by Brian Nelson
Also by Brian Nelson
The Silence and the Scorpion:
The Coup against Chávez and the Making of Modern Venezuela
Copyright © 2018 by Brian Nelson
E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Sean M. Thomas
Book design by Andrew D. Klein
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5385-0765-0
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5385-0764-3
Fiction / Thrillers / Technological
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
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For Ben
and Lucas
What need is there for responsibility? I believe that the horrifying deterioration in the ethical conduct of people today stems from the mechanization and dehumanization of our lives, a disastrous by-product of the development of the scientific and technical mentality. We are guilty. Man grows cold faster than the planet he inhabits.
—Albert Einstein
Author’s Note
The innovations in genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, and nanotechnology described in this book are consistent with forecasts made by leading scientists.
In 2003, the Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) in Washington, DC, opened its Institute for Nanoscience. The laboratory is at the forefront of a global effort by governments and private companies to develop advanced weapon systems using nanotechnology and other “cross-disciplinary opportunities.”
Finally, all historical information about the People’s Republic of China and Tibet is accurate.
Prologue
The Letter
In August 2018, Nobel laureate and biochemist Bill Eastman hosted a conference for some of the greatest minds in science at the Millennium Institute in San Francisco. The theme of the conference was the anticipated growth in technology over the next half century. The predictions of the attending scientists—who ranged from physicists to geneticists to computer scientists—prompted Eastman to draft a letter to the president, warning him of the possible dangers from emerging technologies. “We are in the early stages of a technological transformation that will dwarf the Industrial Revolution,” he wrote. “A revolution that will change economies and societies in ways that are difficult to imagine today.” The letter, modeled after Albert Einstein’s 1939 letter warning President Roosevelt about the possibility of an atomic bomb, was signed by Eastman and twenty-seven other leading scientists. It described how the combination of genetics, artificial intelligence, and nanotechnology (manufacturing on an atom-by-atom basis) would enable the creation of microscopic machines, smaller than a single cell.
As soon as 2030, these three sciences will merge. Advances in nanotechnology will make the construction of these microscopic devices possible while innovations in genetic engineering will enable them to make copies of themselves. Finally, developments in artificial intelligence will guide them with computers that exceed human intelligence. While these tiny devices will have tremendous benefits—including the ability to greatly prolong life by entering the bloodstream to fight disease—they will just as easily be designed as a new breed of biological weapon.
Eastman predicted a new arms race between the major powers as each strove to tap into the military applications of the new science. But his most sobering predictions addressed what would occur after the arms race was over.
Unlike other weapons of mass destruction, which are extremely difficult to make, these devices will be cheap and simple to acquire … Instead of rogue states and terrorist groups developing nuclear or biological weapons, we will have small groups or even individuals (such as those who create computer viruses today) capable of engineering viruses that can target people with a specific genetic trait.
The letter stressed that, while the invention of new biological weapons was a foreseeable possibility, these microscopic devices would be so versatile, and evolve so rapidly, that thousands of other hazardous scenarios would arise that we cannot even fathom today. To prepare for these contingencies, Eastman called for the creation of a new government agency to regulate their development. He concluded, “We must accept the likelihood that the future will be a place where a few clever individuals will gain access to astonishing power.”
While the letter caused a stir within the scientific community, media attention was sparse. Only a few major papers bothered to cover the story, and many prominent scientists—including some who had attended the Millennium Conference—denounced Eastman and scoffed at his predictions, calling him paranoid.
It was 2018, after all, and with so many doomsday predictions come and gone, the world had grown skeptical. Still bruised by the global recession and under the constant bombardment of news about terrorism, climate change, and rogue nuclear powers, people were too exhausted for yet another pending catastrophe. Besides, most people believed that the answers to the world’s problems would come by turning toward science, not away from it. Humankind had learned, and had the lesson reinforced many times, that the more its progress was intertwined with its dominion over nature—the atom, the cell, the genome—the brighter its future would be.
But in a college dorm room overlooking the Charles River, a twenty-year-old college sophomore named Eric Hill happened upon a summary of the letter in the Boston Globe. For reasons he could not quite explain, it enthralled him. Over the next few weeks, he scoured the internet, reading everything he could about Eastman and his predictions. He quickly noticed that while Eastman’s detractors dismissed his dystopian vision, none of them questioned his predictions for technological change. No one disputed that artificial intelligence would eventually exceed human intelligence, or that the human body would soon be integrated with intravascular microscopic devices. Eric knew there was something important here. Bill Eastman, the man who had accurately predicted the rise of biotechnology a generation ago, had a new vision of the future. And while the inventions he foresaw might not be realized for decades, their antecedents were already being designed in universities and laboratories across the globe.
A month after the letter’s publication, Eric made the change. He switched his major to chemistry with a concentration in systems analysis. At that moment, he could not have imagined just how far he would rise, or how his life and Eastman’s would come together. How, despite their best efforts, Eric’s work would help bring Eastman’s worst nightmares to fruition.
