Formerly a PLA training hall, the moldering bunker sloped downward from the entry toward the wall with the map where the instructor’s lectern would have been. Twenty-two uniformed subordinates sat in near darkness at two rows of desks in the amphitheater-like room, facing the map as they pecked on computers or mumbled into their radio headpieces. Most of them were conscripts, forced into doing their bit.
The light signifying the last submarine off the California coast went dark. Song set the teacup on the desk again, forcefully enough to cause the young woman a row in front of him to look up at the clatter. She looked away as if she’d seen something frightening. A phlegmy cough rattled over Song’s shoulder.
“Rubbing Chinese noses in the dirt again, I see,” General Bai observed, hands resting pompously on the top of his round belly. His aide-de-camp and toady, Chang, stood beside him. Pale and scaly, Chang sifted flakes of dandruff wherever he walked. It was off-putting, to say the least, but it also had the effect of making people think Chang far more benign than Song knew him to be.
Song stood. As a lieutenant general, Bai outranked him.
“The scenarios offer no benefit if they do not unfold without intervention.”
“Perhaps,” Bai mused, eyes squinting over fat cheeks at the screen. “Or perhaps battle cannot be reduced to ones and zeros. Your children’s games fail to take into account the heart and spirit of our Chinese countrymen.”
Song closed his eyes, steadying himself. “And your war games offer more reality?”
“Exercises,” Bai corrected. “Exercises carried out with flesh-and-blood players, not to mention actual weapons and technology. Surely you would agree that that is a much better predictor of outcomes than lines of computer code.” He nodded toward the flashing map and chuckled. “Your pretend games are doing so well, perhaps one day you will receive a pretend promotion.”
Song clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to smash Bai in the face with his teacup. Bai had won the girl — all those years ago. There was no reason for him to gloat. But he did. A lot.
“So, Comrade General,” Song sighed, dripping with sarcasm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“An invitation,” Bai said.
“In that case I will save you the trouble and decline in advance.”
“This is not the kind of invitation one can decline,” Bai said. “We are summoned to meet with President Zhao and explain our programs. I am to give him a full brief on the victories and lessons learned from our latest exercise off the Korean coast. You will tell him how the same PLA Navy that won handily is always beaten by the end of your computer games.”
What do you think?” Bai asked his bagman, Chang, five minutes after they’d left Song’s game room and were safely back on their own side of the building. Bai wouldn’t have put it past the old dog to bug the walls outside his office. Bai had done just that, which was why there wasn’t much chatter in the halls of the north wing.
“General Song is tireless in pursuit of his mission,” Chang said. “He knows he is right, and that shows on his face.”
“A dangerous combination.” Bai grunted, half to himself. “Moral superiority and a work ethic.”
“Difficult to stop a man like that,” Chang conceded, scratching his chin.
“Nonsense,” Bai said. “I said dangerous, not invincible.” He waved sausage fingers at his aide. “And anyway, we do not need to stop him. We are ahead. I merely want to make sure Chairman Zhao does not buy into his fatalistic beliefs before we have everything in place.”
Chang nodded. “The software is everything we had hoped for and more. I would like to continue with a few more tests, but—”
“Continue with whatever tests you wish,” the general said. “But I want FIRESHIP moving forward. It is ready, is it not?”
“I believe so, General Bai,” Chang said. “But—”
“You believe?” Bai clenched his fists, looking around as if he needed something to strike. “I do not need belief. I need certainty.”
“A few more tests,” Chang said. “Then I will be certain.”
“If we go forward and fail, the chairman will put our backs against a concrete wall and shoot us in the heart.”
The major kept his voice low and calm, an engineer under pressure, too focused on his task to realize how great the threat truly was. “My people are running diagnostics as we speak. This software is…” He shook his head. “Extremely volatile.”
“Volatile?” Bai said. “It is a computer program. A virus.”
“No, General,” Chang said. “It is not a virus. Though it can behave as one. It has a mind of its own. We must take extra precautions to be certain that the program is contained until we want it not to be. Otherwise the outcome could be like a science-fiction movie.”
“That sounds very much like a virus to me,” Bai said. “And that is exactly what I want it to be.” His head snapped up. “I want to be able to brief Chairman Zhao at once.”
“I would advise against it.” Chang’s itch had apparently moved to his forearm. “There is still too much we do not understand about the software’s behavior. Many specifics of our plan could prove to be problematic.”
General Bai tossed off the warning with a shrug. “We’ll give him generalities, then. FIRESHIP buys me no goodwill if the chairman does not know it is happening. There are promises I wish to make, and this is a way to back them up.”
Chang opened his mouth as if to say more, but the expression faded to a closed-mouth grin. He sighed. “We will know more after the tests, then I will be certain. Until then, I remain confident.”
Bai relaxed his fists, getting control of his emotions. “Very well,” he said. “You must do what you must do. That said, it would be better if you did it sooner rather than later.”
“Of course, General,” Chang said. “But the software is only part of the operation. We still do not have a door into the system.”
Now it was Bai’s turn to smile. His jowly cheeks all but eclipsed his eyes. “That is true, but without Calliope, there would be no FIRESHIP. Put together the data so I can brief the chairman.”
“General—”
Bai held up an open hand, letting his major know the conversation was over. “As for the doorway into the Americans’ system, I can assure you, it is being handled.”
9
Lies were a terrible way to begin a new marriage.
Sophie Li rested a hand on top of her pregnant belly and studied the small plastic pyramid on the dinner table in front of her two teenage children. The base of the cursed thing gave off a faint blue glow. Peter would never have approved of letting this thing into their home. It would have been easy to rationalize away the lie, to call it something other than what it was. Her husband of eleven months had called from halfway around the world to ask if there was any news — and she’d said “no.”
It was a short lie, but it was still a lie.
Peter could be touchy about technology — a natural consequence of his post-Navy job at Dexter & Reed. He was the sort of person to have firewalls to protect his firewalls. To him, a personal data assistant was nothing more than a Trojan horse. Sophie gave a long sigh and resolved to tell him about this the next time he called.
“Your turn to say grace, Martha,” Sophie told her daughter, seeking refuge from her lie of omission in a prayer over the spaghetti.
Sophie was in good shape and normally stayed that way by running with friends from church three nights a week. The pregnancy was too far along now, and frankly, she was tired of listening to her friends gab at her instead of with her. If they weren’t warning her about the dangers of having a baby at her age, they chided her about “doing this” to her husband — as if he hadn’t been there when it happened. They’d all done the math. When your baby is sixteen, Peter will be seventy years old. When the baby is twenty… As if that hadn’t been the first thing she’d thought of when she’d missed her period. She’d been pregnant before and knew what it felt like.