“You okay?”
DeBolt blinked, the words breaking his spell. The driver was looking at him in the mirror, concern on her face.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“You looked really worried — seemed a million miles away.”
“Not quite a million … but yeah, I had a rough night.” For the first time DeBolt recognized what would be an ongoing problem — how distracted he must look when discoursing with the computer in his head.
“We’re almost to Machias. Where exactly did you want to go?”
“I’ll let you know when we get there.”
In the mirror the driver’s expression turned doubtful.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a big place.”
The Gulfstream III business jet was gliding high over the Atlantic, seven hundred miles northeast of the Azores, the water below going dark in the late afternoon light. Benefield had never before warranted a GIII, but the secretary of state had upgraded at the last minute to a Boeing 757 for her trip to Israel, leaving the GIII, with its superior range and speed, empty for a repositioning flight to Europe. The general had not hesitated.
It was the kind of perk some men relished for prestige, and others for the accoutrements: a bed in the aft compartment, a plush conference area, and a communications suite that was on par with Air Force One. Benefield only cared about speed. He was desperate to shut down his fast-disintegrating operation.
And there it was. No denying it.
The META Project was his, a bond as intimate as any marriage. His name was stamped on every concept briefing, every equipment order, every funding request. In the end, he saw but one salvation — the project was so radical, so intrinsically risk-laden, that no one above him had dared attach themselves to its precarious coattails. META wasn’t a black project — it was a black hole project, a place where money went in but no light escaped. Not unless success was stumbled upon. In the arcane world of DARPA, the defense department’s laboratory for speculative technologies, there were many such ventures. A handful even succeeded, some spectacularly. New stealth coatings for aircraft, software algorithms to distinguish Bedouin SUVs from those of terrorists. The majority of the agency’s efforts were expected to end in failure. Some rattled to slow deaths when the scientific premises upon which they were based proved to be flawed, while others flamed out in shocking budgetary fireballs. In Benefield’s view, however, META was different from any other DARPA project ever envisioned — different because it assumed a new level of risk. META wasn’t a gamble on advanced polymers or encryption methods — it directly leveraged human life in order to achieve its miracle.
“Message, General.”
Benefield was sitting in a leather swivel chair, and he looked up to see the attendant, an Air Force master sergeant. He was a strongly built black man, with a starched uniform and impeccable deportment. He handed over a printout from the cockpit as if it were some kind of holy scripture. The general unfolded the paper.
MAINE STILL INCOMPLETE. UNABLE REPOSITION TO VIENNA.
Benefield sat stunned. He knew how very capable the colonel and his team were. So why couldn’t they finish this one thing?
“Do we have an ETA?” Benefield asked the sergeant.
“Three hours and ten minutes remaining to Vienna,” he replied, clearly having anticipated the question.
“All right. And have you heard if I’ll be allowed to keep the jet for a second day?”
“I’m sorry, but we did get a ruling on that, sir. The assistant secretary of defense is in Germany, and he needs to go downrange tonight.”
“Downrange,” Benefield knew, meant somewhere in the Middle East. It also meant he would be flying commercial home. He supposed it didn’t matter. By that time, if all went well, he would no longer be in a hurry.
Machias, Maine, was perfectly predictable. You could buy a brand-name tool at a mom-and-pop hardware store, or a used one at the thrift shop. Within fifty paces you could visit a lawyer, a health insurance office, and the doctor situated anxiously in between. A big fireworks outlet was positioned strategically across town from the fire department. Machias was like any of a hundred other New England towns: small, cozy, and centered around the spire of a Gothic revival church. It would be a simple and unsurprising place. Which was exactly what DeBolt wanted.
He decided to eat while he worked through his next steps, which put him in a seat at the counter of a diner called The Granary. The chair was a high-backed circular stool with worn upholstery, and it groaned every time he leaned to the right. The man seated next to him was easily in his seventies, gray haired and engrossed in a half-eaten plate of pancakes. DeBolt caught the man’s eye and nodded.
A waitress dropped a laminated menu in front of him without missing a step. As he began to study it, the man next to him leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, they got real food here too.” He pointed to the wall and DeBolt saw a chalkboard DAILY SPECIALS menu. It was colorful and cluttered with things he’d heard of but never tasted: tofu, kale, and a wide array of gluten-free options.
“I recommend the cheeseburger,” his seatmate said with a chuckle, then added, “medium rare.”
DeBolt gave in and smiled.
“Now the whole wheat bun, that’s not half bad. And the sea salt on the fries is a step in the right direction.”
“Thanks for the advice — sounds like just what I need.” DeBolt held out a hand. “My name’s Trey.”
“Ed Murch.”
The two shook.
“You live nearby?” DeBolt asked.
“Two blocks from here,” Ed replied, dropping his R like the locals did.
The waitress arrived in a flurry, her pencil poised over a pad. DeBolt said, “Cheeseburger … medium rare.”
She stared at him for an instant, then fixed an accusing glare on his seatmate. “Ed Murch, you’re at it again.” DeBolt could see a smart-ass reply brewing, but she was gone before Murch could deliver it.
“Her name’s Florence,” Ed said, “but whatever you do, don’t call her Flo, in spite of what her nametag says.”
DeBolt realized he hadn’t even looked at her nametag. He also hadn’t checked the menu before arriving, and didn’t know the cook’s name or the owner’s, or if either of them had tax problems. He had ignored an entire parking lot full of cars. It felt good.
“You’re not from around here,” Ed surmised.
“Colorado originally. I’m only passing through. But I’m guessing you’ve been here a long time.”
Ed told him all about it, starting with high school and the Vietnam War. DeBolt responded in kind, telling Ed about Colorado and Alaska, although he only admitted to being “in the service,” and didn’t mention what his job entailed. The two didn’t stop talking for nearly an hour, and by the time DeBolt was down to his last cold, sea-salted fry, Murch seemed like an old friend. Murch finished by explaining that his wife had passed a few years back.
“Sorry to hear that,” said DeBolt.
“Yeah, it was a damn shame. But you have to keep going, you know what I mean?”
“I do.”
Ed settled his bill, and said, “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, Trey. You can learn a lot about people by just talking.”
A slight smile creased DeBolt’s face. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Ed got up from his stool. “I’ve got to go see my sister. She’s a good bit older than I am, and I finally convinced her to give up her driver’s license. I need to sell her car before she changes her mind.”