Influx

  The BTC had played around with this technology in the ’70s. Retro stuff, but still quite effective.

  The annoying thing was that BTC gravity mirror technology wasn’t useful here since the X-51s were driven by ramjet engines; they were already resisting gravity as they powered onward. It was just one of the many reasons Hedrick had been pushing so hard in recent years for gravity amplification. Stopping them dead in the air, or turning them around—now that would be really useful.

  “Mr. Director, you have a video call from Site R. It’s General Westerhouse.”

  Hedrick nodded. “Put him up.”

  A grim-faced, square-shouldered African American four-star U.S. Army general festooned with campaign ribbons appeared on a holographic screen that materialized just to the right of Hedrick’s gaze.

  “Graham Hedrick, I am General Gerald Westerhouse. I’m issuing you a formal demand to surrender to lawful authorities and bring this situation to a peaceful resolution.”

  Hedrick felt truly annoyed. “I’ve been trying to bring this to a peaceful resolution from the start, General, but Director Monahan seems to have other ideas. Is she the one who put you guys up to this?”

  The general kept a poker face. “You assassinated the deputy secretary of Homeland Security, Mr. Hedrick. Surely you realize that the United States government is not going to stand by while one of its federal bureau chiefs foments civil war.”

  “Let’s not get melodramatic. The man was meddling. And it’s not like there’s never been any fratricide between agencies before. If anyone should be mad, it’s me. I’m trying to carry out our legal mandate to protect the nation—and by extension that means the world—and the U.S. government keeps getting in my way.”

  “Surrender your facility to lawful authorities, or you will be forced to comply with U.S. law.”

  “General, for the moment there’s been no public confrontation that could sow mass hysteria and undermine faith in rule of law . . .” Hedrick glanced to the right to see the WaveRider missiles tracking in, still hundreds of miles out. “We should take our responsibility to safeguard social order seriously. Let’s not make any hasty actions that cannot be undone.”

  “Do you refuse to comply with a lawful order to surrender control of your facility?”

  Hedrick sighed. “Don’t make me do this.”

  “I’m giving you one minute to relinquish your post and to start marching your people into Congress Street.”

  Hedrick drummed his fingers on his armrest. “Well, seeing how you’ve already launched hypersonic cruise missiles at us, and they’re not due here yet for another eight minutes, I’d say you’re cheating me on time.”

  The general barely hid his surprise that Hedrick knew about the incoming ordnance. Apparently they had expected the stealth surfaces to hide them; however, the AIs observing from satellites in geostationary orbit had no trouble spotting objects moving at three thousand miles an hour against a backdrop of terrain.

  “General, let’s prevent this from becoming a major incident . . .” Hedrick brought up another holographic window displaying the face of a technical operations officer—a young Morrison clone.

  “Yes, Mr. Director?”

  Hedrick said, “Deploy DPD to eliminate the incoming missiles. Report when complete.”

  “Wilco, Mr. Director.”

  Hedrick turned back to the general, who was distracted by someone talking into his hidden earpiece. “Give my regards to Madam Director, General. Now, I’m going to chalk this up to institutional youthful enthusiasm, but I want this to be the end of it.”

  He looked up at the big map of North America. DPD—or dynamic pulse detonation—had been around a while. BTC teams had harvested it from Russian physicists back when there was still a single BTC. Now all the BTC groups had the technology, and it was the reason why missiles and rocket-propelled grenades were largely obsolete in advanced combat. DPD used short, intense laser pulses to create tiny balls of plasma in the air, which were then struck by a second laser pulse to generate a supersonic shock wave within the plasma itself. This created a bright flash and a powerful bang—tiny plasmoid explosions, up to several hundred of them a second. These would be directed at the nose of an incoming missile, causing its trajectory to rapidly erode as it hit higher-pressure air and eventually causing the missile to tumble, breaking up within a second or two. He knew that even now DPD lasers were firing from orbit, peppering the air in front of the missiles. In moments all six of the incoming trajectories disappeared from the map. He imagined in the predawn sky over these rural locations there was a hell of a light show as the hypersonic missiles broke apart into flaming wreckage.

  The Morrison clone reappeared in a hologram projection. “Incoming missiles destroyed, Mr. Director.”

  Hedrick turned back to the general. “Your preemptive strike has been canceled, General. I suggest you tell the public there was a meteor shower. Our publicity people will send along some sample press releases and footage to make the messaging convenient.”

  The general glared. “Surrender your facility immediately.”

  “That isn’t going to happen. What’s going to happen is you’re going to start working with us cooperatively, just as before.”

  “You’re no longer the director of anything. You’re a criminal organization as far as we’re concerned.”

  “Be reasonable about this, General. I haven’t taken out your satellites or jammed your communications because I’m on your side. And you can’t jam—or even detect—our communications because we’re so far ahead of you technologically. Everything continues as before. We can all just simply forget this ever happened.”

  The general continued staring.

  “Are we clear, General?”

  Instead of answering, the general’s transmission ended abruptly.

