Most of the fleet, most of—”
“We don’t need an inventory, Mr. President. We need leadership.”
The president bristled and pointed a finger at him. “You watch yourself, Deacon. My predecessor and half of Congress may have been afraid of you, but I’m not.”
“I won’t budge from this request, Mr. President.”
“And I won’t damn well do it. You’re wrong about this. Davidovich was a traitor and a liar and—”
There was a sharp knock on the door, and Bain, the national security advisor, burst in. He looked shocked, even horrified.
“Mr. President,” said Bain, “we have a situation.”
“God. Now what…?” said the president.
“It’s the Jimmy Carter…”
Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen
Tiger Mountain State Forest
Washington
April 1, 1:01 P.M.
Brian sat in Ugly Betty’s passenger seat, and the rest of the team stood around the open door and watched the news Nikki forwarded to us. The Jimmy Carter was lost with all hands.
While test-driving the new Regis system.
Top closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the frame of Ugly Betty’s open door. He murmured a prayer for sailors lost at sea.
“We commit your bodies to the deep,” he said, “to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the sea shall give up her dead…”
Instead of saying “amen,” Bunny punched the side of the car with a sound like an iron gong.
I felt like the ground beneath my feet was turning to quicksand.
If there had been any doubt left about whether the Kings controlled that software, it had blown itself into atoms along with a lot of good people aboard that boat.
Gone. All gone.
At that moment, I got a phone call from the unlikeliest of sources. I stepped away from the others and punched the button.
“Junie?” I said. “This really isn’t a good time.”
“I know,” she said, “we’re all watching the news. It’s so horrible.”
“It is. Look, baby, let me call you—”
“No, Joe, I need you to talk to someone. He might be able to help.”
“Who?”
She paused. “Toys.”
“Toys?”
“He’s here at the hospital. He wants to help.”
“I’d like to help him by putting my foot up his ass. I told you he shouldn’t be there, Junie, and you know it.”
“Mr. Church said it was all right.”
“Oh, please.”
“Joseph,” she snapped, and damn if I didn’t snap to attention. If the guys had seen this, I’d be Mr. Whipped for the rest of my life. Damn it. “You need to speak with him. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think this was important.”
“Yeah,” I said, “okay. Put him on.”
The next voice I heard was someone I hated with every fiber of my being. I am not usually an inflexible and unforgiving prick, but I have my moments. Toys was a pet project of Mr. Church, I get that. I know that Junie and Violin worked with him at FreeTech. I know that he is supposed to be trying to redeem himself. But …
“Ledger?” said a familiar voice.
“Toys. Tell me why I’m talking with you.”
“It’s not to swap recipes or gossip about celebrities,” he said dryly.
“Glad to hear it. You have thirty seconds. You’ve already wasted ten of them. Tell me something that I need to know, or we’re done.”
“They’re saying that Aaron Davidovich escaped from the Seven Kings.”
“People shouldn’t be telling you anything. Fifteen seconds.”
“I heard something about him escaping from an island.”
“So what? Ten seconds.”
“An island in Washington State,” said Toys. “Near Seattle. Or maybe near Tacoma?”
I said nothing.
“You stopped your countdown,” he said.
“No, I haven’t. You’re telling me what you heard. Now tell me what I need to hear or fuck off.”
“I think I might know the name of the island,” he said. “Would that be what you need to hear, or should I go and fuck off now?”
In a voice I didn’t even recognize as my own, I said, “Tell me what you know and how you know it.”
Toys said, “I’ll admit I’m guessing, but I think it’s a good guess. A few years ago, after Sebastian and I joined the Kings but before your lot tore them down, there was one night when Hugo, Sebastian, and I were having drinks and talking about the future. About what we might do after. You understand? After the Kings had stopped playing their games. After we’d had our fill and wanted out. Hugo often talked about that. He liked the idea of retirement, though I don’t think he would ever have retired. Anyway, we talked about where we’d like to live. Sebastian wanted to live in the Caribbean or the Bahamas, but Hugo said it would be too risky. Even with good plastic surgery and enough money. Hugo said that it would be better to pick a place that was inside the protection and financial stability of the United States but outside the mainstream flow. He favored the Pacific Northwest because there are so many private islands up for sale. If you remember, his estate during the Ten Plagues thing was on an island he owned in the Saint Lawrence River.”
“Get to a fucking point, Toys,” I warned.
“I am. Keep your balls on. I’m telling you what Hugo said. He told Sebastian that there were some good prospects that would allow a boat to slip out to sea or a seaplane to make a quick getaway to somewhere in Canada.”
