for more freedom, and I want to give it to her, but when I do, more often than not, she acts irresponsibly.”
Ralph attacked his pancakes with gusto. “Sounds pretty normal for a teen.” “I know she wants to stay in San Diego, but I don’t want to reward her for doing things behind my back. So I decided earlier this morning to send her back to Denver and have her stay with my parents for a day or two until I can close up some things here and get back home.”
“The freedom thing, Pat, no one knows the answer to that.”
Ralph didn’t let having food in his mouth stop him from passing along his parenting advice. “It’s always a balancing act between trusting ‘em and setting ‘em up for failure. They’ll push the limits, you’ll end up stepping on their toes. You’re both gonna make mistakes, I guarantee you that. You just need to keep loving her and be patient. That’s about all I know. Where’s the butter?”
I handed him some mini butter tubs. “One more thing.”
He stuck his fork into his pancakes. “What’s that?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase this. “Ralph, something happened to Lien-hua. Something in her past. A couple times she’s hinted to me about it, but when I follow up and ask her about it, she backs off. Do you know what it is?”
The edge of his jaw twitched. “No. It was something before I met her. I wondered for a while, and then one day I just decided to let it go and let her have her secrets. You better believe I’ve got mine.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We all do.”
He swallowed a forkful of pancakes and then draped a giant paw across my shoulder. “Pat, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Investigate her. Just let it be. You push her, you might hurt her.
I know her heart’s been broken before. Don’t pry. She deserves better than that.”
“Ralph, you know I don’t want to hurt her. That’s the last thing I want-”
“Good morning, boys.” Lien-hua appeared beside me and set down a plateful of fruit and a bowl of yogurt sprinkled with granola.
“What were you saying, Pat? What’s the last thing you want?”
“To eat yogurt,” I said, staring at her plate. “If I ever tell you I want some yogurt, hospitalize me. That and quiche. I’m obviously not in my right mind.”
“Yogurt-a-matic,” mumbled Ralph.
“Health benefits,” she said coyly. “Gotta stay fit.”
I passed her a cup of coffee and noticed that she’d tied her hair back into a thick, rich ponytail, and had placed a wide plastic-strip bandage across the wound on her neck. I nodded toward her neck.
“How is that this morning?”
She pulled out a chair. “Doesn’t really hurt.” She was wearing a lightweight, body-hugging turtleneck and tan shorts. Not what she might wear to the office in Quantico, but pretty typical for San Diego.
When she sat down, her shorts rode up just enough for me to see the deep, purplish bruise on her right thigh. My eyes wanted to loiter on her leg, or on her turtleneck, but I made them stare at the yogurt.
She grimaced a bit as she situated herself in her chair, and Ralph’s look of concern told me that he’d noticed. “Bruised my leg last night,” she explained. Then, she extended her lean leg in our direction. “I mean, would you look at that thing?”
I figured that since she’d invited me to, I’d better do what she asked. I stared thoughtfully at her leg. “Wow. Yeah. That’s something else, all right.”
Ralph glanced at her bruise, then at me, then asked Lien-hua,
“How’s it feel?”
“It’s OK,” she said. “It was pretty stiff this morning, but I did some tai chi in the hallway, that really helped.”
“The hallway?” Ralph said.
“Never mind,” I mumbled and stuffed some pancakes into my mouth. General Cole Biscayne brushed a fleck of lint off his uniform, slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and checked the time: 0809 hours.
Good. He liked the fact that they’d had to wait for him before beginning the meeting. He threw open the doors to the conference room and saw that the other members of the Project Rukh Oversight Committee were already assembled. They saluted, shook his hand, or offered him a slight nod depending on their rank and how well they knew the head of the Pentagon’s research and development agency.
He motioned with one finger to a woman standing at attention by the door. “Petty Officer Henley, the shades.”
“Yes, sir.” She walked to the wall of windows and closed off the panoramic view of the ocean and the line of smoke tilting into the sky. Then she left the room. This was not a meeting for someone of her rank.
General Biscayne chose to stand while the others sat. “Let’s cut to the chase.” He scanned the room. No one looked happy; most looked scared. Seated around the table were two other DARPA members, as well as North Island Naval Air Station Base Commander Admiral Norval Tumney, FBI Executive Assistant Director for Criminal Investigations Margaret Wellington, half a dozen other top-ranking defense department and intelligence agencies officials, and Victor Drake, president and CEO of Drake Enterprises.
“Gentlemen,” General Biscayne said, and then with a nod toward Ms. Wellington, he added, “and ladies. The police caught and killed the arsonist from last night’s attack. Good. I’m sure the investigation will go on for months and we’ll eventually find out all we need to know about him, but for right now, here’s what I want: will someone please tell me that the Project Rukh research wasn’t compromised before the facility was destroyed. Tell me we have confirmation that the prototype wasn’t stolen. Tell me I flew all the way out here for nothing, that I can relax, and then go back to Washington, meet with the president tomorrow, and inform him that neither the research nor the prototype has gotten into the wrong hands. Tell me those things and I will leave this room a happy man.”
No one moved, except for those who averted eye contact with the general. Victor Drake began tapping his fingers rhythmically against the table.
“Let me be clear.” Anger prowled through the general’s words.
He yanked back the shades and pointed at the smoke. “The Department of Defense has invested nearly three billion dollars in this program, and we are not about to let all that go up in smoke because some rogue SEAL had a vendetta to pay.”
Still no answer from the group.
General Biscayne looked directly at Victor Drake. “How close was the device to being fully operational?”
“It was completed, but I’m sad to say it really doesn’t matter anymore. All the files, as well as the prototype, were destroyed in the fire.”
The general let the shades fall shut again. “All the research?”
“I’m afraid so. Nothing could be salvaged. We kept only hard copies of the research so it wouldn’t be possible for someone to hack in to the computer system and steal the findings. At this point, though, it looks like we may have made the wrong decision.”
“And the prototype as well? Destroyed? Are you certain?”
“Yes. No doubt about it.”
General Biscayne considered all this for a moment. If Victor was behind the fire-and it only made sense that he was-he probably had made sure to destroy the device. It was the only way to cover up his failure, the only course of action that made sense. So, maybe the fire was a good thing after all. The Department of Defense could get out of its dead-end contract with Drake Enterprises, blame the fire on terrorists, capitalize on the public outrage, and then use the incident to lobby for a substantial increase in the national security budget for the next fiscal year. FBI Executive Assistant Director Margaret Wellington coughed softly and then spoke up. Her voice reminded the general of a ratchet set. “General Biscayne, we are all aware that this project is of the utmost importance to you and the rest of your team at the Pentagon. Fine. But I’m new to this committee and I haven’t been adequately briefed on the exact scope of Project Rukh. The way in which all the pieces of research fit together still remains-”
“Classified,” he interrupted her. “And it does so for a reason.”
She tensed, folded her hands in front of her. Refused to be intimidated. “Do not interrupt me, General. I’m a civilian. That means you work for me.”