Seven years later …
The principles of physics, as far as I can see, do not speak against the possibility of maneuvering things atom by atom. It is not an attempt to violate any laws; it is something, in principle, that can be done; but in practice, it has not been done because we are too big.
—Richard P. Feynman, 1959
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*** DARPA SECURE COMM SERVICE ***
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JANUARY 13, 2025
Dear George:
I know you’ve been getting the updates on Tangshan. I wish I could dismiss their progress as exaggeration, but ***** is our best, and his reports are confirmed. I’m still trying to swallow it: a programmable virus within the next seven months and full replication within eighteen. I have to admit, I’m worried about this one. The more I learn about this stuff, the more it scares me. Worse, the boys at NRL say that second place isn’t good enough. Whoever replicates first will likely stay ahead, a
s these things learn and grow by themselves. It’s sobering to think that military supremacy could pass entirely to the Chinese.
What’s the word on funding? I’m hoping you can do your magic between NSA, Homeland, and DOD.
Working to get Eastman on board as soon as possible. Considering Curtiss as Project Lead. Thoughts?
My regards to Katherine and the girls.
Michael T. Garrett
CNO—UNITED STATES NAVY
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*** DARPA SECURE COMM SERVICE ***
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JANUARY 14, 2025
Dear Mitch:
I share your pessimism on Tangshan. We’ve been screaming about this for years, and it’s only now getting the attention it deserves. The good news is, we finally got the right people scared and the funding is secure for at least three years, so go get the best you can.
While you get things up and running, I’ll investigate ways to slow down our friends in Tangshan. We may have to sacrifice **** and the other operatives, but those losses will be acceptable if it gives us the time we need—perhaps six months to a year.
While I agree things look bleak, the good news is that ****, *****, and ***** are feeding us excellent intel on almost everything they’re doing, which means we should be able to catch up quickly.
Was surprised to hear you are considering Curtiss. I have to strongly recommend against it. That son of a bitch should never have kept his stars after what happened in Syria. I know he’s done some impressive things, but you’ll never be able to control him, which frightens me, considering all the money and power that is coming your way. Pick somebody else.
Warm regards,
George
Chapter One
January 27, 2025
US Naval Academy, Annapolis, MD
Rear Admiral (upper half) James Curtiss awoke with a gasp, instinctively reaching for the FN Five-seveN pistol on the nightstand, pulling the slide with a metallic clank, and sweeping the room. His heart pounded against his ribs as the tactical light of the pistol illuminated ghostly circles in the dark room: the dresser, his uniform hanging on the closet door, the TV. Then he saw a flicker of movement. Someone was here, in the room. He acquired the target, center mass, and began to squeeze the trigger … Then he saw his own face, painted with fear, reflected in the mirror. He lowered the pistol and let out a long exhalation.
It had taken him a bare second to go from deep sleep to “the hardness”—to the soldier with his weapon cocked, teeth clenched, ready to kill. But just as quickly as he had filled with violence, he deflated. Reality flooded in. It’s just a dream, he reminded himself. Just a fucking dream. But not just any dream. It was the dream he couldn’t shake. Ever since Syria.
He was standing in a huge tunnel: the enormous gray fuselage of the C-17 Globemaster. He was dressed in his ceremonial whites, a wide rectangle of colored ribbons on his left breast. In the dream, there was no sound. Someone had muted everything but the staccato click of his heels on the corrugated metal deck. Click, click, click … Attached to the fuselage, surrounding him like giant bullets in the cylinder of a revolver, were six coffins draped with American flags. Ramírez, Chen, Thompson, Anderson, Day, Edwards. As he moved forward into the belly of the plane, another six coffins appeared, draped in flags just like the first six. Moses, Brewer, Hoffman, Vargas, Lightfoot, Jackson. Click, click, click … On it went. Every few steps, another six coffins would appear out of the gloom, each name conjuring a hard drive of images: a smiling young face, a joke told at a picnic, a man pushing a child in a swing.
The cargo door opened, and he raised his hand to shade his eyes from the light. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was out there: fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, and children. They were waiting for what was left of their boys and girls—their husbands, wives, fathers, mothers. He didn’t want to go out there, but he made himself. There were hundreds of them, and they were, like his soldiers, all races and creeds—white, black, Hispanic, Asian, and, like him, Native American. They stared at him, their faces blank, expressionless. No one spoke, no bugle played “Taps.” But now, in addition to the clap of his heels, he heard the wind blowing—a lonely, solitary sound that whistled and echoed inside his head.
As an honor guard carried the coffins from the plane, a little girl in a white dress emerged from the crowd. She came to him and took his hand. It felt like forgiveness, her small hand in his, and he followed her willingly. She led him to a small lectern. But he had no speech prepared because there were no words that could soften this. He fumbled. He saw an interminable line of hearses moving like an assembly line toward the open aircraft. The girl was holding a present: a red box with a white bow. He took the box and untied the ribbon. Inside was a revolver. He took it, cocked it, and put the barrel in his mouth. It seemed the right thing to do; a fair trade for what he had taken from them. He glanced down at her then sideways at the families. Then he pulled the trigger.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the sudden sweat on the inside of his T-shirt cooling, making him shiver. Nothing in the room looked familiar.
