At LAX, Dre is picked up by an unmarked aircraft of a design he has never seen before. It is an amalgamation of a luxury jet and a stealth fighter with a dramatic, triangular, blended-wing configuration built around a short, gently flowing fuselage. It reminds the boy of what you might get if you tried to lengthen an exotic sports car into a limousine. The pilot enters the cockpit from the top while Dre boards via portable passenger steps. The inside is furnished like a small sailboat with a tiny kitchen, cushioned benches around a table, a few screens, and a closet-sized lavatory. There are no windows, but after the whine of the aircraft’s single engine reaches its maximum pitch, Dre does not need to see outside to know that they are taking off in a perfectly vertical orientation.
The boy is hungry and eats the high-protein meal of steak, eggs, and fortified milk which is waiting for him in a glass cabinet in the galley. The plane slows after about ninety minutes, and Dre is momentarily alarmed by the sounds he hears from above him until he realizes that they are probably just engaged in an aerial refueling maneuver. They accelerate back to their previous speed and continue for roughly two more hours before slowing again. This time it is not to refuel, but to drop into a controlled vertical descent. Their total flight time is just under three and half hours—plenty of time, Dre knows, for such an aircraft to have covered several thousands of miles in any given direction.
The tilting and listing of the plane during its descent transitions into a much wider-scale sway upon touchdown, and Dre realizes that they are not on tarmac but rather have landed on some sort of a ship. He is not entirely surprised since the only reason to incur the additional expense and complication of an aircraft capable of vertical takeoff and landing is to either reach small clearings in forested regions, or to land on a ship without an arresting wire to absorb the energy of a traditional landing. He is provided with a short ladder rather than steps, and when he looks around from the deck, he sees that he is on something he can only describe as a combination aircraft carrier and yacht. He sees two more planes similar to his, and two small white helicopters with shrouded tail rotors and prominent twin engines, but there isn’t room for much else. The winds are strong and salty, and Dre sees no hint of land as he checks as much of the horizon as he can before being ushered below.
He is led down two metal staircases by a single unarmed man in a black uniform—cargo pants, commando sweater, and a beret—whose body language is not so much threatening as it is insistent. The routine seems designed to allow the boy to take in as little as possible, to discourage him from asking even a single question, and to keep him so off-balance and distracted that he doesn’t have time to wonder what the hell he has gotten himself into.
There is a hatch in the floor at the bottom of the stairs and Dre can tell from the levers and gaskets that it leads to a separate vessel. He is invited to descend the rungs welded to the inside of the passage and into the dim red lighting which he knows from his training is designed to preserve night vision in a darkened environment. The green glow in his prosthetic eye is more prominent below than it was topside. A woman awaits him at the foot of the ladder and greets him with a surprisingly warm smile.
“Good morning, Andre.” The woman offers her hand and Dre takes it with just enough hesitancy to betray his surprise at the lack of military formality. “I’m Commander Helvenston. Are you ready for your first day?”
The boy can hear the hatch being sealed above their heads. The woman in front of him is wearing a blue T-shirt, oceanic digital camouflage pants, high black boots, and a sizable sidearm—probably loaded with frangible rounds incapable of piercing a plated hull. Her cap has the profile of a long sleek submarine stitched across the forehead along with the words “P.K. Megalodon” in yellow above.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Great. Follow me. I’ll show you to your console.”
The floor is a soft rubberized material which provides their boots with a firm grip. As the vessel begins to dive, both Dre and the woman in front of him reach for the rails lining the narrow passage. The woman speaks without turning.
“Have you ever been on a submarine before?”
From the back, Dre can see that the woman’s hair is actually cut short as opposed to just being tucked up beneath her cap. “No, ma’am.”
Helvenston stops. She checks the dense black dive watch strapped to her wrist. It’s the same model issued to Dre and consists of a compression-proof, silicon oil-filled titanium case, a carbon fiber dial, tritium tubes which create permanent radioluminescence for effective visibility in all lighting conditions, a chip-scale cesium module that measures time down to a millionth of a second (and calibrates with all Pearl Knight wireless networks), and a Kevlar-weave cuff with a Velcro shroud that can be used to obscure the illumination and keep the six-millimeter-thick synthetic sapphire crystal from flashing in the moonlight. Dre’s Patek Philippe Nautilus is being given the day off and now rests on the nightstand beside his bed.
“We don’t have time for an actual tour, but I can give you a quick virtual one. Would you like that?”
The boy does his best to sound professional and even a tad dispassionate—to not come across as a little kid on his first tour of an underwater war machine. “Yes, ma’am. If we have time.”
She turns to the panel above the rail. “Pearl, show me a real-time schematic of the P.K. Megalodon.”
The voice is the same one Dre first heard in the elevator with Alexei and Fielding four months ago, and has since gotten to know quite well. “Yes, Commander.”
