“No, I understood that. That’s what you want, boy. I told you to say what you’re really asking me for,” General Coffman pressed and rescinded some of the confidence he allowed Schaffer moments earlier.
“What I’m asking you, I mean, why I came in here and asked about that is because … what I wanted to know is if I could bring in a civilian to consult with, in order to move to the next phase, and if that civvy becomes a problem at all, if he can ummm … uhhh—”
“Become permanently unavailable?” the General finished for him.
“Yes, sir. To … uhhh … cover our asses so to speak, sir.”
“Get one thing straight, you don’t need to worry about covering my ass. What you need to worry about is ensuring whoever you bring on board is given information on a need-to-know basis, in the most restrictive environment at all times. Worry about that, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There are vital differences between us and them, us and civilians. Priorities, loyalties, and patriotism. Just because you were never really a soldier doesn’t mean you can’t recognize that. We trained you. You have our values. Do not take your eyes off the differences.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The civilian will be subjected to regular debriefings by me personally. Once they are no longer needed, you will inform me and I will make the determination as to the best way to discharge them from the project. You will in no way concern yourself with that, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you have someone in mind, I suggest you submit them to start the vetting. If you don’t, I suggest you find someone. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excused.”
Schaffer turned and left the General’s office, without getting torn any sort of new one.
The last thing General Coffman wanted to see was another civilian brought in on the project. He didn’t merely want to avoid another Tsay fiasco; he genuinely was not a fan of being responsible for the taking of civilian lives and bringing in a civilian always created that potential. While sometimes a necessary evil, it was still something with which he would always have to live. Everything became a cost-benefit analysis for him the moment he became a general and the Veil project was no exception.
Actually, it was a perfect example. The General knew what an invaluable asset Tsay’s project could be to the military and the fact Veil came from the civilian sector was no surprise to him. He found the military could be remarkably shortsighted in terms of how it developed technology, so myopic that it was stifling and created an innovation vacuum. He knew Tsay would’ve never come up with Veil if he were in the military sector; he knew Tsay would've never willingly handed over Veil to the military, because Tsay came from the civilian sector.
That wasn’t all, though. The General knew Schaffer was right to seek a civilian. If there were another scientist at work for the military who possessed the knowledge and expertise they sought, finding them could take a while. Plus, securing them for the job could prove to be a bureaucratic clusterfuck. It simply wasn’t worth the costs; the benefits of Veil outweighed everything. That included, if need be, the cost of another civilian life.
Veil would solidify the General’s legend. Veil would put him on top. Veil would be it for him and his military. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time he decided someone had to die for Veil.
When it came to the Tsay decision, General Coffman did actually have to decide. He told himself over and over there would always come a point in time when someone had to die. No, he didn’t mean at some point in time everyone would die. He specifically meant there would always come a point when someone in particular clearly had to die. Someone had to die and then another person had to die, and then another person and another and another and another. No one could do anything about it—including him. So, why fight it?
If someone happened to be one of those people who simply had to die, perhaps the fact they did have to die gave their death a reason, a purpose, a meaning. Hell, it was more than anyone else could say about their own death. Shit, perhaps being the person who decided whether someone else had to die meant you helped give their death that reason, purpose, and meaning. Fuck, the General hoped his own death happened because he had to die, rather than it arbitrarily occurring or because it was his “time.”
Besides, he couldn’t know if the course of deaths that had to happen were a circumstance of chance or fate. The knowledge went well beyond his pay grade, so he chose to remove any consideration of it from the equation. Removing the inevitability from the equation also meant he needn’t fret over his role in deciding whether a death had to happen. He was quite pleased that he needn’t worry about the last part.
However, there was one thing he knew he had to consider above all else: Veil.
The General didn’t merely have to consider Veil, it had to be considered first, foremost, forefront. Veil was his ticket and badge. Above and beyond that, Veil was his nation’s way to achieve the total epic win, while permanently subduing every other nation into supreme epic failure. There was zero chance any other military could surpass or survive the impending atomic bomb of the mind, especially when they would never be aware of its existence. Veil wouldn’t make his military invincible, but it would render every other military indefensible. Veil was it. Game over, fuckholes.
Just shy of six months before that shitbox Schaffer burst into his office, the General leaned back in his chair and entwined his meaty fingers behind his head. He stared at the set of papers on his desk. The decision he faced was by no means supposed to be pleasant or easy, so he took it damn seriously, if only to avoid feeling guilty for not taking it seriously enough.
Although he strove to consider all possible factors, his mind kept returning to that one strand throughout the fabric of the decision at hand: Veil. It was the common thread that stitched the elements together and without it all the pieces would unravel into insignificance. Veil was the golden yarn in the equation and the more the General’s mind honed in on its purity and magnificent shimmer, the more his decision made itself.