Where the fuck am I?
You’re back in Annapolis, you stupid Indian. He ran his left hand through his hair, then looked down at the pistol in his other hand. It had been eight years since he had last led his soldiers into combat—eight years since he was promoted to a maker of PowerPoint presentations, since he became a senior officer who conducted warfare from a command center in Florida, watching live satellite and webcam feeds as his soldiers risked their lives in dusty streets nine time zones away. Eight years, but the training was still there—the reflexes, the familiarity. The gun felt so comfortable in his hand … and the dream. He put the barrel into his mouth, just as he had done moments ago in the dream. He tasted the cold polymer and Gunslick. Just for a second, he considered pulling the trigger, but he stopped himself and put the gun down gently on the nightstand.
One thing was for sure: he needed to get that little bitch out of his head. If she hung around in there much longer, he was going to take her up on her offer.
“Jim, as your commanding officer, I think you should consider seeing a psychiatrist.”
“Shrinks are for pussies, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“Then why’d you open your goddamn mouth?”
A shrug. “All right. I won’t force you, but if Evelyn takes the boys and leaves you, don’t come bitching to me.”
He looked at his watch—4:15 a.m. You’ve slept enough, old man. The chopper would be here in an hour anyway.
He got dressed, and twenty minutes later he was standing on the seawall on the east side of the Yard, looking out at the Severn River and the Chesapeake Bay beyond. It was bitter cold, the temperature just south of zero. He shivered and his teeth chattered, but he didn’t care. He welcomed the discomfort; he felt he deserved it. Beyond the snow-covered stones, the bay was undulating in gray scale, rolling high and beautiful and forbidding, as only the deep water could.
He had been summoned. Ordered to report, but without details or explanation. At his rank, that was unusual. It annoyed him, but it also piqued his curiosity. Something was up. But what, he wasn’t sure.
The world was more or less at peace. The eighteen-month civil war in Saudi Arabia had turned into a stalemate, and—much to the relief of global markets—both sides were now exporting oil as fast as they could pump it. The rest of the Middle East was as stable as it ever was. There were monsoon floods in Bangladesh, and China was rattling its saber over PACFLT operations in the South China Sea, but that had become routine. Whatever they wanted him for, it was something else. Mitch’s call had come late, and while the CNO’s voice had been cool, Curtiss had still detected an urgency there.
Behind him, snaking across Dewey Field, were the footprints he had left in the snow. They led back across Holloway Road to Bancroft Hall—to Mother B, th
e biggest dormitory in the world. She was mostly dark and still at this hour, with only a few windows lit. He imagined the cadets inside clutching desperately to their last moments of peace before reveille, just as he had done when he called the place home thirty-seven years ago.
It had changed little since then. It still sat huge and daunting, at rest but never sleeping. It struck him now as it had when he first saw it. The building was a living thing—a massive respiring organism. It held not only the entire brigade of over four thousand midshipmen, but also the residue—the pain, humiliation, tenacity, and tears of every cadet who had ever come through its doors. A huge aggregated mass of emotion that encompassed everything those boys and girls had been when they arrived—brave, frightened, optimistic youth—and everything they became: hardened, beaten, and burned into officers of the United States Navy. Inside those walls, you felt their essence like a layer of greasy paint: their victories and their tragedies, wherever they had gone, even if they had gone nowhere.
All cadets hated Annapolis, but he had hated it more than most. And year after year, he had avoided coming back here. But this year, when they asked him to give a guest lecture, he had agreed. Now he knew it had been a mistake. Whatever he was looking for, whatever he needed, it wasn’t here. Jesus, you do need a shrink.
He supposed he had come looking for himself, for the man who had arrived here in 1988. The young man who had believed the recruitment posters. Join the navy. See the world. Adventure. As well as the thing the posters didn’t say: that along with that life of adventure, someday, in some distant port, far from the shitty Oklahoma reservation he had escaped, he would meet a beautiful girl and live happily ever after.
That was the boy he wanted to meet now. The boy who had looked on the veterans with envy and saw ribbons and medals as things to strive for, not as reminders of pain and suffering and destroyed families. He saw traces of himself in the cadets, but the way they looked at him made him uneasy, because it was just the way he had looked at the decorated Vietnam vets in 1988: as heroes, as someone to emulate. They could read the ribbons and medals on his uniform like a résumé, and to them, he knew, he seemed the epitome of a badass: Bronze Star with “V.” Combat Action. Sharpshooter Award. Navy Cross. “The Budweiser.” Bosnia, Afghanistan, Operation Enduring Freedom, Syrian Liberation. As the cadets had huddled around him after his lecture, pestering him with questions, he suddenly felt that he was on the other side of a great and terrible lie.