by Brian Nelson
The dark days have returned, Yéshé thought. He had feared that it would happen, when the Chinese began to slaughter them openly once again. It had happened before, in ’57, after the Khampa uprising, when the Chinese had committed the most terrible atrocities against the Tibetans—crucifixions, live burials, vivisection, pushing them from airplanes. Those terrible days when Tibetan children were forced to shoot their parents, when monks and nuns were forced to shoot their lamas and rinpoches. Now the dark days had returned.
“Tibetan fever.”
He did not know how, but he knew the Chinese were to blame. And because he had always known that the dark days could return, he had taken steps to protect his children. They were all he had, his fortune and wealth, and he loved them above all things—partly because they were the future of Tibet, but mostly because they were half of their mother. She had been taken from him too soon, killed by the Chinese doctors who had botched her sterilization after she “illegally” bore a second child. In his children, he still had a little bit of her, in their eyes and their smiles and their mischief. If they died, then Tibet would die, and so would the last remnants of his wife.
But to get off the Tibetan Plateau was a nearly impossible task. There were more than a dozen security checks, and anywhere the army wasn’t watching, its informants were. So in the faint glow of dawn, he drafted two letters: one to a fellow Tibetan who worked for the Chinese lumber conglomerate, and the other to a Han Chinese man. If the letters were opened by the Public Safety Bureau, they would appear to discuss simple things—the winter’s light snows, the accomplishments of the children in their fine Chinese schools—but there was a second message within these innocuous words that would cause things to move.
The boy would not want to leave. He would resist. But for the old man, it was decided. As soon as Sonam was strong enough, Yéshé would send him on a journey that would take him far from Tibet. And there his life would ultimately intersect with scientists who practiced a magic that, at that moment, neither he nor his son could comprehend.
Chapter Five
April 15, 2025
Naval Research Laboratory, Washington, DC
We knew from the outset that we were out to make history. We knew how important it was to the nation and to the world, and that made it a little frightening. But we also knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to push science to a new frontier, and if we could win this race, we would likely determine the direction of the world for decades to come.
—Bill Eastman, January 30, 2025
An orange dusk was fading to darkness as three men walked across the tarmac toward the Moffett hangar. Even though he was now one of the leaders of what would soon become the most expensive military project in history, Jack Behrmann felt small and insignificant next to the huge hangar they were approaching. Seeing it up close for the first time, he had to admit he was impressed. In the growing darkness, the colossal structure reminded him of something out of a science fiction movie, a monochromatic plated beast, one of the great sandworms of Dune. It was nothing like a normal aircraft hangar, not the ground-hugging half cylinder of a Quonset hut. This was a massive thing, over 150 feet high, 80 feet wide, and 1,200 feet long. From the front, it looked like a huge omega sign—Ω—with the front and back ends rounded like the head of a torpedo. It had been built in California in the 1930s to house one of the huge zeppelins that the navy was experimenting with at the time—enormous airships that could launch and recover five or six fighter planes from their platforms. Jack had been told the hangar was so big that clouds formed inside it, and now, as he craned his neck upward, he believed it.
When they were still some twenty paces from the massive front doors, a warning siren sounded. This was not the small, annoying beep of a backing truck. It was like the siren of a warship, a sound pushed by a great bellows and meant to be heard for miles, like the deep wail of a prehistoric beast.
Jack cringed.
Then a series of warning lights, each encased in a metal birdcage, began spinning, throwing a yellow strobe along the seams of the huge doors.
As the warning siren began to fade, they heard the revving of great turbines, followed by a deep thump-thump as thick metal cables suddenly exhausted their slack and began to pull the hangar doors apart. It was such a huge structure and they were so close, Jack had to resist a sudden urge to turn and run. It was like standing next to a speeding train.
He leaned down to Eastman’s ear. “Couldn’t we have just come in through the service entrance?”
“Now, Jack,” Bill said, smiling, “what fun would that be?”
Light poured out from the growing fissure, dazzling the three men and bleaching them in whiteness. Jack raised his hand to shield his eyes. It took a few moments for his vision to adjust, and when it did, the scene took his breath away. They stood on the threshold of a great cathedral of light. At first, it seemed as though the huge arched walls were actually made of light. Then he saw that they were not really walls at all, but an intricate webwork of triangular supports and trusses that crisscrossed again and again, at least nine feet deep. It reminded him of the cross-linking lacework of the Eiffel Tower. But where the Eiffel Tower was a drab iron gray, here every beam, rod, and bolt had been polished to a chrome-like brilliance. It was as if he were looking into a huge domed spiderweb, its gossamer strands wet with dew and refracting light in preternatural ways.
In the foreground, two thousand brand-new employees, their employees, were waiting for them, standing in front of their chairs. Beyond them was an elevated stage, and hanging from the ceiling above it were three enormous banners, each one some 50 feet wide and 130 feet tall, colored navy blue and adorned with lighter, Egyptian-blue designs—each one dedicated to one of the project’s three core sciences.
Genetics: a double helix.
Artificial Intelligence: the left hemisphere of a brain.
