“Fifty bucks.”
“You already owe me for the Chinese. And lunch last week.”
“I’ll dig myself out or dig myself deeper.”
“You always do.”
Brodie eyed Maggie Taylor as she strode purposefully down the hall. She was wearing a black suit and carrying an oversize thermos full of yerba maté, a tea from South America that she’d started drinking in disturbing quantities. She claimed it was more potent than coffee, and when Brodie had tried it once, he’d agreed. Maybe she should cut back.
Ms. Taylor was thirty-five, with shoulder-length blond hair. She had an effortless beauty about her, along with an effortless intellect. Some of her peers in CID found her intimidating. A few of the men had asked her out, but Ms. Taylor had learned through hard experience to separate her work life from her love life. As for Scott Brodie, his relationship with his partner was purely professional—notwithstanding a couple of close calls overseas after more than a couple of drinks.
Brodie was five years older than Taylor and was also her superior officer, though he’d noticed that fact had little effect on how she talked to him. He was also dressed in civilian clothes—dark-blue suit and tie—which was the norm among CID special agents. Brodie had a military service uniform buried in his closet somewhere, but it probably needed a dry-cleaning and wouldn’t get unearthed until he was compelled to attend an official event, or he got so old that he needed a new portrait taken.
Warrant officers in Army CID occupied an interesting middle ground in the military hierarchy—in rank between NCOs and commissioned officers, and culturally straddling the line between military officers and civilian law enforcement investigators. If Scott Brodie had to interrogate a possible suspect who was a commissioned officer, it didn’t matter how many stars or bars they had on their shoulders or how many ribbons were pinned to their chest. When investigating a crime, deference to rank went out the window. All in all, being a CID special agent was a pretty good gig, and a lot better than his first Army career, as an infantry sergeant in Iraq during the early phase of the war. At least now people who tried to kill him had a personal reason for it.
They reached the door to Dombroski’s office and entered a small anteroom where the general’s aide, Lieutenant Pamela Banks, sat at her desk with a laptop. She looked up at them and smiled. “The general is expecting you.”
Brodie said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Stanley Dombroski had waited a long time to be referred to as “the general,” and Brodie wondered if the general had instructed his young aide to ban the use of pronouns.
Brodie and Taylor entered Dombroski’s large, stately office, where the general stood behind his desk. He gestured to a couple of chairs. “Have a seat.”
They all sat, and Brodie looked around. The place was more cluttered with heavy wooden furniture, books, and framed plaques andphotos than he’d remembered, as if Dombroski felt that with his new rank came a need to take up more space.
Stanley Dombroski himself, however, was taking up noticeably less space. Brodie said, “You’re looking good, General.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brodie. A diet and a divorce can do wonders.” He eyed the two agents. “You both look like you could use some sun.”
“Yes, sir,” said Brodie. Was that a hint? Maybe Greenland was out.
Dombroski asked, “Does working with Colonel Flemming make you miss me?”
Brodie smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Colonel Jack Flemming was their new commanding officer now that Brigadier General Stanley Dombroski had ranked out of dealing with mere mortals. Flemming was capable, cautious, and maybe a little unsure of what to do with Special Agents Brodie and Taylor, who were now both famous and infamous within CID.
Taylor said, “Scott is on his best behavior, as he tries to be in all new relationships.”
Dombroski looked at Brodie. “Are we at last properly medicated, Mr. Brodie?”
“Just properly motivated, sir.” He didn’t enjoy being the butt of jokes between a one-star general and his own lower-ranking partner. He could tell only one of them to f——off.
Dombroski continued, “I will apprise Colonel Flemming of the situation so that he can reassign your caseload. This will require your full attention.” He slid his hazel eyes between the agents. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I just received a call from General Hackett. Major Roger Ames of the U.S. Army Combat Capabilities Development Command—DEVCOM—was found dead early this morning in his office at Camp Hayden, which, as you may know, is a remote Army outpost in the Mojave Desert. Major Ames was a computer scientist, involved with the experimental research and training that is conducted at Hayden.”
Taylor asked, “Cause of death?”
Dombroski looked at her. “His skull was crushed.”
Brodie and Taylor shared a look. Brodie asked, “What kind of experimental research are they doing at Camp Hayden, sir?”
Dombroski thought a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “As I understand it, the main thrust of their work involves conducting field training exercises between soldiers—at present, a rifle platoon of Army Rangers—and lethal autonomous weapons. LAWs.”
Brodie said, “Killer robots.”
Dombroski replied, “General Hackett did not use that term.”
Brodie and Taylor sat with that for a moment. Then Taylor said, “I have read about these types of weapons in the hypothetical, but I didn’t realize they actually existed.”
“Not in the field,” replied Dombroski. “But they do at Camp Hayden. Prototypes of some kind.”
