Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  “Why would the US launch an attack on us?” Putin said, uncharacteristically hesitant, unsure. “There is no rationale for this. It’s irrational, illogical, and self-destructive on their part. And out of character for them, and for what we know of O’Brien.”

  “Perhaps if this ruse is successful, in that we do not immediately retaliate, it will create an opportunity for total world domination by their country. Perhaps it is a miscalculation, a rogue military leader—a Russia-hater like General Sculley—or, even a massive technical flaw. Or perhaps,” General Shoigu looked over to the other end of the table, “as one of our academic associates has suggested, it’s some out-of-control artificial intelligence program run amok. Each of these is a possible explanation behind this attack. We will not ascertain the precise cause or reason in the next couple of minutes, however, sir. What we do know, is that US warheads are about to utterly destroy our country and murder millions of our citizens, our loved ones.”

  One giant wall-size electronic screen showed a map of Russia—and a cluster of red flashing lights heading toward Moscow and other major Russian cities. The lights appeared to be rapidly closing in on their targets.

  Putin looked across the long conference table to Dmitri Bogomolov, a young technology expert attached to the FSB, the Russian successor to the KGB. It was Bogomolov who General Shoigu had been looking at moments before when he mentioned the “academic” associate.

  “Bogomolov,” Putin said, “you have followed this business of Schlegelberger and Alex Nicholas. Is there any chance that the US president is correct and that the Americans’ missile systems have been compromised, that they were not in control of their attack?”

  Bogomolov stood up at attention. His head, unmoving, was still facing Putin yet, as though seeking help or an escape route, his eyes darted around the room. If Putin hadn’t known better, he would have thought the forty-year-old was in the early stages of a massive heart attack. “I…believe…It is…I cannot be entirely—”

  “Dmitri, we don’t have the time. What is your answer?” Putin demanded.

  “I believe, Supreme Commander, that there is more here than we can understand at this moment. There is the possibility…Actually, sir, I believe it to be possible that some significant advance in artificial technology has occurred and is in play here.”

  “Have you determined who could be behind such an effort? A nation or individuals?” Putin said.

  “No, sir, I cannot at this time.”

  Putin’s face displayed neither agreement nor even acknowledgment, but everyone in the room knew that Vladimir Putin carefully assessed all input from thoughtful, informed people. His mind processed the input and only his actions would communicate his acceptance or rejection of what he’d been told.

  “What is the ETA of the first warheads?” Putin said, looking to his generals.

  “Two or three minutes, sir…,” said General Shoigu. “We must strike now, to be certain. We only need your order, sir.”

  Putin looked again at Dimitri Bogomolov, who looked back with fear.

  Searching for guidance, Putin looked up at the large portrait of Joseph Stalin. He knew what the great man would have done.

  Chapter 75

  12:15 a.m., Washington, DC

  The Star Wars room was in a state of barely controlled chaos. While O’Brien watched the red phone, many of those around him were scrambling, frantically pecking away on their laptops or speaking into their phones or headsets, all of them in communication with military installations or other agencies, preparing for an imminent nuclear exchange.

  General Sculley stood from the table. “Sir, assuming the Russians launch their missiles, which appears imminent, we need to be prepared with our response. I assume we will launch a retaliatory strike.”

  O’Brien looked up. “Retaliatory strike? You mean in response to their retaliatory strike over an attack on our part that isn’t happening? Jim, do you realize how absurd this has become?”

  “Mr. President,” said Goodrich, quietly and calmly, “nothing should be a given here. All the options, including not retaliating, are open to you. You’re the commander in chief.”

  Sculley reddened with anger, alternating his gaze between the President and Goodrich. “Are you seriously considering not striking back at the Russians after they have launched what will be a full-scale massive nuclear attack on this country?”

  “First, let’s stick with trying to stop their attack now,” O’Brien said as he looked to Benoit. “Anything? Where are we? Is it Hail Mary time?”

  “We’ve got our people trying to break through the Russians’ servers but it’s not going to happen in the needed time frame…if ever,” Benoit said, eyes on his computer screen.

  “Am I crazy,” O’Brien asked Goodrich, “to be surprised that Putin is launching a nuclear attack without verifying that our missiles are going to hit their targets? He’s got to know that, even if we hadn’t destroyed them in flight, this was a horrible accident, not an intentional attack.”

  “I guess he’s faced with the same dilemma you are—how do you not respond to a nuclear attack on your country, intentional or not?”

  Despite being surrounded by a room full of military, intelligence, and technology experts, Harry O’Brien felt alone. Alone in the room and alone in the world.

  A man in uniform with lots of medals, whom O’Brien, overwhelmed with stress, couldn’t identify and no longer cared to try, stood and directed his laser pointer at one of the giant screens showing a rapid succession of Russian missile bases, some with silo doors beginning to open. “As you can see here from our satellite surveillance of their missile silos, the Russians are preparing to launch.”

  8:15 a.m., Moscow

  Putin turned away from the portrait of Stalin and back to General Shoigu.