If someone had to die to protect Veil, then someone had to die to protect Veil. If there were any chance at all of a risk to Veil, that risk had to be acknowledged and eliminated. Hell, wasn’t that precisely what his whole decision was about in the first place? Didn’t the decision itself indicate a chance of risk? Wouldn’t it mean that, since the decision reared its ugly, inconvenient head, it was already time to bring in the guillotine? How many more questions—whose answers were rhetorically affirmative—did the General need to ask himself? Wasn’t he just putting off the inevitable, unpleasant decision, which had already made itself? Affirmative.
That was it; General Coffman decided about Tsay. After he made his decision, he leaned forward, and as he swung upright, the solid weight of his authoritative belly seesawed his chair with enough momentum that its back legs lifted off the ground. He strong hands reflexively caught and braced himself with the edge of his desk. By then he was quite used to how the shifting of his weight caused that temporary imbalance. Only once had the imbalance sent him tumbling. When that happened, his chin smacked the desk so hard it split open to the bone. He still had the scar on his domineering chin. During that first impact, his mind instantly trained his body to catch the bastard, and it did so every single time since.
When the General’s chair stabilized, he gathered up the papers in front of him and—three staples later—stapled them together with one staple in the upper left-hand corner. The first two staples didn’t make it all the way through the stack. His third attempt ended with the stapler’s hammer getting stuck, so he had to set it down and smack the damn thing with his fist. His punch loosened it and to the General’s delight, the third staple actually pierced and bound all the pages. His crude fingers couldn’t grasp the other two, so he had to use his teeth to pull them out.
He slid the stapled set of papers into a black plastic pouch that reminded him of the ones stores
used to conceal the covers of the titty magazines they stocked. He sealed the pouch and placed it inside another one, which was red. When the Tsay dossier was sealed up to his satisfaction, he placed it on his desk, rested his folded hands on top of it, and took a deep breath.
That was that; the time had come. A civilian scientist had to be eliminated. The scientist’s wife had to suffer the same fate, and their home needed to be ransacked for any traces of the man’s research. Every detail required for the job was included in the pouch under his hands. The General took another deep breath.
Jin Tsay had to die. There was no way around it. It was unfortunate, he didn’t deserve it, and it sucked. However, Jin Tsay had to fucking die.
Now he hoped Schaffer’s candidate didn’t have to fucking die as well.
Schaffer already knew what man he wanted. He heard about him on NPR. A few times. NPR had an annoying habit of playing the same show over and over and over. It always irritated Schaffer, but suddenly … well, suddenly he found himself thankful for it.
He didn’t want to wait for the vetting process but recognized there was no way around it. He submitted the scientist’s name and employer and listed him as a civilian candidate to be vetted for consulting on a Top Secret level project. Immediately. He left all the other information blank, as he didn’t think there would be another Dr. Hunter Kennerly at Caltech.
He wished the military would change the names of their classification levels. As cool as marking something “Top Secret” might sound, in reality it made him feel like he was part of a friggen comic book. He imagined Pollock loved to mark things “Top Secret.” He imagined every time Pollock did so he probably took a picture of it with his cellphone and sent it to all the women he was trying to frak.
Schaffer sent his request, verified his office door was locked and picked up his phone. After he navigated through an annoying automated menu, he finally reached a real, live human.
“Biology Division.”
“I’m trying to reach Dr. Hunter Kennerly.”
“Dr. Kennerly is unavailable, would you like his voicemail?”
“No, I’d like a live message delivered to him as soon as possible.”
That caught the operator off guard. “Ummm, just a second.” After a brief pause, “Ok, go ahead with your message.”
“My name is Dr. Carl Schaffer with the Department of Defense, and I’d like a return call from Dr. Kennerly as soon as possible.”
The operator suddenly sounded less annoyed and seemed more receptive. He took Schaffer’s information and stated he’d deliver the message to Dr. Kennerly personally. Schaffer thanked him and hung up.
Dr. Hunter Kennerly held doctorates in Neurobiology and Electrical Engineering. He was responsible for many breakthroughs in brain-computer interfacing. Kennerly’s research and inventions led to the production of some of the most cutting-edge brain-computer interface devices, from neuroprosthetics to video games. The man understood neuroelectricity and how to manipulate it or have it manipulate something else. Schaffer believed if anyone could give them what they needed, it was Kennerly. If anyone could take the mechanics of Dr. Tsay’s machine, extract the principles, and use the same theory to design a smaller, more effective device that was capable of remotely deploying Veil, it would be Kennerly. It had to be Kennerly.
Pollock wasn’t sure exactly how stupid Schaffer thought he was but figured Schaffer must’ve thought he was pretty damn stupid. With nothing to do except work on the Veil project, didn’t Schaffer think he’d notice how he kept trying to cut him out of everything? Didn’t Schaffer think he’d notice him running off to meet with the General without including him, only to rush back and lock himself in his office once again? It was no secret that Schaffer wasn’t fond of him, and the feeling was mutual. Personal feelings aside, there could still be room for professional courtesy.
