Friday, August 18

5:00 a.m.

Frank Holt left home quietly, so his wife wouldn't wake. He had successfully talked himself out of discussing his dilemma with her. He'd wanted to. She gave good advice. But she would try to stop him from doing what he knew he needed to do, and he loved her enough that she would probably succeed.

He stepped across the dark Fort Belvoir street to the security gate and faced the retinal eye scanner. Within a few minutes he sat at his workbench, the computer monitor displaying program algorithms for the final targeting sequence.

The project room was small, with no windows and only two workstations. McCain had already arrived. He sat bleary eyed at the other workbench.

"You think we'll finish by noon?" Holt asked.

McCain nodded. He'd gotten a hair cut and his red stubble almost looked pink in the bright fluorescent light. "The sooner the better. It'll get the major off our backs."

"I don't know why Major Rutledge has us doing this bullshit anyway. It's not part of the mission."

Holt opened another file and began writing code. The program would verify the weapon's location via GPS, the Global Positioning System, then adjust course based on the signal strength of the target's transmission frequency.

"We'd already be finished if we could use the Precise Positioning Service," McCain said.

"Do you believe the major's explanation about why it's off limits?" Holt asked.

"We're a black box organization. Makes sense that we keep a low profile."

The Global Positioning System operated two services. The Standard Positioning Service was for civilian use and could be accessed instantaneously worldwide, while the Precise Positioning Service--accurate to within 22 meters horizontally and 28 meters vertically--needed government authorization for access, which meant a paper trail.

Holt rubbed the sleeve of his khaki shirt. His Marine Corps uniform, washed and pressed, felt heavier than normal, as though the weight of honor lurked within its weave, wishing to burden him.

Semper Fi.

The motto of the Marine Corps.

Always faithful.

Not exactly the credo for someone considering making a call to the federal whistleblower program.

He thought about his wife again. Maybe he should have discussed the situation with her. But he knew what she would say. This wasn't his concern. He was just a programmer.

A programmer, yes. He manipulated bits of data from weapon cameras, usually mounted on UAVs--Unmanned Aerial Vehicles--and developed photogrammetric algorithms for landscape recognition, a kind of digital mapping. This information was fed into a targeting scheme, directing the bomb toward its destination. The onboard computer cross-referenced geographic locations to maps stored in memory.

For the last five years, he had worked on Project SPEAR and had come to think his life consisted entirely of 1's and 0's flashing across computer monitors. Binary code. Data bits.

But he was a Marine, too. And he had recently learned that he was involved in much larger numbers than 1's and 0's. The larger numbers that described fiscal outlays. Funding numbers. As a black box organization, funding was top secret. Only a limited number in the government even knew the project existed. Just how many, Holt wasn't sure. But two weeks ago, when Major Rutledge stepped out of his office, Holt had seen the major's book, thinking initially it was a new set of code. Instead, it detailed a scheme for funneling funds away from SPEAR to covert organizations that were identified by code letters like FMCV and WMA and HINC. A quick check in the adjacent ledger, the "official" funding book, verified that the identical amounts had been written off as being paid to contractors who had since gone defunct.

He still might not have suspected anything, except that Major Rutledge had been promising a prototype for two years, constantly stalling. And now, the parts delivered to the hangar turned out to be plastic crap, although over eight million dollars had been deducted from project funds.

His targeting algorithm assignments were suspect, too. Unrealistic. Several months earlier, Rutledge had requested an algorithm to target an empty warehouse in Renville, a small town miles to the west. Practice for rapid battlefield response, Rutledge had explained.

The computer code was to be written for a Teledyne Ryan Firebee, an older model UAV that was basically a miniature jet aircraft about 20 feet long with a wingspan of 12 feet, and of course, no cockpit. Rutledge had been adamant about knowing how to download the program into the UAV's onboard computer.

The latest command from Rutledge was also unsettling, developing a targeting algorithm that would direct a weapon to the IFF signal of American forces. Why? For a test, Rutledge had said. But Holt knew how to test his target-acquisition software without pinpointing the Identify-Friend-or-Foe signal, transmitted as an electronic handshake between weapon systems to reduce the risk of friendly fire in combat.

Rutledge had been more visible in recent weeks, since Holt had seen the secret ledger. He was like an overseer at a gulag, thinking that one of the inmates was planning an escape, appearing suddenly at unexpected times, searching for suspicious behavior.

Holt had written a letter detailing his suspicions. A lawyer in Alexandria, Thomas Gregory, now possessed the letter. Holt called Gregory every evening from a pay phone off base. The letter would be opened only if Holt missed a call.

The question of whether to be faithful to his mission, Project SPEAR, or to what his heart told him was a larger issue of honor, besieged his thoughts at night, keeping him awake.

He needed to talk to someone, get advice before he came forward with any accusation, but not from his wife. He would call Derek Morton, an investigator in the General Accounting Office, later in the morning and arrange for a simple meeting between old friends, maybe on the pretext of proposing a sailing trip. They had sailed many weekends in Chesapeake Bay. Yes, he would call and say innocuous things, aware the phone line would most likely be tapped, and meet Derek for a late lunch. Holt would bring along a change of clothes, because he couldn't bring himself to raise the issue while in uniform.

Someone he trusted.

Rare people, these days.

For now, Holt had to rely on Derek Morton.