Chapter 13
SCOTT brODIE PUT ON THE second of the two suits he’d brought, along with a fresh shirt and tie, and secured his SIG Sauer in the programmable safe in his bedroom.
He waited for Taylor in the living room, which, like Lieutenant Lehner’s, was generically appointed with modern furniture and laminate wood flooring. No bar cart.
Taylor emerged soon after, in a conservatively cut blue cotton dress and light makeup. As usual, she looked stunning with minimal effort.
Brodie said, “You look very nice.”
“Thank you.” She looked him over, as if checking that he was wearing different clothes than earlier. “You look… less dusty.”
“I beat myself out with a broom.” He added, “Let’s go meet the general who was too good to meet us earlier.”
“Behave.”
“Maybe I should bring my gun.”
“You’re armed with your charm.”
They stepped out of the house and locked the door, then proceeded across the pavement to the general’s house.
Brodie counted nine houses around the cul-de-sac, and there were likely nine more in the other one nearby.
No one was outside, though he saw a few lights on.
He wondered if any of the other officers they’d met today—or Caroline Dixon—were their neighbors.
They approached the house and rang the bell. After a moment the door opened, and they were greeted by a good-looking Black woman in her late forties wearing a flowered dress. She smiled and said in a soft voice, “Welcome, Mr. Brodie, Ms. Taylor. I’m Angela Morgan.”
They stepped inside and shook hands. Taylor said, “Thank you for having us.”
“Of course. Chris is in the living room, and I’ll join you after I take care of something in the kitchen.”
Brodie and Taylor walked into the living room, which looked like theirs but with nicer furniture.
General Christopher Morgan stood from the couch to greet them.
He was a Black man of about average height, early fifties, with close-cropped graying hair and large, expressive eyes.
He wore dark slacks, a button-down shirt, and a sports jacket.
No tie. He approached them and extended his hand, without smiling. “Brigadier General Christopher Morgan.”
Brodie shook the man’s hand. The guy had a grip that might rival the robots’. “Chief Warrant Officer Scott Brodie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Morgan and Taylor shook. She introduced herself and said, “We are glad to be here, sir, despite the circumstances.”
“Yes,” said Morgan, looking pensive. “Well, have a seat and tell me what you’re drinking.” He walked to the corner of the living room, where Brodie now noticed a fully stocked bar cabinet.
“I’ll have what you’re having, sir.”
“I’m having straight rye, Mr. Brodie. Neat.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Taylor said, “Make it three, sir.”
He put three healthy pours into crystal tumblers, handed two to the agents, then grabbed the other and settled on the couch. Brodie and Taylor sat on a two-person love seat perpendicular to the sofa.
Morgan took a sip, then looked at the agents and asked, “Was Colonel Howe helpful today?”
Brodie replied, “Yes, sir. We saw the Vault and the DEVCOM lab, visited the morgue, then interviewed Number 20.”
Morgan nodded. “It’s a terrible tragedy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No one should ever be alone with one of those things. If we ever get up and running again, that will be a new policy.”
Taylor said, “That seems logical, sir.”
“There’s nothing logical about this place, Ms. Taylor.”
She did not respond.
Morgan appeared lost in thought. He gave the impression of a man who spent a lot of time in his own head and didn’t mind uncomfortable silences.
Interestingly, the general saw no guarantee that the training at Camp Hayden would ever continue.
Was that na?ve, believing that one death could derail an entire Pentagon program?
After a moment he said to them, “The scientists tell me Number 20 could not have killed Major Ames without an alteration to its programming. They also tell me there was no alteration to its programming. Explain that one.”
“They’re still looking into it, sir,” said Brodie.
Morgan waved a hand dismissively. “They’re covering their asses. This is a disaster for them. For DEVCOM and the whole Futures Command, not to mention DARPA and the leadership at the Pentagon.” He looked at them. “You two are either loved or hated to catch this case. Which is it?”
Brodie answered, “Depends who you ask, sir.”
“I looked into you both. I know about Berlin. And I know about Venezuela. Well, I don’t know everything. But I know enough.”
Neither Brodie nor Taylor said anything to that.
“I also know you’re both combat veterans. I like that.” He looked at Brodie. “I was in Iraq the first go-round. A captain in the First Cav. We did it right that time. Get in, get out.”
“Yes, sir. We thought we were in for a short war too.”
Morgan nodded. “It was a war whose level of ambition was not matched by the quality of planning. The only people truly prepared were the war profiteers with fat contracts at the Pentagon.”
That was a fairly shocking statement coming from a brigadier general, especially one they’d just met.
Brodie had the thought that General Morgan might not be here of his own volition.
Maybe he’d pissed off the wrong people, and Camp Hayden was the U.S.
Army equivalent of getting shipped off to Siberia.
Taylor tried to change the subject. “We had a brief opportunity to meet a few of the Rangers today. We will be interested to learn more about their experiences with the D-17s as part of our investigation.”
Morgan took another drink. “They’re the best of us, and by far the greatest thing about Camp Hayden. It’s a hard assignment.”
Brodie said, “We heard that they have yet to defeat the bots in a training exercise.”
The general’s face grew grim. “That is not the whole story. The Rangers’ kill count has gone up. So yes, they lose, but they take more of the tin men with them.” He added, “That’s what they call the bastards.”
“That seems appropriate,” said Brodie. “No heart.”
“No brain either. Or courage. Or honor. Brute force is what they have. And speed. Agility.”
Taylor said, “Caroline Dixon compared them to self-driving cars.”
The general rolled his eyes. “That’s a terrible analogy. They’re circus tigers. Designed to kill but trained to be compliant. Trained, but not tamed. They do exactly what you want, until one day for whatever reason, one of them rips your throat out.”
Brodie said, “Finding that reason is our job, sir.”
General Morgan looked him in the eyes. “Yes, Mr. Brodie. And my job is to decide, no matter the reason, whether to put the tigers down.”