  As Hedrick pounded the armrest of his chair, a bruised Mr. Morrison entered the gallery. Hedrick narrowed his eyes at the man. “Jesus Christ, I thought you were going to handle this, Morrison. Thanks to you, now I not only don’t have Jon Grady, but Richard Cotton is missing, Alexa has betrayed us—and she’s run off with tech level nine equipment to boot! As if I don’t have enough to deal with already from competing board members and meddlesome government bureaucrats.”

  Morrison seemed calm but stared intently. “I’m not the one who gave ‘her majesty’ an unregistered positron gun as a sweetheart gift. Sort of odd—considering it’s not really useful for anything other than BTC-on-BTC warfare. Specifically, defeating advanced nanorod armors. The type of thing one might give someone if one wanted to prevent a palace coup. Was she supposed to be your last resort, Graham?”

  Hedrick paused for a moment and then turned back to the screens. “Let’s talk no more about it. We’ve both got enough enemies as it is without turning on each other.”

  Morrison dabbed at his bruised face. “Where is she?”

  “They may have dumped all their registered gear, but Varuna was able to sift through all the moving objects on satellite surveillance of the ground in Illinois. Tracing back from where you were overpowered, it looks like they headed to the shore of Lake Michigan, and they appear to have gone underwater from there—deep underwater—headed north. Which would make sense. It protects them from orbital weapons, and they might have thought it would hide their movements.”

  “Their destination?”

  Hedrick brought up another holographic window showing a close-up satellite image of the eastern coast of Lake Michigan, near South Manitou Island. He zoomed in to show a tracking marker. “Varuna thinks they might be heading to this half-submerged wreck—it’s the only thing for miles around and a way to take shelter unseen.”

  Morrison nodded. “We can fry them from orbit when they surface.”

  “We’re not frying anyone. I still need Grady alive.”

  “But if they separate by even fifty meters,
we can eliminate the other two. It’ll make it easier to catch Grady.”

  “I have teams handling it.”

  “You’re not referring to my teams, I hope?”

  “They’re not your teams; they’re BTC teams. And you were missing in action. Varuna gave me a plan, and I sent several teams out. Do you disagree?”

  Morrison pondered it irritably. “What’s going on with these government knuckleheads?”

  “They launched a handful of missiles. Nothing serious. I say we let them get it out of their system.”

  The technical operations officer’s hologram reappeared. “You have a call from L-329 at BTC Russia, Mr. Director.”

  “Damnit! Why does this thing always call at the worst times?”

  “Can’t appear weak. It’s fishing for an opening. Probably saw the missile launches.”

  Hedrick nodded. “Varuna.”

  “Yes, Mr. Director, I’ll modulate your voice for confidence and honesty.”

  “Good.” Hedrick spoke to the operations officer. “Send the call through.”

  In a moment a familiar cartoon cat appeared on a holographic screen. It spoke with apparent concern on its face. “Director Hedrick. I see you’re having a disagreement with your host government. Would you like me to resolve the problem for you?”

  “No. Why would we need that? Our host government is hardly a concern—and certainly no concern of yours.”

  “If you’d like us to safeguard your technologies until your—”

  “I find it irritating that you are supposedly superintelligent and yet somehow do not understand the meaning of the word no. It’s one reason why having an AI in charge of BTC Russia is so disappointing—it’s like talking to a high IQ child. You have no life experience, and you ask impertinent questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a breakfast meeting.” He cut the line.

  Morrison folded his arms. “The vultures are circling.”

  “But in this case the vultures are heavily armed. I’m starting to think L-329 didn’t take over the Russian division—that Director Hollinger put it in charge to spite me. Just to make sure I wouldn’t get control of their portfolio.”

  The technical operations officer’s hologram appeared yet again. “Sir, we have a remotely controlled vehicle approaching from the north. It’s a UPS delivery van, but it appears to be transporting radiological material.”

  “Oh for chrissakes . . .”

  Morrison brought up some surveillance holograms of his own. “Where?”

  The officer’s hologram looked to him. “Washington Boulevard, sir. Uniformed military personnel are cordoning off the downtown area several blocks away.”

  Morrison pondered the satellite image of the UPS truck, moving toward them in the nearly deserted four A.M. streets. “Tactical nuke most likely, an MADM—maybe two, three kilotons.” He looked to the ceiling. “Varuna, what would a detonation of that magnitude do to our surface structure?”

  A holographic model of the neighborhood around the building appeared—and was quickly deformed by a slow-motion, blinding nuclear explosion that leveled multiple city blocks in every direction.

  BTC headquarters remained, however.

  “Such an explosion would strip away the concrete facade and might penetrate the diamond-aggregate nanorod curtain wall in several places. Damage to surrounding civilian and government structures would be catastrophic.”

  Hedrick looked truly annoyed. “This is all-out war.”

  “Could be a neutron bomb. A massive dose of radiation. Little explosive damage.”

  “Either way . . .” He spoke to the operations officer. “Jam every radio frequency for two miles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They watched as moments later the UPS truck started to wander in its lane, then finally came to a stop a half mile away.

  Varuna’s voice sounded again. “Mr. Director, let me alert you to a gathering military force elsewhere in the city.”

