Mark Alpert - Extinction

General Tian stopped in front of Dr. Yu, and Module 16 halted exactly one meter behind the general, just as he’d been trained to do. The Module’s hair had grown out since his operation, covering the implants embedded in his scalp. Tian reached behind him and Module 16 handed him a batch of papers. “This is the final authorization for the procedure,” Tian said. “It’s been approved by Minister Deng himself. He just sent me the orders from Beijing.”

“Deng really wants us to do this?”

“Look at the orders.” The general showed Yu the papers. “It says we should perform the procedure immediately. And no one else is to know about it. No one . Understand?”

Yu looked at the message, then shook his head. “I don’t like it. Why is there such a rush? We haven’t even had a chance to interrogate him.”

Tian scowled. “We don’t need to interrogate. You saw the e-mails he sent to Wen Sheng. Zhang was passing information to the traitor.”

“I know, but—”

“The evidence is clear. That’s why Zhang ran away from the Operations Center. He knew we’d find the messages sooner or later.”

Zhang tried to make sense of what the general was saying. He knew that Wen Sheng was one of the Guoanbu agents under Tian’s command. A few days ago Zhang had heard rumors that Wen had fled the Operations Center and defected to America. But Zhang had never sent any e-mails to the man. The evidence was false—someone must’ve fabricated the electronic messages. And after a moment of thought Zhang realized who’d planted the evidence against him. His outrage was so strong that his immobilized body quivered. Supreme Harmony was manipulating them.

Yu shook his head again. “I still don’t like it.”

“Why are you reluctant? Zhang betrayed us. He deserves to be punished.”

“Yes, certainly. But why this kind of punishment? Why not put him in front of a firing squad? Isn’t that the usual way to punish traitors?”

General Tian waved the authorization papers. “Look, this order comes from the commander of the Guoanbu. I don’t question Minister Deng’s judgment. And I recommend, for your own sake, that you don’t question it either.”

Dr. Zhang wanted to scream. The order hadn’t come from the Guoanbu. Supreme Harmony had sent the message to General Tian’s computer, using its knowledge of the system’s security firewalls to make it look like the order came from Beijing. And Zhang knew why the network was doing this rather than simply killing him. Supreme Harmony had used its collective consciousness to develop a plan, and Zhang was a crucial part of it.

Yu stood there for several seconds while General Tian glowered. Then the young bioengineer approached the operating table. Taking a deep breath, he picked up a syringe and jabbed the needle into Zhang’s arm. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” he whispered.

No! You don’t realize what you’re doing! Once the network has me, they’ll be able to—

But before Zhang could complete the thought, he saw some movement behind Yu and Tian. Module 16 turned his head toward the operating table and smiled.

Kirsten got the phone call from Jim at 4:00 P.M. Eastern time, just as he was about to board a plane coming back to Washington. She devoted the rest of the afternoon and evening to calling her contacts at the CIA headquarters in Langley. She had an answer for him by 9:00 P.M. and spent the next hour drinking coffee at her desk and listening to the comforting hum of the supercomputers on her floor of the Tordella building. Jim finally arrived at her office just before ten, looking red-eyed and breathless. He shut the door behind him and said, “Okay, what have you got?”

“Hammer’s real name is Eric Armstrong,” Kirsten replied. “My contacts confirmed that he was in California yesterday morning, but last night he headed back to his command post in Afghanistan.”

Jim slumped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. “Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me they promoted him.”

“I’m afraid so. His career has thrived since 9/11. Now he runs Camp Whiplash, a CIA base fifty miles north of Kabul. Their mission is to test new technologies for the surveillance-drone program.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. The guy was a sadist. He belongs in a fucking prison.”

Kirsten wholeheartedly agreed. She’d disliked Hammer just as much as Jim had. They’d both participated in the terrorist-rendition operations during the 1990s, and Kirsten had told Jim many times she thought the CIA program was a bad one. It was counterproductive—they would’ve been better off tracking the Al Qaeda terrorists and continuing to intercept their communications instead of delivering them to the Egyptian secret police. But the NSA had lost that argument with the CIA, and after 9/11 the rendition program only grew bigger.

“Who does Hammer report to now?” Jim asked.

“He goes right to the top, the head of the CIA’s clandestine service. The drone program is the hottest thing at the agency now. Everyone at Langley loves it. When it works, they tell the newspapers how many Taliban they killed. And when it doesn’t work? When the drones kill civilians instead of terrorists? Then there’s total silence. Officially, it never happened, so there’s nothing to say.”

“But if Hammer’s supposed to be running this drone base in Afghanistan, why the hell did he come back to the States to arrange this deal with Arvin?” Jim rubbed his chin, mulling it over. “Did the CIA director approve the export of Arvin’s technology to China? Or is Hammer running some kind of rogue operation?”

Kirsten shrugged. “My contacts at Langley didn’t know anything about the export exemption. The CIA likes its people to be aggressive, so sometimes the operatives don’t seek approval for things until after they’ve done them. I bet there’s only a handful of officers at headquarters who know everything that Hammer’s doing.”

The room fell silent. Jim leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Kirsten noticed there was stubble on his cheeks, which surprised her. In the twenty years she’d known Jim Pierce, she couldn’t remember a single moment when he wasn’t clean-shaven. Even when they were on assignment in some godforsaken country with filthy hotels and no running water, he’d always kept himself spotlessly groomed.

She was about to offer him a cup of coffee when he suddenly rose to his feet and leaned across her desk. “We have to go to Afghanistan.”

“What? Jim—”

“There’s a flight leaving from Andrews Air Force Base at two A.M. You’re a deputy director here, so you can pull rank. You can get a seat on tonight’s flight without any trouble. And you can get me on the flight, too, if you list me as a defense contractor. Which is technically true.”

“You want to leave tonight ?”

“I need to talk to Hammer. And I need you to come with me. He’s not gonna talk unless someone official is there to prod him.”

“Whoa, wait a second. How do you know that talking to Hammer will actually help you find Layla?”

“There’s a connection, I’m sure of it. Remember the Guoanbu files that Layla downloaded? Most of them were about the surveillance drones.”

“Sure, it’s a connection, but—”

“I have to do this, Kir.” He leaned closer, placing his palms on her desk. His hard prosthetic hand made the desktop creak. “You know what this means to me, right?”

His face was just inches from hers, and his blue eyes shone feverishly. Kirsten knew why Jim was so desperate, knew exactly what he must be feeling. She was there at the Nairobi embassy when he lost his wife and son. After the explosion she lay on the glass-strewn floor, blind and semiconscious, but she could hear him howling. She learned later, from another survivor of the bombing, that Jim refused to leave their bodies. He was dazed and weak from blood loss, but he still fought the rescue workers when they tried to take him to the hospital. They had to drag him away.