Mike Ryan had never been to the White House before, much less to the Oval Office, but as he sat on one of two cream-colored sofas facing each other on the opposite side of the room from the presidential desk, he decided that America’s highest office was a lot smaller than suggested by the pictures and videos he had seen over the years.
General Gus Granite stood by the presidential seal embroidered on the carpet between the sofas and the desk. He seemed more nervous than Ryan felt, though he had to admit that the moment he was ushered into the White House through a side entrance, humility and intimidation had begun to creep into his otherwise self-confident and proud mind. This place was definitely built to impress and intimidate visitors.
From foreign heads of state to bottom dwellers like me, he thought, briefly looking in the direction of the two men in business suits sitting on the second sofa: Director of Central Intelligence Donald Bane and FBI Director Russell Meek. They represented the civilian side of the U.S. intelligence community. Granite had enough clout to speak for all of the brass.
Ryan didn’t know Bane, but he had met Meek once in Austin during the Ares Kulzak case. The guy had come across as a straight shooter who had held up his end of the deal when it came time to compensate Ryan for his efforts in not only bagging the terrorist but also preventing him from spreading cyberterror across America.
The four of them had gone through brief introductions and small talk but had refrained from discussing anything relevant to the situation at hand until the president arrived.
Ryan closed his eyes and prepared himself mentally to brief the commander in chief, whom he had never seen in person, only on television. Should he start with the technical background on the issue and then make his recommendations or just let the president ask questions? Granite had suggested the latter.
The president likes to asks questions, Mike, and she also likes answers that go straight to the point, he recalled the general telling him aboard a small military transport jet on the way to Washington this afternoon. But that approach went against Ryan’s scientific method, which called for laying out the foundation of his case first before diving into options. He wondered if—
“Wake up, Mr. Ryan.”
Ryan opened his eyes and stared at the intrigued face of President Laura Vaccaro, who had somehow snuck into the Oval Office while he had his eyes closed. Everyone was standing except for him. Behind the president stood Vice President Vance Fitzgerald, whom Ryan also remembered from his days assisting the government on the Kulzak case.
The Viper grinned and winked.
“In my six years in this office I have seen visitors trembling, clamming up, stumbling, and stuttering. I’ve seen people display just about every conceivable form of nervousness. But I have never, ever, seen someone fall asleep while waiting for me to arrive at the Oval Office.”
Mike Ryan felt color coming to his cheeks as he stood and shook the president’s hand. “It’s an honor, Madam President.”
Vaccaro managed a thin smile. “The pleasure is all mine. I take it you already know everyone else, including Vice President Fitzgerald?” Vaccaro’s lined face was a silent testament to the stress she had endured during her presidency. Although her face and her overall stance conveyed strength, she was still an attractive woman, tall, thin, with short brown hair and firm arms and legs—the product of her often televised daily exercise routine. A widow after her husband, a New York senator, died of cancer over a decade ago, and childless, she pretty much had devoted herself to the nation, using any spare time for sleep and exercise.
“Yes, ma’am. I know everybody.”
“Very well, then,” she said, sitting by Ryan and then patting the same space where Ryan had been sitting a moment ago.
Ryan sat back down and everyone else did as well.
“All right,” she replied, dropping her brows a trifle, narrowing her blue-eyed stare just as the ends of her mouth curved up ever so slightly, turning her expression into that serious-but-motherly-warm look that had captured the hearts of America, resulting in her election six years ago and her re-election four years later. “These guys tell me that the situation with the missing assembler is quite grave. Unfortunately, I don’t have a technical degree to grasp the details, so I need to rely on you to break it down in a way so I can best visualize the problem.”
Ryan nodded, cleared his throat, and began to speak, taking the commander in chief through the issue at hand, explaining the modes of operation of the mobile assembler, proposing that the system was stuck in its most deadly mode for reasons not yet understood. Ryan guided her through the potential ramifications, through its need to multiply while also making sure that the human threat was eliminated. He covered certain areas loosely while diving into detail on others, presenting the best- and worst-case scenarios—as well as a few in between. Ryan also described his current working theory on why the military transport landing in Pisa had collided with the British Airways jet starting its takeoff run—news that had reached them an hour before arriving at the White House.
To her credit, the president didn’t interrupt once, her eyes, glistening with bold intelligence, focused on him as he maintained an even tone through the entire dissertation.
At the end she got up, hands behind her back as she walked up to her desk, where she remained for a couple of minutes staring out of the windows behind the desk.
Finally, she turned around, crossed her arms, and sat against the edge of the desk that had belonged to John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
“So, you feel the machine is operating in this deadly mode . . . what did you call it?”
“IAMM, Madam President,” said Ryan.
“Yes, IAMM, and you assume that because of the way it attacked you in your house.”
“That’s right, Madam President.”
“So,” she continued. “If your assumption is correct, and if this system is indeed as smart as you claim it is and it’s operating in this very aggressive mode, it could be trying to connect with other AIs, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just as it did with the Banca di Roma, where we know it did something, but we can’t tell why because it also masterfully erased its electronic tracks. I’m certain it will do similar penetrations at other sites, like getting inside the AIs governing international communications, or navigation systems, or . . . our nuclear launch codes.”
“Or taking momentary control of the tower at Galileo Galilei International Airport?”
Ryan nodded.
The president shook her head. “I’m still having difficulty buying your theory. Mr. Meek reports that his FBI agents at the scene have reviewed the tower records and they clearly show the military transport performing a three-sixty, just as instructed. They even have the voice of the captain on record acknowledging the order from the tower. How can the military AI have possibly faked that?”
“Think of this AI as the most intelligent being on the planet, Madam President. It is far more cunning and deceptive than anything else in existence, human or non-human. The system gained control of the tower without anyone realizing it, just as it did at the Banca di Roma, for the sole purpose of crashing the military transport. And it accomplished that by tricking both the air traffic controllers as well as the pilots of both planes.”
“But . . . how did it learn that Granite’s team was aboard that transport? He assures me security was airtight on that operation,” said the president.
Ryan shrugged. “Like I said, we’re dealing with a highly intelligent form that has ways to get inside networks totally undetected, extract the information it needs, and then vanish. It then used that knowledge to protect itself from the one team on the planet specifically trained to kill rogue Orbs.”
The room fell silent.
After a few moments the president said, “And now that it has eliminated the tactical threat, you believe that it is looking at the bigger picture.”
“Yes, Madam President.”
“And how do you know that, Mr. Ryan?”
“Because it is what I would do if I were in its shoes.”
The president shook her head in obvious exasperation. “How . . . how in the hell did we let such a system loose out there? Actually, why in the world would we even design one in the first place?”
Ryan looked at Granite, who nodded and motioned for the Stanford scientist to explain.
And he did, telling the president how Dr. Howard Giles had bypassed all safety measures imposed not just by USN, like the digital enzymes, but also the Turing inhibitor.
“And why did Dr. Giles do this?”
“Because he was experimenting, Madam President. He was conducting a test to see just how quickly a machine like that would become smart. The intent was to destroy the AI after completion of the experiment. Unfortunately, USN got hit by terrorists and the assembler was part of their loot.”
Following a moment of silence, the president said, “All right, Mr. Ryan. What do you suggest we do next?”
Michael Patrick Ryan looked the president of the United States square in the eye and said, “I suggest we fight fire with fire.”