  “Sir, we await your orders,” the general said with a subtle tone of impatience.

  As Putin began to speak, Dimitri Bogomolov’s voice could be heard throughout the room, drawing everyone’s attention away from Putin and to himself.

  “They’re gone, all of them,” he said pointing to the giant projected radar screen. All the red flashing lights had disappeared. “The American missiles are gone.”

  General Shoigu turned away from the screen and toward the other military brass seated around the table, “Do we have confirmation of this?”

  The commanding officer of the Strategic Missile Force, Colonel General Sergei Karakayez, put down his telephone, “Yes, the American missiles have been destroyed in flight, by the Americans themselves. Or so it appears.”

  “When did this occur?” Putin asked.

  “One or two minutes ago,” Karakayez said, looking at Bogomolov.

  “How could we not have known that immediately, on our radar?” said Putin.

  Karakayez and Bogomolov exchanged glances again.

  “Sir, there has been an unusual occurrence, a form of interference, in the communications from our radar and satellite feed,” Bogomolov said.

  “Interference?” asked Putin.

  “We were hacked, sir.”

  “By whom, do we know?”

  Bogomolov looked over to General Shoigu. “It appears the individual behind this is a Kurt Schlegelberger, formerly a monsignor in the Vatican. He is connected with a Claus Dietrich, a descendant of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s propaganda minister.”

  “We must find these individuals,” Putin said.

  “Mr. President,” Bogomolov said, clearly hesitant to state what he was about to announce, “Kurt Schlegelberger has been dead for at least a year.”

  12:16 a.m., Washington, DC

  Putin’s voice came through the Star Wars conference room speakers.

  “Mr. President, we have verified your information. It appears that your missiles have been destroyed. We are, of course, relieved.”

  “Thank
God,” O’Brien said, smiling, along with everyone in the room.

  “Harry, this was too close, much too close. We need to take all steps now to identify and capture the people involved and ensure this never happens again.”

  “Vlad, we have identified at least one of the individuals we believe was responsible for this and will, of course, be conducting a thorough investigation. We expect to make arrests immediately.”

  “I can assure you that we too will be conducting our own intelligence investigation into this matter, as it appears that certain of our systems were interfered with by a third party.”

  “Well,” O’Brien said, “we should probably work together on this.”

  There was a momentary silence. “Perhaps,” said Putin.

  The connection was terminated and everyone stood and applauded the president.

  “I think it’s time to break out the champagne,” O’Brien told his group.

  Even lacking the champagne, the room quickly took on the appearance of a Georgetown cocktail party as all the attendees got up from their chairs and began to mingle with each other. There was light-hearted banter and laughter all around—until another voice came over the speaker system.

  “Is he—my brother—coming back?” Michael asked.

  The President looked at Benoit, who returned to his computer.

  After a few moments of staring at the screen, Benoit looked up, first at O’Brien and then at Michael. “No, I’m afraid that, as we feared, shortly after we destroyed the missiles, the software that ran Alex’s artificial intelligence was also destroyed…He’s gone.”

  O’Brien looked to the image of Michael on the large screen. “I’m sorry.”

  General Sculley, to the surprise of everyone in the room, rose from his chair.

  “Mr. Nicholas,” Sculley said, “I can’t say I understand any of what has just happened with your brother. Frankly, as you probably know, I believed this stuff with you and your brother was a lot of voodoo. But, I want to apologize to you for my behavior and my attitude. I’m afraid this is beyond many of us. I’m sorry for that, and I’m sorry you’ve lost your brother, again. It looks like he was…a hero.”

  6:20 a.m., Paris

  Michael had disconnected himself from the Star Wars conference room. He shut down his laptop, waited a minute or so, and powered it up again. He clicked on to the familiar icon, the ancient Greek gold cross that always led to Alex.

  He clicked again and again with no result until, finally, something changed. Had Alex made it back, after all? Michael watched as a little red circle of dots rotated, indicating that a new window was about to open.

  But the circle disappeared, replaced by a notice that read: This web page is no longer available or has been terminated.

  Chapter 76

  Washington, DC

  Late in the evening back in the Oval Office, President O’Brien, in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, sat with his old friend, CIA Director Jim Goodrich. On the coffee table between them were two Waterford tumblers and a half-empty bottle of Macallan Single Malt Scotch.

  “So, how the hell did this happen, Jim? I understand all the briefings, but there’s more to this Alex and Michael Nicholas and Schlegelbereger business, isn’t there? Particularly this artificial intelligence aspect. And what was the connection between Alex Nicholas, who looks like he was just using the AI for himself, to keep himself alive, and Schlegelberger, who weaponized it?”

  Goodrich thought for a moment, sipping his Scotch.

  “Alex was murdered by criminal associates of Schlegelberger. And when Alex used his new AI powers to destroy Schlegelberger and his network, Schlegelberger hacked back and stumbled upon Alex’s secret to extended life, stole the source code, and used it to digitally duplicate himself before he died.”

