Split second, p.15
Split Second, page 15
A troubled look crossed Blake’s face. “So is this really what the universe is? A preordained game that has already been played? We can cheer however we want to, but we can’t affect the outcome.”
“Very possibly, yes,” said Walsh. “There are many brilliant scientists who believe this, just as Einstein did. And many who don’t. I love the football analogy. Another good way to think of the block universe theory is to compare it to an old-fashioned movie. A movie made up of thousands and thousands of frames that are quickly moved through the projector to create the illusion of motion. We’re like players in this movie. We experience the frames sequentially, but the full movie has already been made, and is already loaded into the projector. The last frame exists every bit as much as the first, even if we can’t see it. But the movie plays out as it has to. Inexorably. Inevitably. It’s all there on the reel, unchangeable.”
“Sounds pretty horrible,” said Jenna.
“It really does,” said Walsh.
Blake wore a dour expression. “But like you said, we aren’t certain this is the case, right?” he asked, looking for reassurance.
“Right. Einstein’s work supports this view, but we can’t be sure. Sometimes I think the block universe theory is correct and I’m quite troubled by it. But I’ve also found the idea comforting at times. If I’m struggling with a problem, I tell myself, it doesn’t matter, either I solved it, or I didn’t. Either things worked out, or they didn’t. But either way it’s already happened. It’s already locked in. Just as the past has already been laid down and I have no power to change it, so has the future. I just don’t know it yet.”
Jenna sighed. “I have to agree with your first statement, Dan,” she said. “Time is a nightmare. This must be why Nathan seemed so excited that he could use his discovery to perform actual experiments and test these ideas.”
“Exactly,” said Walsh. “Nathan’s work could help us get a handle on time, and time travel, potentially leading to major breakthroughs we have yet to imagine.”
“But would people really get this excited, this quickly?” said Blake. “Enough to kill haphazardly? Just so they can do some experiments?”
“You wouldn’t think so,” agreed Walsh.
Jenna knew she was now just minutes away from falling into a coma. She had continued to yawn periodically as Walsh had spoken and had choked down all the coffee she could bear. She just hoped she could fight through it just a little longer.
She turned to Walsh. “So what are some of the time travel theories he’d be able to test? In Nathan’s e-mail, he mentioned branching timelines and so on. Could you run through the possibilities?”
“I’m far from an expert on time travel theory,” said Walsh. “But I have read and seen my share of time travel stories. I can't imagine there's any soil that hasn't already been tilled by a century of science fiction writers.” He shrugged. “I’m sure you two know as much about this as I do.”
Blake sighed deeply. “That may be, Dan, but I have no doubt you’ll do a better job of analyzing and organizing all of it. So why don’t you start us off.”
“I’d be happy to,” said Walsh.
He paused for a long moment in thought. “We’ve already discussed one idea. That the universe won’t allow the past to be changed. It will protect itself. The other end of the spectrum is that it will allow it, and the tiniest change is amplified through time and has profound effects. There’s a famous story by Ray Bradbury about a group who goes back in time sixty-five million years to the age of the dinosaur. They have a discussion about the possible ramifications of killing a single mouse there. One character thinks it’s no big deal, but the other explains that killing that one mouse also kills all of its future descendants, possibly billions of future mice over millions of years. And for want of mice, other species up the food chain die off, finally leading to a cave-man dying for lack of food, one who wouldn’t have died otherwise. A critical cave-man at a critical juncture in human development, when mankind was hanging on by a thread. So killing one mouse sixty-five million years ago can lead to the extinction of the human race.”
“Good thing we can only go back half a second, then,” said Blake with a smile.
Jenna laughed. “Yeah. Even mice can’t breed that fast,” she said wryly.
“There is also a possibility that is basically the opposite of this,” continued the physicist. “That time absorbs changes, big and small. That it has an inertia, and it absorbs blows and quickly returns to its course. Like throwing a large rock into a raging river. The rock might change the course of the river slightly, and briefly, but its effect downstream is virtually zero.”
“So what about branching timelines?” asked Blake. “I think I have a feel for them from the movies, but I’d like your take.”
Walsh paused in thought. “It seems to me that there are two major possibilities,” he began. “One, there is only one timeline. If you change your past, you change events after this, either dramatically or with great difficulty. In this case, provided the universe lets you change things, you get endless paradoxes, which is why this one is the more interesting for time travel stories. You can get all kinds of cool circular stuff. Man A sends instructions for an invention to man B in the past. But the only reason man A knew the instructions is because B had already invented it. But the only reason B invented it is because he received instructions from A. So how was it invented in the first place?”
“So the cleaner alternative is the multiple timeline one,” said Blake.
“I think that’s right,” agreed Walsh. “Because you really can’t get any paradoxes. The moment you change the past in any way, at that point, time splits, and you have two different universes. One in which the change happened and one in which it never did. So if you kill your mom before you were born, a new timeline branches off. You went back in time and killed your mom, but not the mom on your timeline—so you could still be born. You killed your mom at the very start of a different timeline. On this new branch, most everything in the universe is the same, except you aren’t born. Still, as far as you, the murderer, are concerned, the original branch remains intact, and your life and timeline remain unchanged.”