The panel shows a three-dimensional lateral cutaway of the Megalodon. Helvenston holds her hand up in front of the panel and pauses. After the diagram pulses once indicating a lock, it rotates and tilts in perfect synchronization with her hand. When she has found an angle she likes, she opens her fingers and the image zooms. As more of the hull cuts away, Dre notices that the image is not static; he can see dozens of icons indicative of rank moving throughout the vessel, each with a tiny callout hovering above.
“This is us,” Helvenston says. The image is no longer locked to her hand so she can point. The two icons are about a third of the way back from the nose of the sub and are labeled “CDR Helvenston” and “LT Strasser.” Dre wonders if their watches are exchanging more information with the network than just time synchronization markers.
“This is the hatch you just climbed down. Up here, we have our retractable masts, which is how you’ll be talking to the Mercury drones above us. This is the boat’s command and control center, and right below it is the remote command and control center where you’ll be working. Then we have the main sonar sphere, vertical launch tubes, horizontal torpedo tubes, the lockout trunk for staging special forces, and finally the reactor compartment, hydrogen fuel cells, engine room, and ballast tanks. Aside from a few rudders and the propulsor ducts, that’s about it.”
Dre points to a series of dark protrusions along the vessel’s hull. “What are these?”
“Those are part of our sonar array and AACS, or Active Acoustic Cloaking System. The Megalodon is a stealth sub. Any sound waves that reach us, we absorb, analyze, digitally re-create, then rebroadcast from the opposite side of the hull after an appropriate time delay. Our acoustic signature is usually anywhere from completely nonexistent to, at worst, that of a small school of fish.”
Sublime, the boy thinks, but keeps it to himself. “Why do we have a nuclear reactor and hydrogen fuel cells? Why not just one or the other?”
“Good question. We can get a lot more power out of the reactor, but the fuel cells don’t produce any heat, so when it’s more important to be invisible than to be fast, we switch over.”
“What kinds of weapons are we carrying?”
“Unfortunately, that’s highly classified, but let’s just say that there isn’t a land mass anywhere on Earth that we can’t attack.” Helvenston smiles. “And when I say attack, I’m not just talking about busting a bunker or two. I’m talking more in the neighborhood of total anni
hilation. But fortunately, that’s not my mission today. At least not yet.”
“What is your mission?”
“My mission is simple. Get you into international waters and keep you aligned with the Mercury array until you’ve completed your mission.”
“So what’s my mission?”
“That I don’t know. Your orders are for your ears only.”
Dre’s eyes narrow into a perplexed squint. “There’s something I don’t really get.”
“What’s that?”
“If we’re all on the same team here, why do we all keep so many secrets from each other? I mean I don’t even know which ocean we’re in right now. Wouldn’t we all work together much better if we at least knew each other’s orders?”
Helvenston smiles again, and something about the expression strikes Dre as inauthentic. “Don’t take it personally, Andre. It’s called information compartmentalization. You get used to it. Believe it or not, it’s actually for your own good.”
“I keep hearing that,” Dre says. “No offense, but it sounds a little like bullshit to me.”
Helvenston raises her eyebrows. This time she does not smile. “It may sound like bullshit to you, Andre, but it happens to be based on hundreds of years of military experience. Look at it this way: people like us have access to some of the most advanced and devastating weapons in the entire world. Imagine what the bad guys would do to know what we know. Imagine what lengths they would go to in order to try to get us to use those weapons in ways that benefit them instead of us. One of the best protections we have is the fact that we don’t even know where we’re going to be or what we’re going to be doing day to day, and if we don’t even know, that means the bad guys probably don’t know, either. The bottom line is the less we know, the safer we all are.”
“But it’s not like someone can make us do something we don’t want to do,” Dre says.
“Really?” Helvenston says. She looks mockingly astonished. “Not even if they kidnap your entire family and mail you a different body part each day until you agree to meet their demands? Let’s see… One day you might get a little ring box with a tooth or an ear or an eye. The next day, a long skinny flower box with a pretty little bow, but instead of long-stemmed roses, it might have an arm or part of a leg in it, broken in several places under the gradual pressure of a vice before it was amputated with a machete or a dull limb saw. And then finally, a nice big square box with a head in it and your instructions neatly folded and placed in your mother’s or your sister’s or your daughter’s mouth.” She pauses while Dre’s expression changes. “That’s not hypothetical, by the way. You’re not playing video games anymore, kid. You’re dealing with people’s lives now. Are we on the same page here, or do I need to give the order to resurface?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy says quickly. He tries to communicate subordination by straightening his posture. “We’re on the same page. I was just wondering.”
“Is there anything else you were just wondering about?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” Helvenston says. Her eyes linger on the boy a moment longer, then she checks her watch. “Then I guess we’d better get you to your console.”