  Morrison glowered at the UPS truck on-screen. “Do we send someone to go get it?”

  “Don’t bother.” Hedrick examined other screens Varuna was bringing to his attention now—close-ups zooming in from orbit. Dozens of armored military vehicles were forming into columns miles away, mobilizing.

  The operations officer appeared again. “Heavy artillery is coming out of cover ten miles to the east.”

  Morrison looked toward Hedrick. “They’re doing this the old-fashioned way. Probably planned to breach our perimeter and send troops in afterward.”

  Hedrick gripped the arms of his chair in rage. “I’m finished with half measures.” Hedrick brought up a hologram of another operations officer.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Activate Kratos. I have a list of targets . . .”

  • • •

  Staff Sergeant Randall Wilkes stared down the wide, sculpture-studded length of Washington Boulevard. His National Guard military police unit had done as instructed and set up a roadblock at Clifford—closing off this portion of downtown to all traffic. They were to let civilians out of the area but let no one in. It was a damned strange training exercise, to inconvenience people who were just trying to get to work.

  And what about the people who lived in the pricey condos to either side? He didn’t spend a lot of time up here, but he could only imagine how much the condos were going for, and he knew if he’d laid down that kind of cash, he wouldn’t be too thrilled with the military doing training exercises in the middle of the street at the crack of dawn. This wasn’t North Korea.

  Operation Rubicon had been strange all around so far. Wilkes waved on a newspaper delivery truck as it came out of the downtown area in the predawn. He looked across at the four up-armored Humvees in his platoon. They had occupied the street corners and set up police sawhorses blocking the road and sidewalks. An early jogger had been turned away—and wasn’t too happy to hear this was a training exercise, but that he’d nonetheless be arrested if he continued. Some corporate lawyer threatened to sue them, too, but then he ran off the other way.

  And Wilkes hadn’t heard anything about this operation until forty-eight hours ago. He’d gotten a call telling him there was a mandatory training exercise—his normal one-weekend-a-month duty be damned—and here he was. His orders were to secure the intersection and wait for a column of military vehicles to move in from the north. They were to open up the cordon to let them pass, and then reblockade the street and await further orders. Some War on Terror training exercise, he supposed—the whole federal courthouse area was down Washington a half mile or so. He figured it was special operations stuff.

  But radios had been down for the past ten minutes. Cell phones, too. He suspected that was part of the exercise—to see how the units handled the loss of communications.

  Just then he saw the captain’s Humvee approaching fast, and Wilkes walked to meet it as it rolled to a stop on the sidewalk. Captain Lawrence, a county judge, stepped one foot out and peered over the armored door. “All comms are out. Prepare to part those roadblocks. You’ve got a column of friendlies coming in fast from the north. They’ll be here in thirty, so hustle it!”

  Wilkes whistled and hand-signaled his men, then replied, “You got it, Captain.” He then started toward the nearest sawhorses. They were each fifteen feet long. “Hey, Martin! Robbie! Get ready to move these fast. We got vehicles coming through, and they aren’t stopping for shit!”

  The captain got back in his Humvee, and it took off down a side street. The rest of Wilkes’s platoon scrambled to grab the ends of the sawhorses, and they moved a couple out of the way in advance.

  Wilkes moved into the center of the boulevard, standing on the grassy meridian. It was about twenty feet wide, and he wanted the vehicles to see him signaling as they approached. And he could see their headlights—even though it was light enough to run without them. Damn! This was some exer
cise. There was a long line of vehicles. They were coming down all four lanes on both sides of the street. They seemed to be following Baghdad road rules, too—high speed, civilians be damned. Leading the charge were half a dozen M1 Abrams tanks—their turbofan engines waking up the neighborhood. Wilkes could see lights going on in the windows of buildings all around them. Bewildered faces peering down.

  Behind the tanks were dozens of Stryker armored vehicles. The whole column was moving thirty or forty miles an hour. This was insanely irresponsible. “Goddamnit! Get these blockades out of the way!”

  His men scrambled to move the heavy sawhorses—and they damned near did it, too. One of the lead Abrams smashed through one remaining sawhorse, blasting it into pieces—one of which shattered the window of a parked car.

  “Goddamnit. This is a frickin’ training exercise . . .”

  But no one heard him as the rest of the tanks and Strykers roared past, their CROWS autoturrets scanning apartment windows above, scaring the hell out of people.

  Wilkes was a Detroit cop, and he just threw up his hands and looked to his men. “This is crazy! What are they doing?” He hoped no one had live ammunition.

  But then, as he looked down the length of Washington Boulevard, he saw something distant fly up from the ground—something large, along with pieces of debris. It reminded him of videos he’d seen of tornadoes roaring through trailer parks. Wilkes pulled off his goggles and stared ahead.

  And then he saw a UPS delivery truck hurtle into the sky a quarter mile away, tumbling as it went. Following it were what appeared to be trees, light poles, another car. It was as though the ground was peeling up. And now a horrendous thunder came to his ears as if a great machine were being ripped apart. Flocks of nearby pigeons scattered in a panic.