“So how could Nathan’s discovery be used to differentiate between the two possibilities?” said Blake.
Walsh opened his mouth to reply when he noticed that Jenna had lost her battle and was dead asleep on the chair, her head lolled to the side.
“Maybe we ought to finish this discussion another time,” said Blake, being careful to keep his voice to a whisper, although, given Jenna’s state of exhaustion, he probably could have screamed this out without waking her.
Walsh nodded. “We all have a lot to sleep on. Maybe while we’re sleeping one of us will have an epiphany and figure out what we’re missing.”
“Maybe,” said Blake, but he said it in such a way that it was clear he didn’t believe it for a moment.
24
As the ground continued to streak by far below him, Lee Cargill had out an old-fashioned college-ruled notebook and jotted notes with an actual pen that spread ink, something that was increasingly rare in the digital age.
He needed to be well prepared for his meeting with President Janney. He had to report what had happened and insist that a new base be built just for Q5, one designed to his strict security specifications, ensuring they wouldn’t need to scurry from underground base to underground base like cockroaches after a light was turned on.
Having Q5’s Palomar Mountain headquarters blown, his people temporarily scattered, and their semis hurriedly relocated, was humiliating. So he also needed to recommend a temporary headquarters, knowing he would need to decapitate the remaining snake in the weeds before the move to a more permanent location.
And he had to get Janney to agree to let Q5 become the blackest of Black Ops organizations. Which meant that Janney would be the last president to know of it. Whoever followed him into the White House would not be read in.
Presidents could be fickle and arbitrary. Each new one with wildly different visions and priorities. And when all was said and done, they were nothing more than civilians who managed to get donors excited enough to give them money, and then win a popularity contest. They weren’t the smartest or best trained that humanity had to offer, and they didn’t have the best judgment. The truly brilliant, truly gifted, wanted little to do with politics.
Cargill scowled. Besides, this was his ship. He was the captain. Which meant he was the ultimate authority, certainly not a flavor-of-the-week president.
So far, he had let the current resident of the White House maintain the illusion that he was in control, making pilgrimages to the man like a supplicant, a beggar, dancing for coins. Cargill had too many other worries to let this illusion lapse at the moment, but he wasn’t about to assent to letting another politician interfere, another commander in chief who knew less about the realities of actual command than the greenest new recruit.
Cargill was still organizing his thoughts for his meeting the next morning when Joe Allen swiveled his chair around to face his boss once again. Cargill looked up from his notepad. “Yes?”
“Someone did pull video footage from street cameras near Wexler’s home,” reported Allen. “A woman named R. Sylvia Tagert. She’s CIA. Reporting through the Directorate of Intelligence. She’s a civilian, but has considerable field experience. Was stationed in Yemen, Afghanistan, and Syria as part of counter-terrorism operations there. Worked with select spec ops individuals and groups when necessary. Excellent performance reviews.” He paused. “I’ve already sent her full dossier to your computer so you can read in whatever depth you’d like.”
“She sounds like the type our guy might know. So who did she send the video to?”
Allen frowned. “I woke up a top computer guy at Langley, since you wanted me to stay away from our own people. He hacked into her computer, but she had left no traces of where she sent the video. We tried to get her phone records, but she’s high enough in the CIA pecking order to have a phone that shields this information.”
“So you’re telling me she left no traces, and you don’t have any idea who she pulled the video for?”
Allen nodded unhappily. “Yeah, I’m afraid that’s what I’m telling you.”
Cargill digested this for several seconds. “Is she stationed at Langley?”
“No. She’s currently based at a facility at Palm Springs, California. One disguised as a think tank.”
“California?” said Cargill, rolling his eyes. “Really?”
Allen shrugged. “The CIA has a number of offices in California.”
“I know that, Joe. I was just thinking this was bad luck for you.”
“How so?”
“I needed you for a few projects in DC, but this takes priority. And until I have more confidence in the trustworthiness of our current team, I need to lean on you more heavily than ever. I need you to get the information from her. Yesterday. And we can’t be sure that pulling rank over the phone will do it. We need you to be in her face, an intimidating presence who won’t take no for an answer.”
He gave Allen an apologetic look. “I’m afraid when we land in DC, I’ll need to have a jet standing by to take you back to California immediately.”
Allen sighed. “Not a problem,” he said. “I can get a few hours sleep on the way back. And it isn’t exactly as though I’m flying coach with a screaming infant behind me.”
“I know I’m losing time by sending you there instead of one of our team already in California, but this is too important to send someone whose loyalties aren’t absolutely certain. I need you to find out who she was helping, and get the information to me immediately. I don’t care if I’m in the powder room with the fucking president—interrupt me.”
“Roger that,” mumbled Allen.