Nanotechnology: a geometric carbon nanotube.
Behind these, at the back of the hangar, were several historic fighter planes in storage, blue and silver with the US insignia on their wings and fuselages: a circle and star over a red and white ribbon. Three F-4 Phantoms, an A-4 Skyhawk, and three F6F Hellcats.
Jack felt instantly uneasy.
Taken all together, the symbolism of the place couldn’t have been clearer: the three pillars of science inside a military womb. He looked apprehensively at Bill Eastman, who was looking straight ahead and grinning. You should never have agreed to this, said the voice in his head. This is not what science is for.
Bill and Admiral Curtiss stepped forward over the threshold and into the hangar, but Jack couldn’t. There was something about taking that next step. He looked down at his feet. Somehow, this was more significant than leaving California, or selecting his new team, or moving into his quarters on base. Doing those things had not really meant that he was fully on board. But taking the next step meant that he was really going to do it. He was really going to make weapons for the military.
With another frightening thump-thump, the doors stopped moving. The mouth of the hangar was now wide open. On cue, a snare drum began a military march. Tap-tap rat-ta-tat tat. It was a hypnotic rhythm, urgent and patriotic, and it was soon accompanied by trumpets, flutes, and French horns, all full of stars and stripes and amber waves of grain. Jack didn’t know his military marches, only that they were written to inspire soldiers into battle. Designed to pull at their heartstrings while bypassing their minds. He knew this, yet he also felt—very much against his will—a patriotic stirring in his breast. As Bill and the admiral made their way to the stage, the crowd began to clap. The applause quickly fed on itself, rising and rising, accentuated by whoops and cheers and whistles. Joy. Exultation. It was for Bill, of course. He was their icon, their leader, their guru. He had gathered all these great minds to this place. They could see, just as well as Jack could, the possibilities that such a group might accomplish, t
he high plateau that they might attain.
The energy of the crowd, the rousing music, the dazzling cathedral of light, finally pulled Jack in. It was like standing knee-deep in a river and feeling the persistent pull of the current. He took a step forward, then another. As he crossed the threshold, there came a new surge of applause. They had seen him. The Big Man. There was no mistaking it. This was not all for Bill. He quick-stepped and fell in beside his friend, his apprehension dissipating. How could all this energy, this beauty, and this combined intellect be wrong?
Some people stepped into the aisle to greet them, to shake Bill’s hand, to touch him. Bill greeted them warmly, taking his time with each one. He waved, pointed, and winked. Soon, Jack was doing the same. They had done this many times before, of course, working the crowd, but never a crowd with so many great minds.
How had they gotten them all? There was Jessica Berg from Finland, perhaps the top computer scientist in the world. He saw Rebecca Zhu from U. Penn, a leader in cognitive intelligence systems. And there, sitting quietly in front, was Olex Velichko, an insufferable prima donna but without doubt the world’s greatest mind in genetics.
Perhaps more important than the famous ones were the not-yet-famous ones. God, they looked young. In many ways, the postdocs and grad students would determine the fate of this project, because the cutting edge of science was in many ways like the world of professional athletes and musicians. The greats tended to peak young. Jack had never quite figured out why this was. Perhaps it was chemistry, a hormonal imbalance, or perhaps they just wanted it more. Maybe they were still too ignorant of all the distractions and pleasures of the world. Whatever it was, the young had it: ambition that took them to the outer wall of science, where they pushed and prodded and hammered until they found a way through. Over and over again he had seen it: young scientists doing groundbreaking work in their twenties and early thirties, then fizzling out. Einstein’s disease, some people called it. For Einstein was the most famous example of the phenomenon. In a single year, at the age of twenty-six, he published major papers on light quanta, Brownian motion, mass and energy equivalence, and the special theory of relativity. Annus mirabilis. His miracle year. He never reached such brilliance again. At thirty-seven, he shone briefly when he published the general theory of relativity, but after he turned forty, it was generally agreed that he wasted the rest of his life.
So, this project was about recruiting the greatest known minds, but also about finding those who were on the cusp of greatness. It would likely come down to the young, and Jack knew that his role would be to inspire, cajole, and squeeze every drop of brilliance out of these young minds. At times, it would get ugly. They were going to churn and burn them. He didn’t like that, but it was the nature of the job. There was just too much at stake.
As Jack clasped hands and waved, he knew that these people, whom he scarcely knew, were relying on him. But he was relying on them, too.
The three men climbed the steps to the stage, where they turned and waved to the crowd. The cheering swelled to a roar, like the sound in a ballpark when someone hits a home run. Jack couldn’t help but grin. It was the hope of beginnings, the start of a great journey. The joy of setting out for the unknown with a group of fellow travelers who were capable and strong, deft and daring.
Admiral Curtiss stepped up to the podium and spoke briefly, knowing full well that this crowd looked to Eastman for leadership and were not predisposed to trust a military man. He reassured them that he was here to help and that if they needed anything at all, he would get it for them. His tact impressed Jack. Maybe the guy wasn’t so bad after all.