“Toys…”
“Hold on. Remember, this was just conversation. This was Hugo being Hugo, telling everyone what the best way to do anything was. He always wanted to be seen as the one who knew things. I don’t think any of the Kings actually owned property in Washington, but Hugo talked about his ‘great escape’ so often that everyone knew it was a solid bet as a safe haven.”
“A name. Give me a name.”
“The one Hugo liked the most was a small island in Puget Sound called Tanglewood. After what Davidovich said, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Maybe that’s where the Kings are.”
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty
Air Force One
; In Flight
April 1, 1:25 P.M. Pacific Standard Time
The president sagged back against the leather cushions of his chair. The conference room was utterly silent. On the screen, video footage from a helicopter showed the massive whirlpool that was all there was of the USS Jimmy Carter.
The president dragged a trembling hand across his mouth.
“How many men?”
“Fifteen officers, one hundred and twenty-six enlisted. Four members of a DARPA team.”
“Merciful God,” said the president.
Linden Brierly looked past him to where Mr. Church sat, his fingers laced tightly together on the tabletop.
Those two words seemed to hang in the air, a mockery of their own meaning.
Into the silence, Church said, “This is the Seven Kings.”
“But … why target the Carter?” asked the president blankly. “Is it something tied to his presidency? Something about the class of submarine?”
“No,” said Church. “This is Regis. This is exactly what I’ve been telling you about.”
“Why that sub, though?”
Church leaned forward. “I still don’t think you understand, Mr. President. This isn’t about the Jimmy Carter. I’m not sure how else to make my point. The Seven Kings are hacking Regis. Do you understand what that means? They have just proved that they have the technological reach to take control of any U.S. military craft which has been fitted out with the Regis autonomous command software.”
“But…”
“Right now, to a very real degree, they can turn our own weapons of war against us. The Carter was a statement. There may be demands to follow, or they may choose to make other statements before issuing those demands.”
“What can we do?” snapped one of the generals. “Every damn thing has Regis in it. We can’t very well shut down our entire military.”
Mr. Church’s eyes were ice-cold. “We may have to.”
“That would leave us vulnerable to attack,” said the national security advisor.
“Vulnerable?” said Brierly. “What do you think we are right now? This isn’t just about shutting down our military. It’s about preventing those automated systems from turning every plane and warship we have against us.”
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-one
Tiger Mountain State Forest
Washington
April 1, 1:38 P.M.
We were already in motion when Church texted me to say that the president was issuing an executive order for all land, sea, and air craft to have their autonomous systems shut down. Since Regis controlled so many ordinary functions on ships and aircraft, it meant that for now the bulk of our military power would be inert. Even the Seventh Fleet in China.
I told the others, and Bunny’s only response was to step harder on the gas.
“The whole fleet?” gasped Brian. “The air force? All of it?”
“Most of it,” I corrected.
“Goddamn big set of paperweights,” mused Top. “And right now that’s all they’re good for.”
Brian looked worried. “What’s going to happen? What if someone attacks us?”
“We’ll throw rocks,” said Bunny. Then he shook his head. “It won’t happen. Nobody’s going to start a war with us. They know we’ll recover.”
I wish his voice carried more conviction. He didn’t get any “hooahs” for that.
“If we can find that reset code,” Brian said, “we can get it all back online. Right?”
“Kid,” I said, “I am completely open to suggestions.”
Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-two
Beale Air Force Base
Marysville, California
April 1, 1:58 P.M.
The demonstration of the new generation of QF-16X Pterosaur superdrones was delayed by the news about the Jimmy Carter. However, after the initial shock, that same news galvanized everyone into action.
Unlike the other jets in the new tactical-combat-drone program, the Pterosaurs did not run on the Regis software. The team at DARPA had wanted to try something newer and better. The Pterosaurs were pure Solomon.
The advisor from the congressional oversight committee, Senator John Langan, had been a champion of the Solomon package. It had no commercial version, and it had never been in the hands of Aaron Davidovich. It was clean. And it was, in many ways, his. He had spearheaded the approval for the new project, and he’d made sure it was funded and watchdogged. No leaks of any kind.
He was here in Marysville to see the drones in action. Until a few minutes ago, this test had been on the verge of being canceled because of the national emergencies. Now it was more important than ever. Solomon was easier to install than Regis, and it could be used to replace that other corrupted package in almost twenty percent of the infected ships and twenty-eight percent of aircraft. Langan felt like a hero. Anything with Solomon was going to be part of saving the whole damn country.
