Five Tribes Page 9
Suddenly he understood why the new assistant director had such little faith in him.
But she didn’t understand that he’d been a good agent, once upon a time. Back in 1994 the FBI had recruited him from the Detroit Police Department because he’d been a prodigy, a homicide detective who got things done. And for the longest time, he’d felt it was true: he was built to solve crimes; built to reconstruct the past; built to play with time, to rewind the flight of bullets to their masters. Methodical. Analytical. Poised.
But while he was certainly built to solve crimes, he wasn’t good for much else. He wasn’t built to raise kids, not built to keep Carol in his life, and definitely not meant to interview next of kin—widows, widowers, orphans, parents—and stay sober afterward. It was the alcohol that had driven Carol away and, with her, the kids.
And that was the greatest tragedy: When the job ended next month, he had nowhere to go.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside his office, a dozen agents shouting, phones ringing, and the heavy footfalls of people running down the tile corridor. He went to his office door and flung it open.
The fourth floor was an open space, essentially thirty yards of desks. Brown looked out and saw Anastasia Collins standing on one of them, giving orders to the thirty or so agents assembled around her. On the far wall behind her was a chain of iSheets set to each of the major networks. Their scrolling marquees echoed one another: Breaking News: Bombing on Capitol Hill—Terrorists Attack US Government—Senator Assassinated.
“We have a major terrorist attack on our doorstep,” Collins was saying, “but I want everyone to keep cool. This is what you’ve been trained for. Now listen close: Thompson, call the director and brief him on what we know so far. Rivers and Wilson, you gather the best biometric team you can—find people with experience in arson and bombings—and have them ready to go. Edwards, you’ll be our point of contact with Capitol Police. Contact Chief Kim and let him know we are ready to assist.”
She paused for a moment, looking out at the agents. Her eyes fell on Brown. She considered him for a moment, then turned to another agent and began giving more orders. If Bud had had any questions about how Collins felt about his usefulness, they had just been answered. A part of him was fine with that. He didn’t want to be part of an investigation that he’d never see closed. Yet another part of him felt the sting of the insult like a slap on the face—an insult that every agent on the floor had picked up on—and that made him want to prove her wrong.
Several of the networks were showing the video of the bombing. Bud recognized Riona Finley immediately. She was #7 on the FBI’s most wanted, had killed three people in the last eighteen months: an oil company executive, an attorney, and a well-known blogger and climate change denier. But since those bombings had all taken place in Texas, the investigation had been on the shoulders of the local branch. Not anymore. Finley was now officially a national security threat.
“Vallarta!” Collins said, “Has anyone found Rogers? We need him ASAP.”
Geoff Rogers was the top bomb tech at the bureau and a legend in the field. Before he’d joined the FBI he’d been an EOD guy in the marines—Explosive Ordnance Disposal. When 9/11 hit, he’d been called to active duty and spent six years trying to outthink ISIS and Taliban bombers. That experience had given him a sixth sense about tracking down terrorists.
“I can’t get a hold of him,” Vallarta said.
“I’m here!” came a bellowing voice, and Rogers emerged from around the elevator shaft. He was a big, barrel-chested man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a fat mustache that hadn’t changed since the ’90s. Rogers was from Bud’s generation and a classmate from the academy. They had once been partners. In fact, Rogers’s wife and Bud’s ex were still close. Bud realized Rogers likely knew all about Bud’s miseries. And while Rogers was also fifty-seven, he’d gotten his waiver because he was so valuable to the FBI.
“My apologies, Assistant Director,” Rogers said and came close to her and whispered to her. Bud could see her shaking her head.
Rogers leaned in again, trying to persuade her of something.
Now Collins voice was full of annoyance: “Whatever it is, just say it.”
Rogers nodded, stood up straight. “The director has reassigned me to the National Security Branch and has asked me to lead the investigation. Given the current emergency I would appreciate some assistance from you and your staff.”
Collins didn’t answer right away and an odd silence fell over the room. The shock was palpable on her face. She was the new assistant director, just thirty-five years old, out to make her mark, and here was the biggest case of her career. Now Rogers, only a special agent, was getting it? Bud could see her thinking—and thinking hard. She didn’t have to give Rogers anything, but if she refused and hindered him at this critical moment, Roger’s powerful friends—including the director—would hear about it. “Of course,” she finally said, “what can we help you with?”
Rogers began by selecting three bomb techs and a forensics expert. He seemed about to leave, then reconsidered. “And I could use a good homicide agent,” he said looking around the room.
“I’d recommend Diaz,” Collins said.
Rogers nodded noncommittally. Then his eyes met Bud’s.
“Brown!” he called. “Let’s go!”
Six miles away, Bill Eastman and Jack Behrmann stood simultaneously and raised their champagne glasses.
“It is our great honor to welcome you to the Naval Research Laboratory,” Eastman said.
“I second that,” Jack Behrmann said. “And we hope that all of you grow and thrive here with us.”
The assembled guests, sixty-five new hires, raised their glasses and cheered. They were gathered in a banquet hall near the center of campus, seated at fifteen round tables with navy blue tablecloths and white place mats. The guests had just finished their choice of beef medallions or smoked salmon with asparagus and rice pilaf.