Then Bill Eastman stepped up. He had them enthralled at the first word. A gifted orator, he spoke with great insight and clarity, yet he was also funny and self-deprecating, sharing silly mistakes he had made and times when he had made a fool of himself.
Now, he told them they had to work fast. He had faith that they could win, but there was no time to waste. The crowd was spellbound. Just as they had roared at his humor, now they were solemn at his seriousness.
“Eight months,” he said.
The crowd stirred at that, and even up on the stage Jack could hear the whispers and murmurs: “It’s too soon.” “That’s not enough time.”
“Eight months to replication,” Bill repeated. “Between now and then, I will ask you to work harder, longer, and smarter than you have ever worked before. You will struggle through many nights and days. At times, you will feel exhausted and overwhelmed. Your resolve will weaken and grow brittle, and you will be tempted to quit. Yet you must press on! The importance of the deadline cannot be stressed enough. The owner of the first functional device will have an influence unsurpassed in history. With it, they will immediately jump ahead of all the others.”
Now Bill’s eyes had an icy intensity. “We all know how coveted the prize has become, and that one nation—you all know which one I mean—is already ahead of us. If they win, what will keep them from selling their technology to hostile nations, as they have done in the past? What will keep them from exercising their newfound might against their weaker neighbors, or even against us? After all, they will have nothing to fear from anyone.” He let that sink in. Jack saw heads nodding. “Eight months to secure the balance of power in the world. Eight months to give us time to protect ourselves and create countermeasures.” Bill stopped and gave them a hard look. “Can you do it?”
The response was instantaneous. The crowd thundered. “Will you do this?” he shouted over the din. They roared louder. Resting his elbow on the lectern, he turned to Jack. “Well, do you think they’re ready?”
It was one of their old tricks. A showman’s stunt to fire up the crowd. Jack rubbed his big beard in a show of skepticism, then shook his head. Nah.
Bill turned back to the crowd and shrugged his shoulders. They roared louder than ever.
Jack cupped his hand to his ear. Two thousand voices cheering as loud as they could. Then Jack smiled and nodded his head as if impressed, which, in fact, he was. The crowd laughed and cheered.
* * *
Four hours later, the crowd was gone and Bill and Jack were alone in the immense hangar, except for a few maintenance people stacking chairs and sweeping the floor. There had been a huge meal, and afterward the band had played Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, and the best of the Casa Loma Orchestra. The men had loosened their ties, and the women had danced with their heel straps laced between their fingers.
But now it was quiet, and Jack Behrmann felt his euphoria beginning to ebb. His mind was coming back to the monumental task ahead, of keeping his team focused, motivated, and as happy as possible. And the biggest problem, the perennial problem: finding more talent. He felt as if he were casting a great motion picture, in which each of his six hundred actors had a unique role to play. Each one had a specialty that they would need in building the nanosite. It was not unlike specialization in medicine, really, except that instead of taking care of a patient, they were building one. He had specialists for data processing (the “central nervous system”), for power distribution (the “circulatory system”), for system regulation (the “endocrine system”), for energy conversion (the “digestive system”), and for replication (the “reproductive system”).
And Jack was still missing his most important cast member. An architect. He needed someone who could envision the whole organism, who would direct and guide the other groups and integrate all their ideas into one superefficient organism. The architect was a critical piece, and Jack had been trying to fill the slot from day one. But he had not found anyone who truly impressed him, so he had been reduced to hiring several people, hoping he could train them up so their combined talents might equal the one person he really needed.
As the group of workmen began disassembling the stage, Bill and Jack began the walk back toward the residences.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Bill said, producing some
folded papers from inside his suit. He had a sudden glint in his eye. “I have something for you.”
It was the draft of a journal article. Jack stopped to look at the title, which was simply “What Will It Look Like?” Then he read the abstract.
“This looks perfect!” he said, his cheeks rising with color. “Where’d you get it?”
“A few months ago, I told Pierce Craig at Nature to let me know if he had any submissions that might be security sensitive. You know, stuff that could be useful to us but that we didn’t want made public. He sent it to me yesterday—said he’d love to publish it.”
“I bet he would,” Jack said, looking at the byline. “Eric Hill? Who is he?”
“He’s under Kathy Masson at Stanford. Set to graduate next month. I think we can get him.”
“This was written by a grad student?”
Bill gave a slow nod and smiled.
There it was again, Jack thought as they left the light of the hangar. For a graduate student to do work worthy of publication in Nature was extraordinary. It was the type of publication that would get the author an immediate tenure-track position at a top university.
“Should I get Curtiss’s boys to start the background check?” Jack asked.
Bill gave him a sheepish look. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told him to get started this morning. He says it’ll take at least a week.”
“You seem pretty sure about this one.”
“Eric? Well, I’ve been keeping my eye on him for a while now. I heard him give a paper a few years ago. He struck me as a good egg.”
“Well, let’s hope he’s our boy.”
“Yes, let’s hope.”
Jack looked at his friend for a moment. He knew there was something Bill wasn’t telling him. He had known him long enough to recognize the signs. Something about this Eric Hill. But Jack decided not to push it. It had been a long evening, and tomorrow they would begin the hardest project of their lives.