Dre follows Helvenston through narrow passages lined with intricate arrangements of ducts, lines, tubes, and conduits. The boy is surprised by how few people they pass, and by how much of the vessel’s operations must be automated. The floors continue to be coated in a soft silicon material, and as they descend a set of spongy stairs, Dre makes the connection that the material is probably more for sound dampening than for traction.
“The remote command and control center is divided into pods,” Helvenston explains. “Since every pilot could have different orders and missions, everyone works in isolation. You’re in pod number four today.”
“Are there any other pilots on board?”
“Information compartmentalization,” Helvenston articulates carefully. “Try to keep that in mind.”
She pushes open the pod hatch, but does not enter. Dre steps into the room and sees that it is larger than he was expecting, and entirely lined with display panels. His console is set up according to his personal specifications on a metal surface in the corner along with a tall padded chair. There are two canisters fixed to the table with long bent straws positioned to be reachable without the use of hands. The flooring in the room is more of a mesh as opposed to solid silicone or rubber, and Dre sees that there are slots in the metal underneath—probably anchors to support changing the room’s configuration.
“You have water and protein at your console,” Helvenston says from outside the room. “We ask that you use headphones and speak directly into your mic in order to keep the noise down. Your commander will let me know when you need a break, and I will come get you. Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” Helvenston says. “I guess that means you’re finally learning.”
She smiles at Dre once more before pulling the hatch closed and bolting it from the outside.
Dre sits at the console and positions his headset. He adjusts the mic until it is directly in front of his mouth. “Andre Strasser reporting for duty.”
Pearl’s response comes through the headset. “Welcome, Lieutenant Strasser. Your console is now configured.”
Dre’s left and center screens come up, but they are dimmed. Dre places his hands over his control pads but does not lower them yet.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Strasser,” Dre hears. The voice is male and unfamiliar—young, but definitely older than Dre. “This is Commander Russak. Do you copy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. You ready to go to work today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Outstanding, Pilot. Your call sign for today will be Arclight. Confirm.”
“Copy that,” Andre says. “Arclight.”
“Arclight it is. Now we’re going to start you off with something nice and easy on your first day in the saddle. How’s that sound?”
“That sounds good, sir.”
“You can drop the formality with me, Strasser. As long as you follow orders and everything’s meshing like it’s supposed to, we’re friends. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Dre says. “I mean yes, I understand.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Russak says. “You’re taking over a mission already in progress, so all your toys are already out of the toy box. You got a Requiem on the ground and a Crossbow in the air. Tell me when you have visuals.”
As soon as Dre’s screens come up, he knows exactly where he is. The sudden recognition is like touching an unexpectedly live wire. He checks his aerial view for confirmation, takes a deep breath, and does his best to steady his voice. “Affirmative,” the boy says. “I have both visuals.”
“I love it when all this shit actually works,” Russak says. “Now, missions don’t get much simpler than this, so with a little luck, we’ll both be home in time for milk and cookies. You with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Here’s what we got. You see that wall to the northwest?”
“I got it.”
“And you see that massive fucking mob to the east?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our one and only job today is to make damn sure those people don’t get over, under, around, or through that wall. Do you copy?”
“Copy that.”
“Good. This is basically the most expensive and high-tech babysitting job in history. They got plenty of small arms, but nothing that can breach a barrier of that size, and certainly nothing that can chip your paint. But still, your weapons are hot, so if we see someone so much as look at that wall funny, we’re going to deal with them with some extreme motherfucking prejudice. Our orders are to make an example out of anyone we consider to be even marginally lacking in compliance. You with me?”
“Yes, sir,” Dre says. “Do we know what all those people want?”
&nbs
p; “Who the fuck knows. Either food or democracy, probably. That’s pretty much what everyone around the world seems to want these days. But whatever it is they want, they ain’t getting it on our watch.”
“What’s on the other side of the wall?”
“Officially, that’s above both our pay grades, but unofficially, the entire government of Sierra Leone is holed up back there. Apparently the people who sign our paychecks would prefer none of them get overthrown anytime soon. Personally, I could give two shits who or what’s on the other side of that wall as long as it’s all still there eight hours from now. You copy?”
“Copy that,” Dre says. “Let’s just get through our shift and get home.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, my man. Now all I want you to do for now is walk around a little bit like the big menacing badass son of a bitch that you are, and I highly doubt anyone will so much as spit in your general direction. You got any questions?”
“No, sir,” Andre says. “It’s all good.”
“Outstanding, Pilot. In that case, I am transferring control to you in three… two… one… Arclight is now in play. Confirm transfer of control.”
Dre does not let himself think. His heart is pounding in his chest, his fingers are trembling from the adrenaline rush, and his palms are cold with sweat. When his hands make contact with his control pads, his actions are fluid and decisive. He switches to his aerial view, arms the Raijin air-to-surface missiles, and paints two targets: the first is a section of wall a hundred meters north of his position, and the second is the core of the Requiem. He fires, lets his hands fall away from the control pads, and stares straight ahead at what he has just done.
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