“While you’re flying back, I’ll randomly activate a team on the West Coast. One we haven’t worked with before, so we’re sure they haven’t been contaminated by Knight. I’ll have them standing by so I can field them at a moment’s notice.”
“Can I assume you’ll want me to lead this team on whatever op you end up assigning them to?” said Allen.
“Yes. And one more thing. Once you have the identity of our private eye, or private eye impersonator as the case may be, you obviously can’t let this Sylvia Tagert tip him off that we’re coming.”
“Obviously,” repeated Joe Allen grimly.
25
“Jack Rourk is at the outer perimeter of the property,” said the deep, masculine voice of Edgar Knight’s personal digital assistant, responding to his command that he was to be informed when this happened.
“Throw him up on the monitor,” said Knight to his PDA, which he had named Lazlo.
Lazlo did as requested, and a car appeared on a three-dimensional screen that filled up an entire wall of Knight’s twenty-second-floor penthouse office.
“Welcome back to Lake Las Vegas, Jack,” whispered Knight excitedly under his breath. The flash drive couldn’t get there fast enough.
Security around Knight’s spectacular Lake Las Vegas headquarters was as impenetrable as it was invisible. The sprawling campus appeared harmless, even tranquil, but it was anything but.
Even the outermost perimeter, miles from the island and its numerous buildings, was secure. If this was crossed without the proper wireless signal having first been received from a bracelet or ring that his people all wore, indicating whoever was crossing was authorized to be doing so, electronic and human eyes would lock onto the trespasser immediately. Cameras were everywhere, and facial recognition was state of the art.
And this was only the beginning. Once through the second perimeter, even those whose jewelry had broadcast the proper codes were scanned for authenticity. Knight’s Brain Trust had recently come up with dramatic advances in biometric scanning that would have been worth billions if Knight had any interest in sharing this technology with the world.
Like highway scanners that could collect tolls electronically as cars rushed by, these biometric scanners could detect retina prints, heart rate, and even brain activity from passengers in closed vehicles moving at up to five miles an hour. Since cars proceeding to the island were forced to slow to a crawl to pass a series of the most treacherous speed bumps ever constructed, this wasn’t an issue.
If security ever had a question about an approaching person or vehicle, the interlopers could be stopped and queried by other people and vehicles that would seem to appear as if by magic. Friendly people, driving friendly vehicles.
But security also had a decidedly less friendly side, and the street could be made to come alive. Steel beams could punch up from the pavement to send cars tumbling, and automatic munitions emplacements could be made to reveal themselves.
Finally, there was only one approach to Knight’s island in the middle of the desert—a quarter-mile land bridge that crossed the lake Knight thought of as his personal moat. While this route over the lake wasn’t a drawbridge of old, which could be raised to protect a castle, the land bridge concealed the heaviest armaments of all. It was also mined, and could be rendered impassable by a single command.
While security had been forced over the months to shoo a few strays away, there had been no major incidents and they had always been able to discourage unauthorized visitors with a smile. They hadn’t yet had to bare their teeth, or deploy weapons systems that could take down a small army.
Knight wanted to keep it that way, taking great measures to be sure suspicions were never aroused. Their security was intended to be used as a measure of last resort, since turning their little stretch of heaven into a war zone would raise more than a few eyebrows, although having unlimited money to throw around would certainly help induce amnesia if such a situation did arise.
Lake Las Vegas had the most checkered of pasts, and had died and been reborn several times before going into yet another death spiral in 2020, enabling Knight to swoop in a few years later and purchase his island headquarters for a song.
In 1980, Transcontinental Properties had acquired over three thousand acres of land and associated water rights, seventeen miles east of the Vegas Strip, adjacent to the Lake Mead National Recreation Area. This would later become the Lake Las Vegas Resort, an audacious and fantastically expensive project.
In September of 1988, construction began on the Lake Las Vegas dam, an eighteen-story structure almost a mile long that had required more than two years to complete. The lake itself was created by filling a canyon in the high desert countryside with three billion gallons of water, an eight-year ordeal that had resulted in a lake that spanned three hundred and twenty acres, by far the largest man-made body of water in the state, running to a depth of one hundred and forty-five feet.
The concept of a vast lake resort community this close to the Vegas strip had attracted billions from giddy investors, most of whom eventually lost their shirts. And while the developers had grossly overestimated the allure and potential of such a resort, they hadn’t skimped on vision or shied away from massive construction projects.
Once completed, the Lake Las Vegas resort featured ten miles of shoreline, premier residential facilities, golf courses, luxury hotels, spas, a full-service marina, a large retail enclave, fifty acres of open spaces with hiking and biking trails, and numerous other fabulous facilities and amenities.
But when demand fell far short of expectations the resort community failed in spectacular fashion, and quickly fell into disrepair. The Ritz-Carlton and other premier tenants shuttered their doors. The area became a ghost town, and lawsuits abounded as everyone pointed fingers at everyone else for this catastrophic failure.
