by William Oday
William Oday, December 2015
Copyright © 2015 William Oday
All rights reserved worldwide
All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogues, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
THE
DARWIN
PROTOCOL
William Oday
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CHAPTER ONE
One Month Ago
The Pentagon
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Anton Reshenko realized they resembled nothing so much as monkeys, preening and picking at each other to ease tensions and confirm social status. He stood at the back of the small conference room, quietly waiting to be recognized. The most powerful men and women in the United States government packed the tight space in a conspicuous ordered hierarchy. The senior members each occupied a high-backed, black leather chair at the long rectangle table. The chair at the far end was symbolically empty, as the president was absent.
Would that legally cover plausible deniability?
Proximity from that vacant chair communicated power and position. Ongoing feuds and bitter rivalries occasionally shuffled the membership.
Anton wasn’t foolish enough to think the news accounts ever got to the truth of those transitions.
The next level removed were the subordinates and staff that stood along the walls behind the chairs of their respective superiors. They stood stiffly at attention, whether obviously military or otherwise, exuding the reflected glory of their seated leash-holders.
And the furthest removed were those, like him, standing at the opposite end of the room, near the door. As if the exit behind served to remind them that they barely warranted inclusion. That their presence might end at any moment with the wave of a hand or a displeased nod.
Unlike him, they were all insiders. Instinctually aware of the invisible web of power and procedure that governed their artificial realities.
The cloying stink of over-used aftershave wrinkled Anton’s nose. The soft hum of quiet conversation buzzed in his ears. Several subordinates were scribbling on notepads as their masters droned on about matters too inconsequential for them to personally perform.
The incessant babbling made it hard to think.
Anton’s hand slipped into his left pocket and found the familiar disc deposited there. Minted nearly a thousand years ago, the silver Dirham of Genghis Khan was an invaluable reminder of what one man might achieve.
He rubbed it between thumb and pointer finger. The worn edges of the ancient script almost as familiar as the lines of his own palms. One side read “The Just. The Great.” Many might argue the former, but none could diminish the latter.
Holding history in his fingertips focused his thoughts, his intentions. The small movement was a daily meditation during the development of MT-1.
His mind now more tranquil, a grimace crept onto his face. With effort, he masked the disgust.
The sycophants. The unimaginative fools. They believed they held the reins driving the country forward. He knew better. They were panicked horses, fleeing the stinging bite at their flanks. Institutional inertia, like heavy blinders, kept them looking forever in one direction, as if a solution could come from no other quarter.
Their lack of vision was appalling considering the scope of the problem. They deserved scorn, not the power the ignorant masses bestowed.
Anton’s shoulders held no stars. The front of his dark, rumpled suit coat displayed no ribbon rack, no medals. Nothing to proclaim a record of service to the world.
That would change.
One day, history would venerate him. Whereas these self-important, preening imbeciles wouldn’t merit so much as a footnote. They would be forgotten. In many ways, they were already relegated to oblivion.
Anton looked around the room and caught the eyes of one man near the far end of the table, Senator Charles Rawlings, Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. The bespectacled elderly man held Anton’s gaze for a moment then turned away.
The senator was the reason for the meeting. The reason for Anton’s attendance. Rawlings was twice as smart as the others and yet half as smart as he believed himself to be.
None of them stood shoulder to shoulder with Anton.
He was different, in ways both evident and not. The size of the sideburns that carpeted both sides of his face clearly stood out. And why shouldn’t they?
He deserved attention, and soon he would have it.
The fact that he had to wait made his belly burn. He suppressed a scowl. Such a display would be noticed. And their opinions still mattered. They made the rules, and it was their game, for now.
A new game would begin. The knowledge kept his temper in check. Just.
A white-haired man that made Senator Rawlings look like a baby-faced toddler approached the far end of the table. He hobbled along with the aid of a cane and a seemingly endless span of time to arrive at his destination. He finally made it and stood to the left of the empty seat at the head of the table.