Or at least there should be, Pollock figured. He found Schaffer to be an insufferable, arrogant blowhard. Apparently, Schaffer didn’t consider how the two of them had equal experience. They both completed a test-run of the system. Pollock’s run was longer than Schaffer’s, as a matter of fact. Both of their names were on the bottom of the development report. In fact, if they were going to get all technical, Pollock’s name was listed first.
He wasn’t going to let Schaffer inch him out of the project. He thought Veil was as badass as Schaffer did, and they were both there to do a job. Off the top of his head, Pollock could think of ten things he solved while the pair fleshed out Tsay’s data, things Schaffer was unable to decipher. It wasn’t as if Pollock didn’t contribute at all, and now that he saw what kind of game Schaffer played, he figured it was high time he let Schaffer know he could play right the hell back.
Pollock darted across the lab and knocked on Schaffer’s office door. He heard a chair squeak and then Schaffer’s shoes click against the linoleum as he walked across his office. The blinds on the window of the office door were momentarily pulled apart, eye level with Pollock. Schaffer unlocked and opened his office door.
“What?” Schaffer groaned.
Pollock pushed the door open and walked around Schaffer, whose irritation was a little more than apparent.
“We need to talk about the project and get moving on a set of schematics,” Pollock said in the most confrontational tone he could produce. Schaffer closed the door, circled around his desk and sat down.
“I’m already working on some things, and I suggest you go do so as well. We can come up with some ideas and then hash them out or whatever.” Schaffer was willing to say anything to appease Pollock long enough to get him out of his office.
But, Pollock wasn’t having it. “That’s not really how a team gets things done and it’s not how we’ve operated up to this point. What was your meeting with the General about?”
Schaffer was about to tell him to mind his own friggen business when his phone rang. He put his hand on the receiver, looked at his office door and then at Pollock. Pollock didn’t take the hint. Schaffer raised his eyebrows and motioned his head toward the door. He wanted Pollock to frakking leave, damnit.
Pollock shook his head and stood his ground; he folded his arms and didn’t budge.
Schaffer rolled his eyes, let out a huff, and answered the call.
“Dr. Schaffer.”
“Dr. Schaffer, this is Dr. Hunter Kennerly. I’m returning your call.”
Now he really wanted Pollock out of his office so he furrowed his brow and motioned toward the door again. Pollock still wasn’t having it. Schaffer scowled and gave up.
“Dr. Kennerly, thank you for returning my call. The reason I was calling is because your name came up in a project I’m involved with here at the Department of Defense, and I think we could benefit from your level of expertise.”
Upon hearing that, Pollock’s attention visibly perked and he plopped himself in the chair in front of Schaffer’s desk.
Schaffer gave Pollock the middle finger. Pollock smiled.
“The Department of Defense? My name?” Dr. Kennerly asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Well, I’m still waiting to get confirmation of your security clearance, but I can say the project is linked to the phenomenon of neuroelectricity. I was calling to see if you would have any immediate availability to join the project if we’re able to get you cleared?”
Dr. Kennerly chuckled. “Refusing to work on a project with the DOD would be hard to do. You guys obtain my clearance, and I’ll carve out my availability. I can demand some flexibility from them here. I’m pretty sure I’ve earned it.”
“Understood. I can call you tomorrow to discuss,” Schaffer replied. To mask his relief, he made sure to look as smug as he could. Dr. Kennerly provided Schaffer with his personal contact information and the two hung up.
“Do you mind getting the frak out of my office now?”
“No problemo. I’m sure you have a bunch more totally non-cleared conversat
ions to have about our classified, Toppo-Secreto-projecto. Just let me get out of your way.”
As he bid him farewell, Schaffer made sure to emphasize Pollock’s name.
Once again using that wrong, politically incorrect pronunciation.
“Close the door behind you, Polack.”
After he hung up his office phone, Hunter Kennerly took out his cellphone. While he started a call, he walked across the office to close his door. He hit the send button, closed the door, headed toward the window, and used his fingers to separate two of the blinds so he could peer through them. A couple of well-built guys were tossing a football in the quad below. One had a nice, thick ass.
The person he called answered, but Hunter spoke before his friend had a chance.
“You’re never going to fucking believe this shit, bud.”
Hunter smirked while he leered at the built jock’s ass.
After a moment came the response from a familiar, monotone, computerized voice.
“Now what?”
Four days later, Hunter Kennerly was being escorted into the lab, planked on either side by Schaffer and Pollock. He could immediately tell he liked Pollock more; Schaffer seemed to have a stick up his ass, which was firmly attached to the chip on his shoulder. Hunter knew the game and although he didn’t know what the show was yet, he could already tell Schaffer considered himself to be the one running the show.
All he needed to do was validate Schaffer while giving Pollock the occasional knowing glance. Military guys were easy, especially the ones who thought they were smart. His dad was a military guy, and his dad was easy, and he was pretty sure his dad was a lot smarter than those two knuckle-draggers.
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