“Hear, hear!” Bill Eastman said. They all drank.
Bill looked at his old friend.
Bill and Jack were the lead scientists of the lab and had been working together for thirty-three years. Their friendship had begun in a dorm room at UC Berkeley when the oversized Behrmann, who stood at six foot eight, had walked in carrying a minifridge under one arm. Their mutual love of science had evolved into a life-long partnership and together they had become two of the most revered scientists in Silicon Valley. Then a year and a half ago, Admiral Curtiss had asked them to lead the most ambitious scientific endeavor since the Manhattan Project.
“We do have some words of advice for you,” Bill Eastman said.
At just that moment, the room was filled with the beeping, ringing, and vibrating of dozens of iSheets, including Bill Eastman’s.
“We are in lockdown,” someone said.
Eastman pulled out his phone and read the alert to the crowd. “There has been an attack on a nearby government installation.”
Suddenly the doors of the banquet hall opened, and six marines and a naval serviceman entered. Eastman recognized the latter as Specialist Drake Walters, one of Curtiss’s SEALs.
Walters came up to Eastman. “Sir, we have been assigned to protect you and Dr. Berhmann.” He gave a glance around the room. “I’d like to get you to a more secure location.”
Eastman leaned over and spoke softly to the man. “I would prefer to stay here, if I may. After all, what kind of an example would I be setting if I disappeared at the first hint of danger?”
Walters seemed to appreciate this. He looked around the room, assessing its strengths and weaknesses. “I think I can make that work.”
“Thank you.”
As the marines and Walters closed the blinds, Eastman continued his role as the leader. “Alexandra, would you please turn on the news?” The young woman turned on the large iSheet at the end of the hall.
“The death toll is currently at two,” a newscaster said, “but will likely increase. The Capitol Police have told us they suspect multiple bombs were planted in the offices of Senator Peck, who is now assumed dead along with a member of his staff. Back to you, Ellen.”
“Thank you, Randall. If you are just joining us: a terrorist attack has rocked Washington, DC. The radical environmentalist group, the New Anarchists, is taking responsibility for the blast. Their leader, Riona Finley, has already posted the following video on social media.”
As the video began, Eastman found himself moving across the banquet hall to get a better look. He wasn’t the only one; the crowd seemed drawn to it. His first thought was, here is something new. A strong, charismatic, and articulate woman, acting as the spokesperson for a terrorist organization.
But what surprised him the most was when the building exploded behind her, he did not hear cries of shock or horror from the young people in the room. Rather, gasps of amazement and excitement. “So cool!” someone said.
He glanced at Jack and could tell he shared his apprehension. Bill suddenly felt old and out of touch. Clearly, he was not perceiving the world on the same wavelength as this younger generation. Was this just entertainment to them? Whether or not Peck was corrupt, didn’t it bother any of them that their government had just been attacked?
Jack came to his side and showed him the video on social media.
It had 3.5 million likes, and 200,000 dislikes.
Bill scanned the comments:
“How do I join your group?”
“We love you, Riona!”
“Can you please blow up my senator?”
Bill gave Jack a quizzical look.
“She’s a hero to them,” Jack said.
“But why?”
“Because they don’t believe in the system,” Jack said. “Not only do they not believe in it, they hold it in contempt. They see our government as a kleptocracy, up for sale to the wealthiest. So to see someone challenge it, attack it head on, for them that’s invigorating.”
While the scientist in him felt that this was a fascinating phenomena, it was also disconcerting. Here he was, a Nobel laureate, the leader of the entire Naval Research Lab, and the driving force behind some of the most important technology mankind had ever created, yet Riona Finley was proof he didn’t understand the world nearly as well as he thought he did. Forces were at work that he was helpless to stop or alter.
He turned to Jack. “First thing tomorrow, we’re going to find out everything we can about her.”
Chapter Sixteen
Captain Cáo
November 5, 2026
Somewhere in the South Atlantic
Captain Cáo Laquan felt humiliated. He had been hoodwinked by the Americans, who had clearly staged the riot at the mining camp in order to rescue one of the inmates. They were responsible for the deaths of on hundred thirty inmates, twenty-five guards and prison officials, and ten of his own men—some of the best airmen he’d ever had.
It hadn’t taken Cáo long to connect the dots. Only two prisoners were unaccounted for. The initial search showed they were both John Does, nameless people without family back in China. But Cáo knew this was likely false, a product of the poor record keeping of the laogai, who preferred to have anonymous (and hence disposable) slaves. It was only after doing a facial recognition check on their file photos that one of the men’s identities was revealed—Pān Xiao-ping. A search of his relatives showed that he’d been married to Hwe Lili, a known spy for the Americans and a former biochemist at the Fort Yue Fei military base, wanted in connection with the May 26, 2026 outbreak that had killed sixty-five thousand people. Suddenly the reason for the US meddling in the mutiny was clear.