He was absolutely sure he would be able to ride that wave out of the Senate and into the Oval Office. Oh hell yes.
If the North Koreans, Russians, or, more likely in his view, the Chinese, tried anything during the scramble to pull Regis and upload Solomon, then Langan was going to help the military kick ass and take names.
The other men and women in the stands here in Marysville were probably thinking similar thoughts. They were all, to one degree or another, part of Solomon. They would all stand between America and those Seven Kings parasites and whoever wanted to exploit the Regis vulnerabilities.
Langan genuinely thought it would be the Chinese who would jump.
Bloody Chinese were waiting for something like this.
Langan did not consider himself a racist by any stretch, so it was nothing against the Chinese people. But the government? They were the most ruthless political force he had ever encountered, and he thought they were the most dangerous force on earth. Look at how they treated their own people, not to mention the things they did to the rest of the damn world. And they were hypocrites while they were at it. The core of the People’s Republic didn’t care a single speck of dog shit for anything Marx had to say. That wasn’t communism. They hid behind the “dictatorship of the masses” bullshit and used it as a platform for establishing a tyrannical empire larger than any the world had ever seen. Financially canny, merciless, built on misinformation and disinformation, and hungry for conquest.
No, Langan was not a fan of the Chinese government. If there was a government behind the Seven Kings, he would bet it was China. If he ever made it to the White House, then maybe China’s communist government would be to him what the Soviet Union had been to Ronald Reagan.
On the dais in front of the stands, General Dearborn stepped up to the microphones. His face was grave for about a millisecond.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished members of Congress, our friends in the press,” he began in a stentorian voice that, when amplified by the speakers, sounded like the voice of God. Langan knew that Dearborn was aware of the effect. The general had white hair and bright blue eyes and looked like central casting had sent him to play the Lord of All Creation. “Tragedies like what has happened in Philadelphia and in Puget Sound are proof that our nation is not as safe as it should be, not as safe as it needs to be. We live in an age where our enemies are dangerous, and they are devious. They hide in the shadows, they strike without warning, they fight without honor. And they are many.”
He paused; the sea of faces on the bleachers were all turned toward him. Langan knew they were all eating out of his hand.
“Here in the twenty-first century, we have fought two terrible wars,” continued Dearborn. “One of which was the longest in the history of this great country. It was one where we suffered great losses and constant threats. Our brave men and women in Afghanistan not only had to deal with the Taliban, they were frequently betrayed by members of the Afghani military—by spies hidden within that military. Lives were lost that should never have been at risk. That is the nature of
the twenty-first-century terrorist. They hide in plain sight. They do not and cannot put an army in the field. They know that in a stand-up fight they can’t hope to defeat American power, and so, like the cowards and bullies they are, they set bombs and take cheap shots.” He paused for effect. “This, my friends, is the war we are forced to fight.”
Another, longer pause.
Senator Langan covertly glanced around, noting—as he had at other times—how completely Dearborn owned this audience. Langan knew that the invitation list to this event was a careful job of crowd seeding. Many of these people were already supporters of Dearborn, and the others were those who had known interests in the drone programs. Manufacturers and designers, researchers and developers. Even the members of the press in attendance were science writers of the kind who typically broke stories in support of advanced weaponry systems.
For his part, Langan was ambivalent. He was all in favor of what UAVs, properly managed, could do. They reduced risks to American lives, and that was always at the top of Langan’s personal agenda. But he did not believe they were the surgically precise instruments they were touted to be. The disaster at Eglin Air Force Base showed that. Langan wanted this technology to go through many more months of field-testing. General Dearborn, on the other hand, was lobbying to become the “Drone General,” as some of his pet reporters had already begun labeling him. Dearborn wanted the history books to remember him as the man who reduced the military human element—and its associated human danger—to less than forty percent. To take the soldier out of the field and out of the cockpit. Even, if he had his way, out of the driver’s seat in most of the submarine and surface fleets.
That was what Langan expected Dearborn to say today, and the general went in exactly that direction. Langan listened to him rattle off impressive statistics, cite case studies, quote remarks—often taken out of context—by eyewitnesses to drones in combat.
The general’s remarks went on and on, very nearly to the point of tedium. But the general stopped short of actually boring his own packed crowd. He gave another of his dramatic and, Langan had to admit, effective pauses, and then he turned to the field that stretched out, broad and green beyond the stands. Thousands of acres of grass bisected by asphalt runways. A control tower stood like a lighthouse on the far side. Above the field, a few puffy white clouds sailed through the endless blue, all of it providing a picturesque backdrop to what was about to happen.