The Director of the Office of Net Assessment, the Department of Defense’s internal think tank. The old goat had held the position for over forty years, since the office’s inception under the Nixon administration. His title didn’t officially hold the weight of many of those seated around the table. But power often came from unexpected places.
Anton himself was proof of that.
The white-haired man clicked a remote and advanced the presentation to the final frame. It was astonishing how PowerPoint could dull even the most vital topics. He pointe
d at the enormous display on the wall behind him. He shuffled closer and touched the screen, leaving an oily mark. The smudge covered large red numbers.
His voice came out brittle but confident, like a bible printed on antique parchment. Like a revelation.
“We’ve run the sim with every variation we could think of. The result is the same. Under the most optimistic set of conditions, only one thing changes. The timing. And that by no more than a handful of months.”
CHAPTER TWO
A dead silence descended on the room. Half the people in it turned to Senator Rawlings. The other half turned to yet another gray-haired man seated adjacent to the empty seat. The Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Four gold stars clung to each shoulder. An ostentatious proclamation of his achievements. The divided attention signaled a deeper rift. A reflection of the back-channel battles and infighting that inevitably resulted in little real progress.
The crowd waited, expecting the two men to have the answers. The quick fixes that our modern American society required.
The general’s cold eyes narrowed as he digested the information on the screen. He finally looked up at the ancient presenter.
Senator Rawlings, of course, already understood, as his office had coordinated with the Office of Net Assessment in directing the study.
“What exactly are you saying?”
The old man pushed thick bifocals back up the bridge of his nose. His rumpled form straightened for an instant, and he seemed to take on the air of the wizened professor about to lecture a stubbornly disappointing student.
“I am not saying anything.” He pointed to the large, red numbers on the display. “The data, however, is shouting that we’re running out of time.”
The general squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He resembled a child closing his eyes, hoping the world would disappear. That the monster in the night wouldn’t be real if he just believed it hard enough.
He finally opened his eyes and blew out a slow exhale. The colorful assortment of ribbons, medals, pins, and stars on his jacket settled.
“How can this be?”
“Sir, your people have run war games that concluded we’re headed for large-scale, persistent conflict over dwindling natural resources.”
“Yes, but you’re talking about the end of the United States of America.”
The old man nodded.
“Our simulation accounted for a far larger set of initial conditions. Depletion of the fresh water supply. Diminished biodiversity. Climate destabilization. Exploding sovereign debt. The end of cheap oil. We accounted for these and a thousand other pressing issues.”
“You’re saying we’re doomed?”
“The data is saying that we are approaching a peak of many correlated and undesirable trends.”
The old man tapped the red numbers.
“And this is the destination.”
The general chopped a knife hand at the screen. “This is the land of the free?”
Senator Rawlings stepped into the silence that followed. “Listen, we’ve dug this hole for ourselves over the span of many decades. The days of perpetually kicking the can have ended.”
The nation’s highest military officer bristled at the patronizing tone.
Anton vaguely remembered how Senator Rawlings had made the general’s confirmation hearing an extended and contentious affair. There was bad blood there, and neither man appeared to have forgotten.
The general glared at Senator Rawlings and then moved his focus around the room, daring anyone else to repeat the disrespect. A few held his gaze with just a hint of deference while most collapsed as soon as their eyes met.
He looked back to the presenter, who had returned to a hunched shell of a body, the brief flare of youthful fire a fading memory.
“What is the least disruptive solution?”
“My staff have been crunching scenarios for months, and, well, they’re all bad.”
“Give me options.”
“We are about to leave my field of expertise,” the white-haired man said. He pointed toward the door, and Anton felt the world rotate into place. His time had come. “Let me introduce you to Dr. Anton Reshenko.”
Anton stepped forward and smiled as he stroked the mat of hair on his cheek. Yes, real power wasn’t always in the obvious place.
He understood the artifice. That stars and elections and even guns and pens were shallow symbols and implements of genuine power.
Yes. He knew the truth.
Real power came from one, and only one, place. The unbowed will of an extraordinary man to achieve his destiny.
