Game Changer (13 page)

19

Quinn lowered the mercenary to the ground, keeping his eyes
locked on the housefly that wasn’t a housefly. When it had possessed both of
its wings, he wondered if it had been as agile as a real fly.

A fly’s range of vision and reflexes were too great for most
people to have any chance of catching one. Bring a hand down from any position
above the fly, with almost any speed, and it would deftly escape the trap
racing toward it.

But he had learned as a boy how to catch one. Every time.
How to kill one with his hands. Every time.

First, wait until the fly had landed on a roughly level
surface. Once this happened, killing it was as simple as carefully planting
both hands on either side of it, knife-edged on the surface, with palms facing
each other. Center the fly between the hands and then slide them together as
quickly as possible, ending in a clap. A fly would always try to escape upward,
but it could only make it halfway up the giant wall of hands closing in on it
before being smashed in between.

Catching one worked the same way. Plant one hand to the side
of the fly and slide it toward the target as fast as possible, closing the hand
the moment it was reached. Quinn had done this countless times as a boy, a feat
that never failed to impress other kids.

Unfortunately, the drone’s position on the merc’s shoulder
didn’t give Quinn enough runway for this maneuver. Even so, given the damage
the fly had suffered, he had high hopes that a less strategically sound grab would
prove doable.

Quinn launched his right hand at the fly like his life
depended on it. The tiny MAV made an attempt to launch itself into the air,
even with a single wing, but Quinn was able to snatch it up, keeping his hand
in a tight fist so it couldn’t escape.

At least for the moment. He didn’t want to hold it for long,
in case it had some tricks up its sleeve, like an ability to bore through soft
flesh.

Quinn popped the trunk of the Tesla and emptied his pockets
as quickly as he could. There must be something in the car or his pockets he
could use to cage the drone. He considered pressing it into the magazine of a
gun, like it was a round. Might work, but it wasn’t ideal.

His eyes lit up like fireworks when he spied a tiny canister
attached to the Tesla’s key fob. It was a steel LED flashlight, bright blue, the
size of a woman’s pinky. It was
perfect
.
He managed to unscrew it with one hand and then dumped out the tiny battery
inside.

As a kid he had learned that shaking his fist for several
seconds, hard, would stun the fly inside, so he could let it go or transfer it
elsewhere, and it would act like a drunken sailor. He couldn’t make an artificial
fly dizzy, but he was willing to bet that he could temporarily disorient any
motion sensors inside.

He shook his right fist vigorously for almost fifteen
seconds and then opened his hand, quickly funneling the fly into the tiny steel
container.
Success
. He hastily
screwed the lid closed and held the tiny blue canister up to his face.

The individual technologies inside this makeshift prison alone
must be worth billions. But the exact combination of these technologies that
had resulted in a fly drone of this sophistication would fetch a price that was
truly staggering.

Quinn thought for a few moments and then dialed the phone he
had taken, audio only. “Hello, Cris,” he said when the phone was answered. “We
need to talk.”

“Kevin?” said Cris Coffey in disbelief. “Is that you?”

“Is your line secure?”

“Of course,” replied Coffey.

Quinn could hear any number of people mulling about in the
background, but this noise was rapidly diminishing as his former boss was no
doubt rushing away from them, seeking privacy and quiet so he wouldn’t miss a
single word. Quinn knew he had Coffey’s full attention.

“You can try to trace this call,” said Quinn, “but trust me,
you’ll be wasting your time.”

“Why did you call, Kevin?”

“What do you know about micro drones? MAVs? Specifically, the
quest to make one that could pass for a housefly? One so perfect, so real, it
could fool
other
flies?”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Answer me, Cris. How well-informed are you about this tech?”

“Very,” said Coffey. “You know I spent a long time in Black
Ops. A fly-drone was the holy grail. But we’re a decade away. It’s like AI, we
keep thinking we can do it, and it keeps being a harder problem than we
realize.”

“Why is that?” asked Quinn.

He knew Coffey would keep talking no matter what the subject.
He wouldn’t take Quinn’s word that the call was untraceable. And even if it
was, the longer Coffey could keep him on the line the more chance he might
learn something valuable, or talk him in.

