Boston—Monday afternoon, two weeks later
Two weeks after his meeting at CIA headquarters, Louis Massina stood in front of a console in the sub-basement of the Smart Metal building, staring at a hastily erected array of 5K video screens mounted on a partition in front of him. A small, shielded building had been constructed inside Underground Arena One as part of the most important project of Massina’s life.
Or his biggest folly.
The miniature building within a building—“the box,” they called it—connected Smart Metal and a small, very select group of engineers and scientists, along with a half dozen CIA analysts and specialists, with a covert six-member task force on its way to the Donetsk People’s Republic. Besides feeds from Smart Metal’s own sensors on the ground, the building within a building was able to receive feeds from the CIA’s own covert networks and tie into a limited subset of the spy agency’s network. The building and much of its infrastructure were so secret that only a few of Massina’s own employees had been involved in its construction; security was provided by the Agency, much to the consternation of Bozzone, who’d had to argue strenuously to even be permitted inside as Massina’s personal bodyguard.
Massina had not only learned the identity of the three men he’d met with—Yuri Johansen, a senior officer in charge of the extraction project, Agency Deputy Director Michael Blitz, Johansen’s superior and the head of all covert activities at the CIA, and CIA Director James Colby—but he had also had extensive conversations with all three.
If this mission went well, Colby had promised, there would be room for many others in the future.
Massina wasn’t sure he wanted that. The next few days might decide.
Johansen stood next to him at the consoles, reviewing recent satellite images of the “target” with someone at Langley. The Russians were still in charge at the prison and apparently at town hall, if the presence of their vehicles was any indication. Dan—the Agency operative who’d worked with Tolevi—had been ordered to stay away as they prepared the mission. That was for his safety as well as security for the mission, but it deprived them of what the spooks called “humanint”—human intelligence, the sort of critical yet often seemingly casual information that only a human being on the spot could gather. It was heresy to the techies, but there were many times when gossip in a bar was far more valuable than the finest-grained image a satellite could provide.
Massina walked back and forth behind the control console, waiting for a connection to the team traveling to the Ukraine. While they could talk at any time over an ultra-secure network, the very fact that there were electronic transmissions could tip off Russian intelligence to the team’s presence. Even if this was only a very general threat, Johansen had insisted it be minimized, and until the actual launch of the mission, communications would be strictly limited to times and places that minimized detection.
A clock in the corner of the right-hand screen counted down the time to coms: 00:04:42. Four minutes, forty-two seconds.
Massina began pacing behind the console. Having his bots on the scene meant he needed to have at least one of his people there.
Chelsea had been the logical person, by far. And if it had been anywhere else, doing anything else, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
But . . .
Johansen, of course, had claimed there would be no danger, no exposure—she would be miles away from the prison. If someone was needed for last-minute programming and checks—something he, frankly, wasn’t entirely convinced was necessary—then so be it; this would be accomplished in Donetsk. She would be covered there, and with security. She could leave at any point, and nothing would implicate her in the “project.”
Completely safe.
Massina wondered if he had said that to Tolevi before he’d had part of his ear cut off.
Reservations aside, Chelsea had been the logical choice. Not only was she the most knowledgeable about Peter, the main bot being used, but she was also extremely familiar with the two other types of robots they were going to employ: Nighthawk, an aerial drone similar to (though larger than) the Hum they had used with the FBI, and Groucho, an off-the-shelf model that was considered disposable, chosen to provide diversion because its technology was not considered that advanced.
More advanced than what the Russians had, probably, but something the Chinese were already busy knocking off.
Chelsea had worked on all of those projects. She was young and athletic. She had already worked with the FBI. His reservations were strictly paternal—he felt very protective. Sexist maybe, because she was a young woman, but most likely he would have felt the same if one of his male engineers had been involved.
In the end, he’d decided to sound her out about it, expecting, knowing, that as soon as she heard of the project, she’d be all for it, regardless of the risks. That was the way she was. That was the way they all were.
Chelsea had all but asked when she could pack her bag.
The CIA had scooped her off for a three-day training session that was basically a mini-version of its SERE programs—the acronym for survival, evasion, resistance, escape, or what a person trapped behind enemy lines was supposed to do to survive.
It was a great course for combat pilots. Did it work for twenty-something computer geniuses? Hopefully they’d never find out.
Massina had had some of Peter’s components dumbed down, just in case something went wrong with the fail-safe circuits that would autokill it. Still, the modifications only lessened its value; what was left would spare its captor at least three years of heavy R&D, assuming they were smart enough to use it.
Massina had also insisted on sending one more employee on the team to help Chelsea: Bozzone. His sole responsibility was getting Chelsea back alive.
Period.
And now they were on their way.
You must fight evil. You must do what you can do. Whatever the costs.
Massina walked around to the side of the room. The communications screen announced that “Puppet Master” was ready to receive communications.
Puppet Master—the code name for Smart Metal’s “box.”
It was Johansen’s term. Running robots was a little like running puppets to someone outside the profession.
To Massina, the idea was to create robots that acted on their own. The opposite of a puppet master. But you could only explain so much.
Massina paced, trying to turn his thoughts upbeat.
What are the interesting aspects of this project?
The last wasn’t exactly a plus: not knowing what you didn’t know was always a poor starting condition in the field.
“They’re on the water, beyond Turkey,” declared Johansen. The team had just sent a signal indicating they were en route to Donetsk. “We’re under way.”
Three minutes early, thought Massina. I hope that’s a good sign.