He walked to the head of the rectangle table and stopped behind the empty chair. He longed to grip the headrest. Perhaps even to spin it around and take a seat. But these people still mattered. He looked around the room and was pleased to feel the focus of every man and woman present. The deserved weight of their desperate hope. He gave himself a moment to appreciate the spectacle.
To acknowledge destiny.
The day he had worked so long for, so hard for, had finally arrived. It would’ve been a lie to say it didn’t feel right.
To say it didn’t feel inevitable.
The world was his, as he knew it always would be, in the end. Insurmountable problems required men of unparalleled stature to solve them. The world needed him, and he would humbly deliver salvation.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Anton said, “I’m here today to tell you about the Darwin Protocol.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Last Day
Venice, California
Mason West cracked an egg into a sizzling hot pan and stared as it bubbled and turned translucent white. The rich scent of melted butter enveloped the kitchen. He stirred and pushed at the gelatinous puddle until a spongy yellow form emerged, something that somewhat resembled scrambled eggs.
Breakfast wasn’t his usual gig. He had a long and sordid history of blackened toast and burned eggs. But not this time. Not if he could help it.
Arms came from behind and wrapped around his torso. He twisted back and breathed in the morning scent of the love of his life. Elizabeth. She was the woman he didn’t deserve. Fifteen years could blink by with the right person. Theirs did.
He’d never been happier. Given his record, that wasn’t necessarily saying much. But he’d take it.
“Morning, honey,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her lips, faintly tasting the earthy sweetness of roasted coffee.
“The same to ya, handsome,” she said with a wink.
Mason wondered for a moment if it was an invitation. Maybe she changed her mind about leaving for work early? He slid a hand lower and cupped it around her curved backside. Her brow lifted in that what are you up to way. He planted another small kiss and gave her a squeeze in that you know what I’m up to way.
She nibbled his lip and then pulled back. “Easy, tiger. You’re gonna force me to call in a sick day with that attitude.”
“Okay by me.”
Mason’s daughter lumbered into the kitchen with headphones on, her head bobbing to a silent beat.
“Gross, guys,” she said. “Seriously. Get a room. You have one, right down the hall.”
Mason looked at her and the shock of a fifteen-year-old daughter hit him for the umpteenth time. Any resemblance to the chubby little angel that used to giggle in his arms was more his projection than hers. But Theresa was still his baby girl, no matter how many years flew by.
“No headphones at the table,” Mason and Beth said in unison.
Theresa pulled them off and set them on the counter.
“Morning, uncomfortably expressive parents.”
Beth poked her tongue out at her daughter and replied, “Oh, don’t be a square.”
“Very funny, Mom,” she replied as she flopped down at the breakfast table. “Whacha burning for breakfast?”
Breakfast?
Damn! Beth had distracted him from the subtle signs of a successfully cooked egg.
; The acrid bite of scorched yolk filled the kitchen, and he turned to verify the scent. Mason examined what remained in the pan. Black, crispy charcoals changed the breakfast plans. “Cereal. Looks like a milk and cereal morning. How about toast?”
“Can I get it only slightly burned?”
“No promises.”
Beth unwound herself from his embrace and grabbed her unfinished coffee from the mottled gray granite counter. “It appears your father has breakfast well in hand. I gotta go in early.”
“What’s up, Mom?”
“Jane’s a little off. It’s probably nothing, but being so close to term makes me extra cautious.”
“What’s wrong? Is she okay?”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. Don’t worry, honey.”
The lightness in Theresa’s face evaporated. Mason’s heart ached for her.
Jane was a fourteen-year-old chimpanzee at the Los Angeles Zoo. She’d been rescued as an infant from the bushmeat trade in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Beth’s heart was soft as warm butter for the animals in her charge. And it was hard as steel for those that mistreated them.
She’d been a volunteer at the time. Nobody expected the sickly, malnourished chimp to survive, but Beth didn’t give up. She brought the little chimp home every night for nearly a year to ensure Jane received around-the-clock nurturing. Theresa in one arm and Jane in the other. They were almost sisters in some ways.