“Well,” began Coffey, “you could control the broad movements
and behaviors of such a fly from a remote location. Theoretically. But to be
truly effective, it would need to be able to act autonomously, when cut off
from an operator. First, there is an operator time lag, even at the speed of
light, which creates more difficulty than you might imagine. And you can’t
avoid blockages or interruptions to a signal. So you’d want to program in a
destination and let the drone do its thing. So the operator can be passive for
the most part, and obtain input from multiple flies.”

“Makes sense,” said Quinn. “Go on.”

“Currently, even operator-dependent flies pose
insurmountable challenges. But autonomous ones are out of the question. Biological
systems are much more efficient than mechanical in many ways. Think about what
a fly can do, with a brain the size of a pinhead. It can process enough visual
information to choke a supercomputer, and it can take evasive action. It can
avoid obstacles and predators. It can find and metabolize food, allowing it to cover
great distances with no need for a battery or external power source. You get
the idea. As astonishing as our chips are now, constructing one with the
enormous computing power needed, but small enough to fit into a fly, can’t be
done.

“And don’t get me started on the battery power needed, the
mechanical challenges, and so on. To get it to move with the agility and
evasiveness of a real fly would be an extraordinary achievement, but even real
flies succumb to predators, so you’d want to do even better. A perfect fly
drone would seem to the uninformed to be much easier to perfect than many of
the miracles science has managed already, but it’s just the opposite.”

“So you’re telling me the US doesn’t have this technology
working?”

“Not a chance. I’m not sure of many things, but I am sure of
this.”

The certainty in Coffey’s voice and manner was enough to
convince Quinn that this was the truth, and it matched the more limited intel
he had heard through the grapevine. “Then we’ve got a big problem, Cris.”

 
“What are you talking
about?”

“Long story short, while running from you, I was captured by
two mercs. Ex-military. The man who hired them wanted to see me. I have no idea
why. I’m not sure about this, but I have reason to believe he’s a Russian.”

“A Russian?” repeated Coffey skeptically.

“I know. None of it makes sense. But something big is going
on. I have no idea how I play into it, but I do. And it gets even stranger. I managed
to escape. But I’ve since learned how they were able to find me. Whoever is
behind this has perfected a micro drone. A perfect copy of a housefly. The one
you say is impossible.”

“Kevin, I . . .”

“I know you don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. But if you
had this fly in your hands, could you get it analyzed by someone you trust?
Through back channels? I’d need you to keep this completely off the radar. Any
knowledge of it kept between you and this one other person. We have no idea who
knows what, even in our own government, so you’d have to make this the ultimate
secret.”

Coffey sighed loudly. “I could have it analyzed as you ask,
yes. But I’m sure you’re mistaken about what you think you’ve found.”

“I hope I am. But I have the fly, and I’m going to mail it
to you. Because as much as I want Davinroy dead, I still love my country. And
this is important. So prove me wrong about this drone. Or prove me right, and
then take it from there.”

“Sure, Kevin. Send me the fly. I’ll take a look.”

“Don’t patronize me!” screamed Quinn. “I know you and I know
your voice. You’re just humoring me. Like I’m a mental patient. Promise me
you’ll at least check it out, even if you’re sure I’m wrong. Promise me! I know
you’re a man of your word, Cris.”

“I will,” said Coffey. “I swear it.”

“Good,” said Quinn, satisfied. “I’ll send it.”

He planned to find a courier service in the area so his
ex-boss could get the canister in hours rather than days, but he couldn’t tell
him this, or Coffey would have every courier service in the region monitored.

“Whatever you think of me now,” added Quinn, “I’m still one
of the good guys. I have reason to want Davinroy dead, but I’m still loyal to
my country, and even to you.” He paused. “And you have to admit, this isn’t
exactly an ideal time for me to be calling and mailing you packages. I’ll contact
you later so you can let me know what you learn.”

“Kevin, why don’t you come in? Let’s talk this over in
person. You can be involved in the MAV study yourself.”

The tone in Coffey’s voice made Quinn’s blood begin to boil.
He still thought Quinn was crazy.

Quinn took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
How could he blame his former boss for thinking this of him? Of course he did. Coffey
thought he was mad when he had tried to take out the president, and this fly
business only added fuel to that fire.