Back in China, things were in utter chaos, but Cáo still had connections in the Ministry of State Security, and his old friend Ma Bingwen was still doing his job. Cáo had fed him the footage of the American Valor’s ability to hide and heal itself. He’d also sent him the transmissions they had captured from the Americans. Bingwen was particularly interested in the part when the American Valor was shot down. In a moment of high emotion, one of the Americans had used the real name of one of his friends.
Eric Hill.
Yes, Bingwen had been very interested in that.
Eric Hill, US Naval Research Lab. Terrorist. Wanted in connection with Fort Yue Fei outbreak. A 500,000,000¥ reward. Extremely dangerous.
Bingwen had been succinct. “Get Eric Hill and you will avenge all who were killed at Fort Yue Fei.”
And for Cáo, that horrific slaughter was no distant news story. He had spent his entire career in the military and had personally known thirty-four people who died that day: one of his closest friends from high school; a revered mentor from the navy; a beautiful girl he had dated at Shanghai Maritime University; and most painfully, two of his cousins, Tengfei and Rong, who had been army cadets.
It was clear that Hill had gone down in the Valor. Dead or alive, Cáo wanted him. As soon as he got Bingwen’s message, he had scrambled two Black Widows and the Harbin.
But they arrived too late. The Americans had just left the crash site. When he saw the black smoke rising up from the downed Valor, Captain Cáo had been incensed. But once again, they were able to intercept the American’s transmissions. Not all the bodies had been found. The exchange did not mention the man’s name, but the worry in the Captain’s voice told him that it was someone of strategic importance.
Cáo vowed to find him first. It was his chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his men. A chance to advance his career and to hand the Central Committee a real prize. Most importantly, it was a chance for justice.
Chapter Seventeen
Fallout
November 6, 2026
The Pentagon, Washington, DC
Admiral James Curtiss looked over his notes one last time before the briefing. The fifteen principals—including three members of the joint chiefs—were talking in small groups or filling cups of coffee.
He knew it was going to be a tough briefing, especially with Walden and the secretary of the navy in the room, but he reminded himself that things could be worse.
They had been able to spin the botched raid to the press as a training accident. So far—thanks to some high-level talks between the White House and Beijing—the Chinese had not contradicted the story. But with all the chaos within the Chinese Central Committee, it wasn’t clear who was actually running the country, which meant they could change their minds at any moment. In the meantime, the captain of the Liaoning was keeping the carrier on high alert and doing everything he could to thwart their search for Hill.
As he reviewed his notes, Curtiss felt a change in the room, like a shift in barometric pressure.
He looked up to see a beautiful woman in the doorway.
“Ah, there you are,” General Walden stepped forward and greeted her warmly.
“Chip, so good to see you!”
She wore dark designer slacks and an Air Force–blue blouse accented by an amber calico scarf. Her thick black hair was piled high on her head, with a few choice strands framing her strong—almost chiseled—face. Her body, too, was lean and strong in a way that suggested unwavering discipline, with 5:00 a.m. runs, burpees, and protein powder smoothies.
She smiled and greeted everyone warmly, working the room, a pleasant lucidity to her brown eyes. Curtiss had to admit her charisma was undeniable. Her posture and demeanor effused confidence. And there was a theatrical grace to her movements. Every smile, every widening of the eyes had a purpose, and she struck Curtiss as an actor, as one who knows exactly the role she needs to play. Yet he found himself reacting to her the way that he did do to all actors: with a mixture of fascination an
d uneasiness. Drawn to their charms but doubting their sincerity.
She strode confidently up to him. “Admiral Curtiss, I’m Olivia Rosario, a new member of your AI team.” She smiled and offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes, of course, Olivia,” he said, playing it as cool as he could. “Nice to meet you, too, but I didn’t request your presence at this meeting.”
She gave him a warm smile. “General Walden insisted I come. He wants to know how we can use AI to prevent any more unfortunate events like this.”
He suppressed an urge to laugh at her audacity. “And you feel you have a lot to offer after your four days of experience?”
“With all due respect, sir, I have eighteen years of experience in neural networks and deep learning. While your team has done some amazing things, there is room for improvement. I could—”
Just then CNO Garrett addressed the room. “Is everyone ready?”
Curtiss held up his hand to Rosario. “This will have to wait.”
When everyone was seated, Captain Everett and Master Chief Nathan Sawyer appeared on a huge wall-mounted iSheet, conferenced in from the USS Gerald Ford. Curtiss’s aide, Commander Adams, began by giving a brief summary of the mission.
As Curtiss had expected, Walden took every opportunity to lay the blame for the casualties and the bad press on him while Rosario took every opportunity to stress how every problem could have prevented if the operation had been controlled by an AI system.
The two of them had clearly rehearsed their parts and kept nailing the same talking points: poor mission prep and not enough planning for contingencies such as the Chinese Z-15 gunships. Plus poor decisions on the ground: namely, Eric Hill’s decision to include Xiao-ping’s friend in the rescue.
What’s more, the mission logs showed that Hill had intentionally disengaged his Valor’s ghost program in order to lure the Chinese away from the other aircraft. This had cost the lives of the Valor’s crew and, most likely, his own.