  “Jesus, this is like some Dan Brown novel or something.”

  “No one would believe it, even though we know now that it actually happened.”

  “So, where do we go from here?”

  “Well, now that we’ve survived this crisis, we either need to take over this technology or…”

  “Or?”

  “Destroy it. Completely.”

  “What exactly do you mean, completely?” O’Brien said, appearing confused. “I thought we just did that. What’s left now? Aren’t all the players—Schlegelberger and Alex Nicholas—already…deleted?”

  “Yes, but the program still exists. In fact, Schlegelberger continued to function for several minutes even after we thought we had destroyed him. That was how he was able to override the Russians’ radar so it still appeared to them that our missiles were still on their way.”

  “So, what do you recommend?”

  “I recommend that we destroy every evidence we have of the software. Nothing good can come of this, but terrible things can obviously happen if it gets into the wrong hands, or…” Goodrich’s expression changed, he was obviously worried.

  “Or what?”

  “Harry, there’s a lot we obviously don’t know about artificial intelligence. Clearly, we were taken by surprise with Alex Nicholas and Schlegelberger. The real advances in this field aren’t happening in the government sector but in the tech world, private entrepreneurial start-ups in Silicon Valley. Our tech people and others have warned that it’s possible that this software functions like a part of your body that heals and regrows—that it can reestablish itself and reconnect.”

  O’Brien sat back. “Or, would we be wiser to take the software and try to…rebuild or recreate it…to use it ourselves…for good purposes, I mean?”

  “I guess it’s a subject that we’ll need to discuss. You know how I feel. This whole thing scares the hell out of me.”

  “And what about this other guy we believe Schlegelberger was communicating with? Dietrich?”

  “He was last seen in Berlin but there’s no trace of him there now according to the German authorities.”

  “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you get home to your family and let’s all get some sleep.”

  Goodrich got up to leave.

  “Jim, one more thing. Is there any chance the Russians have this technology? You know, the source code or the software?”

  “We don’t believe so, and remember how cynical Putin was about this whole idea. But you can be sure they’re going to try and get their hands on it now. From what they saw today, they can obviously see its potential. They’ll want to find out everything there is to know about it. That’s why we need to destroy every possible trace of this program before it gets into the wrong hands.”

  “Is it possible that anyone else has access to this technology?”

  “No one that we know of, Harry, but if anyone does have it, we need to track them down before the Russians do.”

  Chapter 77

  Santorini, Greece

  Sindy Steele was off her medication and, as she would be the first to admit, that meant trouble.

  Tonight, seated in Lombranos, a restaurant at the old pier, she ignored her majestic view of the Mediterranean, instead glued to her laptop’s screen. She didn’t know who it was that had been helping her the past two weeks, but whoever it was, he’d helped her identify and locate the man she needed to kill.

  Bored in her self-imposed exile in Santorini and still obsessed with Michael Nicholas, she was determined to stop those that wanted to harm him. Her obsession, along with the absence of her medication, always made for a deadly combination.

  She couldn’t help wondering, though, who it was that was feeding her information. She worried too about a possible trap. After all, she wasn’t exactly the most beloved woman in the world. Her jobs, though, with the exception of a mistake or two on the part of her clients, always entailed the gentle elimination of people who made the world a bad place. She murdered bad people for money, a career that had provided her with a good living along wi
th a sick craving, like a drug coursing through her veins, for danger.

  She also knew that, at times, for reasons she and her doctors were unable to explain, she simply lost control of her better judgment, of a certain degree of reality. One doctor explained it by comparing her to a rescue dog whose actions turn violent based upon some unknown incident in its history that triggers hitherto unexpected behavior. All you can do, he said, is treat the symptoms or…put the dog down.

  Except for the fact that she had a white cotton dress on that she didn’t want to ruin with blood stains, she might have murdered the doctor right then. She still remembered the letter opener on his desk and his jugular, pulsing along the side of his neck, calling her.

  Her attention returned to the laptop.

  She switched windows, returning back to the guy who she’d come to know as NOYFB, or, as he said, “none of your fucking business.” They’d been corresponding for weeks, but now she needed to know who he was.

  He was still online so she began typing.

  Sindy: “Who are you?

  NOYFB: “I told you, NOYFB.”

  Sindy: “That’s not good enough anymore. There’s no way I’m sticking a knife into someone’s gut based on some voice on the Internet. You have to do better than that or I’m through.”

  NOYFB: “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

  Sindy: “I won’t believe you if you don’t. Take your pick. I’m not stupid.”

  NOYFB: “I know that.”

  Sindy: “Then you know you have to tell me.”

  NOYFB: “You’re smart. I don’t like women who are too smart. They piss me off.”

  Sindy: “You’re not helping yourself here. Are we done then?”

  Seconds, maybe a minute went by. She thought she might have lost whoever it was. If so, maybe that was okay…except everything he’d said over several days seemed to be true. She’d tracked Dietrich, checked his background and a lot of the things NOYFB had claimed. He seemed right on everything.