“Cris, I respect you more than any person I’ve ever worked
with. Really. And I want nothing more than for us to be on the same side again.
So promise me one last thing. Promise me you’ll investigate Davinroy. He has a
system of tunnels under a number of rooms at the Catskill Mountain retreat. Find
them. Find evidence.
Davinroy
is a monster. The tunnel system isn’t a smoking gun, but it’s a start. You have
to admit, if you find these secret tunnels, my story is starting to look at
least a little more credible.”

There was no response.

“Humor me, Cris,” implored Quinn. “What I told you about Nicole
is true. Look into it. Promise me you will.”

Coffey hesitated. “Kevin, I don’t
know the right way to proceed here. I don’t know how fragile you are. But I am
a man of my word, and I can’t make that promise.”

“
Why not?
”
thundered Quinn. “Davinroy is good, I get that! Persuasive! I know it seems
far-fetched that the president is the monster I paint him to be. But you’ve
known me for
years
! How can you be so
absolutely certain that my accusations aren’t true? How are you so convinced
that I’ve lost my mind?”

Coffey let out a long sigh. “Kevin,” he said, “I am truly
sorry. You are a very good man. But I know a hundred percent that Davinroy
didn’t torture and kill your wife.”

“How can you be so goddamned sure!” screamed Quinn.

There was a long pause. “Because you don’t
have
a wife,” replied Coffey grimly.
“You never did.”
 

The world spun around Quinn’s head like he was on a
rocket-propelled merry-go-round. He was suddenly weak and light-headed. “What?”
he whispered into the phone in horror. “
What
are you talking about?
You
know
I
had a wife. Nicole! And a daughter on the way.”

“I’m sorry, Kevin. You never married. There is no Nicole. And
you weren’t even
at
Davinroy’s
retreat this year. You were invited to be a guest instructor that week for the
Navy SEALS in Coronado, California. Google yourself and you’ll learn I’m right.
And then come in and get some help,” pleaded Coffey.

But Quinn didn’t reply. The phone slipped from his fingers
and he fell to his knees.

His world continued to spin around him at a furious pace,
and he fought back vomit.

PART 2

Omniscient

Omniscient:
(adjective):
possessed
of universal or complete knowledge

—MerriamWebster.com

“Yet misattributions in remembering are surprisingly
common. Sometimes we remember events that never happened, misattributing vivid
images that spring to mind to memories of past events that did not occur. At other
times we mistakenly take credit for a thought, when in reality we are recalling
it—without awareness—from something we read or heard. Misattribution can alter
our lives in strange and unexpected ways.”

—Professor Daniel L. Schacter, Head of the Schacter
Memory Lab at Harvard University, and former chairman of the Harvard Psychology
Department

“Neuroscientists have taken advantage of these clues
to explore the strong links between imagination and memory, to demonstrate how
social factors influence our recollections, and to show how memory may actually
have evolved to predict the future rather than keep track of the past. There is
arguably little evolutionary advantage to being able to recall the past in
vivid detail; it is much more useful to be able to use past experience to
predict what comes next.”

—
Charles Fernyhough,
Time
Magazine,
March 20, 2013

“Most of what we do and think and feel is not under
our conscious control. The vast jungles of neurons operate their own programs.
The conscious you—the I that flickers to life when you wake up in the morning—is
the smallest bit of what’s transpiring in your brain. Although we are dependent
on the functioning of the brain for our inner lives, it runs its own show. Most
of its operations are above the security clearance of the conscious mind. The I
simply has no right of entry. Your consciousness is like a tiny stowaway on a
transatlantic steamship, taking credit for the journey without acknowledging
the massive engineering underfoot.

“Your most fundamental drives are stitched into the
fabric of your neural circuitry, and they are inaccessible to you. You find
certain things more attractive than others, and you don’t know why. Like your
enteric nervous system and your sense of attraction, almost the entirety of
your inner universe is foreign to you. The ideas that strike you, your thoughts
during a daydream, the bizarre content of your nightdreams—all of these are
served up to you from unseen intracranial caverns.”

—David Eagleman,
Incognito