Cutting Edge

16

He was on a roll and, on the same principle as the OnStar system he’d used to steal a Cadillac, DeBolt wondered if AHM might unlock someone’s front door for him. It seemed a logical feature, useful for an owner who’d lost their key, or to let in a neighbor to feed the dog. His question was answered by the clunk of an electronic dead bolt sliding free.

This is utterly insane.

He cast one glance toward the street, then stepped inside. DeBolt closed the door behind him and immediately encountered a keypad. Should he have sought a code to disarm the system before entering? There was a backlit number pad, along with a tiny TV screen, currently blank — the dead camera on the front steps? A system status field assured him the system was armed, and next to it were two comforting green lights. Both remained steady. Satisfied, DeBolt turned into the home.

What he saw was not unexpected. Over-the-top furnishings, a living room with an old-world theme, fusty and manufactured, all of it incongruous against an open kitchen that was a veritable sea of stainless steel. Wood inlays did little to soften marble floors, and the walls were crammed with knockoff copies of Renaissance masters. At least, he thought they were knockoffs.

The air was stale and musty, and diffuse light came from transom windows over the closed curtains. Constellations of dust floated in the air. The place had clearly not been occupied for some time, instilling a funeral home pallor that compelled DeBolt to move quickly. In the back of his mind he imagined a judge reviewing a search warrant in New York — how quickly could such an order be acted upon?

A hardwood staircase beckoned, and DeBolt climbed to the second floor. On the upper landing he steered toward a room whose entrance was sided by two massive faux Roman columns. Predictably, he encountered the master suite. Far less expected was what he saw on the bed.

“I’m so sorry,” said General Karl Benefield, “I wish I had better news.”

He was addressing the complete staff of the Metadata Transfer and Analysis Project, thirteen somber faces, many of whom had been here for the entire first two years of what was to have been a five-year campaign. Each of them Benefield had cherry-picked from government and private industry — some of the best minds in computing and cyberspace. The general struck an imposing figure. He’d worn his Army combat uniform, with its digital camouflage pattern, thinking it would give him the most gravitas amid a herd of civilian techies. He spoke smoothly, and his swept silver hair — just within regulations — suggested a post-retirement corporate scion in the making.

“DARPA is facing devastating budget cuts, and META, in spite of its far-reaching potential, simply didn’t make the cut. All of you, of course, will be given priority in finding jobs within the agency, or assistance in returning to private industry. A few offers have already come across my desk, so rest assured, the talent in this room will find a home — I will see to it personally.

“In the coming days I’ll be meeting with each of you, one on one, to discuss specific opportunities and your desired career paths. That said, I must also impress upon you the continued need for secrecy, and remind you of the strict confidentiality agreements we all signed.”

This point, Benefield knew, was less important than he made it out to be. He had gone to extreme lengths to compartmentalize the project. The technicians here were only partially aware of META’s greater aims, having seen the same vague and sanitized PowerPoint briefing he’d given to their DOD and congressional overseers. Besides himself, only two people were aware of META’s more ambitious goal. And there, he knew, lay his greater problem.

One was the neurosurgeon, Dr. Abel Badenhorst, who led the clinical team in Maine. The other was the chief programmer, Atif Patel, PhD, who was currently attending a conference in Austria. Benefield knew he could never end those relationships so easily — both men were fully vested in the more complex mission. Each was also a brilliant scientist in his own right. But perhaps too brilliant.

There were a few questions from the crowd, which the general fielded ably and with as much compassion as he could manufacture. He then instructed everyone to remain in the building, explaining that a team would soon arrive to begin the out-processing paperwork. Benefield departed the building virtually unnoticed.

In his wake, the gossip began in earnest. Programmers and analysts milled about the place, and there were traces of grumbling, but more optimism — the general had been convincing, and most took the favorable view that their follow-on work would be every bit as groundbreaking and lucrative as what they’d found in the META Project. Someone discovered that a table with sandwiches and drinks had been set up in the break room, and the gathering that ensued was something between a going-away party and a wake.

It was a female programmer, part of the original cadre, who noticed it first.

“I smell smoke.”

A Caltech grad, one of the world’s leading experts on signal compression, said, “Look at the vent.”

All eyes went to a ceiling ventilation panel where wisps of white drifted through like amorphous hands.

The most clear-thinking person in the room was a female encryption specialist who pulled the fire alarm handle near the refrigerator. Nothing happened. No bells, no red lights. The smoke thickened and turned black, belching from ventilation grates and rolling through the hallway in a surging ebony wave.

“Everybody out!” someone yelled.

All thirteen ran to the nearest door, the front entrance at the portico. The double doors were made of high-tensile steel and fitted with sturdy electronic dead bolts, standard issue for a highly classified facility. The doors were firmly locked, and the emergency release handle seemed disconnected. In the ensuing panic the group split, half going to the rear loading dock, and the rest coughing and wheezing their way up to the stairwell roof access. Neither door could be budged.

It was then that the screaming began.

Flames licked in from the ductwork, and began climbing the eastern wall. By some unseen consensus, or perhaps through survival instinct, everyone ended back at the front door, the last few arriving on hands and knees as the smoke began to prevail. Soon thirteen panicked sets of fists were banging on the vaultlike steel doors.

Five minutes later the banging went to silence.

By that time Benefield was over a mile away, driving slowly through the front gate. He could see the smoke from where he was, yet there was no sign of first responders. The place was remote by design, and with all lines of communication either cut or jammed, the fire department wouldn’t arrive any time soon.

He disliked what he’d had to do, but there was the crux — he’d had to do it. Like successful commanders throughout history, he had no misgivings about sacrificing good men and women. Not when the military objective was so vital. Early in his career, during the First Gulf War, senior officers had put his life at risk. Against serious odds, and through some combination of training, tenacity, and good soldiering, Lieutenant Benefield had survived to become General Benefield. He doubted any of those behind him would be so obstinate.

So lost in thought was Benefield that the phone call didn’t register until the third ring.

He saw who it was, and answered by saying, “Any luck?”

“We have a location on the car.”

“Where?”

“Northern Maine, right on the Canadian border.”

“Do you think he’s trying to get out of the country?”

“I have no idea,” said the commander of the tactical team.

He was a good man, Benefield knew. The small Special Forces unit included operators from three different services, and was unique in its anonymity, as well as its charter — it was the only unit authorized to work domestically. That legal footing had never been tested, but as long as they did their job cleanly, without mistake, it wouldn’t have to be.

“How soon can you get there?” Benefield asked.

“Twenty-eight minutes.”

The general smiled. He liked that kind of precision.

“And the other mission?”

A hesitation — the first from the colonel. Then, “Yeah, we took care of it.”

“Trust me, Colonel. What you are doing is imperative for the security of our nation. It will change the future of warfare itself.”

“How can one guy be so important?”

Benefield let silence be his answer.

“Right,” said the team leader. “We’ll let you know when it’s all wrapped up.”