FILE NO. 094

INTERVIEW WITH ROBERT WOODHULL, ASSISTANT TO THE PRESIDENT FOR NATIONAL SECURITY AFFAIRS

Location: White House, Washington, DC

—This is not exactly like fixing an old car, Robert. They will get it done, in time.

—I hope you’re right. You wouldn’t want to go down in history as the idiot who started World War III for a giant paperweight.

—You certainly have a flair for the dramatic.

—Not really. You’re doing a great job at it so far. You’ve managed to single-handedly start the Cold War again.

—And how exactly did I achieve that on my own?

—Your drone planes just unearthed a very large hand in a place called Tuva.

—I know.

—That they found a hand or that there is such a place as Tuva?

—Tuva is a small republic in southern Siberia. I also knew about the hand. I did not know you had been made aware of it.

—Well, you’re using US troops for your little pet project. Don’t be surprised if they report to us when there’s an international incident. And good for you about Tuva. I had to look it up…

—Forgive me if I do not share in your pessimism but the mission was a success. We retrieved the hand without any loss of life on our part, and logic dictates the Tuvans will not tell the Russians anything. I fail to see what the problem is.

—That’s the thing. They don’t need to tell. The Russians know.

—What do they know?

—Everything. They know everything down to the smallest detail. The Russian ambassador gave me the play-by-play this morning. Sounded just like First Sergeant Rodriguez, with a different accent. One of their planes was nearby when the hand emerged. It crashed a few miles north. They had a satellite over the site about an hour before your men arrived. He even showed me the video. The part where two Russian officers get shot is much more dramatic on television.

—I assume they are not pleased.

—That’s the euphemism of the century. I don’t even know where to begin. Mongolia’s pissed because we put them on the spot. Russia followed your truck all the way to their front steps. Moscow demands an official apology, which they obviously won’t get since we’re adamantly denying we had anything to do with any of this. They also have this thing on satellite photos, so they know what it looks like. It would be easier to come up with a cover story for a nondescript body part, like a forearm, or a calf, like you did in Turkey. But the hand, well, it looks like a big hand, even from a thousand miles up.

You know that by now they’ve tortured every Tuvan they could get their hands on, so I’d say they know even more than they did before. There’s a reason we hire local mercenaries for black ops; it’s called plausible deniability. You sent a bunch of friggin’ Puerto Ricans with M-16s on a mission into Siberia. They didn’t exactly blend in, you know.

—We cannot assemble new teams in every part of the world in a matter of hours. Furthermore, involving mercenaries would pose a significant security risk. We buy mercenaries. Mercenaries are easily bought. That is what mercenaries do.

—Well, for now, Russia thinks we discovered an ancient temple or something, which is fine, but how the hell do we explain why US troops are now in the business of pillaging archaeological sites?

—You do not.

—What?

—Explain. You do not admit anything, and you do not explain anything. But you give them something.

—What do you have in mind?

—Anything. Something they want more than a big hand. That should not prove too difficult. Dismantle a missile base somewhere. They would probably love for you to take those Patriots out of Poland. They will rub your face in it for a while, but they are absolutely not going to escalate the situation into something that can get—excuse the pun—out of hand, not if you give them a way out.

—Somehow I don’t think the president will be too keen on weakening our position in Eastern Europe just so you can keep playing your little game.

—You know as well as I do that most of these bases are just window dressing, straw men designed to make smaller countries feel a bit mightier. Give the Russians anything they can spin politically. They will have their victory and everyone will go home happy.

—Let’s just hope, for both our sakes, that the next part turns up in France, Australia, anywhere they don’t speak Russian.

I also had an interesting conversation with the president this morning. He wants to know what you plan to do with that robot of yours if you get it to work. The idea was always to extract advanced technology from it. So far, your people can’t even repair it, let alone reverse-engineer anything we can use. If your people can’t do that, what are we supposed to do with a twenty-story robot? We can’t use it without other nations asking questions, and there’s no point in hiding it in that basement forever.

—I say take her out. March her down Constitution Avenue. Let everyone wonder what she can do. If you want a bigger deterrent, find a meaningless war in the middle of nowhere and annihilate one side. From what Dr. Franklin tells me, conventional weapons could not even put a scratch on her. I believe she could have driven the Iraqis out of Kuwait by herself. Are you going to tell me you would pass this up? You know this is worth a little squabble with Moscow.

—Maybe. I’m still not convinced that robot is all that you say it is. While you’re here, can you tell me what you’re doing about getting the controls to work for someone other than the Resnik girl?

—We are…

—Yes?

—Why do you ask?

—It’s just a question.

—It is not. What are you not telling me?

—Fine. I received an e-mail from someone on your team. Alyssa…something.

—Ms. Papantoniou. She is a geneticist.

—Well, Ms. Paponiou.

—Papan…

—Whatever. She thinks we can’t rely on that pilot of yours for something this important. She says she’s too unpredictable.

—Is that all she says?

—No. She says that studying her should be a priority but that Dr. Franklin won’t give her the resources she needs. She also says you won’t do a thing about it.

—And what do you think?

—I think you have what looks like a mutiny on your hands, and I don’t find that the least bit reassuring.

—I find it mostly annoying. But if it can make you feel better, I will let you decide what needs prioritizing. We do not have a complete robot. What we have cannot move. If and when we find the missing pieces, then it may or may not move. One of the control helmets does not work for anyone at this point. That nonfunctioning helmet is at a station designed for a creature with a different anatomy that we also cannot operate. What we do have is one functioning helmet, one station we can actually use, and one pilot able to use both the helmet and the station. So, Robert, where do we focus our efforts? Choose wisely.

—Hey, it’s your show. All I’m saying is you should have a better handle on your people. But even if we don’t need to deal with it now, that…Alyssa person’s got a point. What are we going to do when the Resnik girl is too old? God forbid she gets hit by a truck a week from now. What if she wakes up one morning and decides she doesn’t want to do this anymore? Say she decides it goes against her values. Say she gets pregnant and doesn’t want to risk her life anymore. What would we do then?

—Believe me, she will not. None of them will. They would not give this up for all the gold in the world, let alone for principles. We will have a few more years to analyze it. We will find a way to make it work for someone else. There is always a chance that her children could work the controls.

—You want to breed pilots? You’ll forgive me if I don’t bring your suggestion to the president.

—I do not think it will come to that, but why not? Breed them. Clone them. Ms. Papantoniou would certainly not object. Who knows what we will be able to do twenty years from now. In any case, this president will be long gone when that decision needs to be made. I think this robot will still be advanced weaponry long after you and I are buried.

—I don’t share your optimism. This whole thing scares the hell out of me. I can’t help but think it will all blow up in our faces.

—Do you like superheroes?

—Oh, I’m not in the mood for a metaphor right now.

—Humor me. Who is your favorite superhero?

—I don’t know. Superman. No, the Hulk.

—OK, now imagine for a minute that—what is he called when he is not the Hulk?

—How should I know? I’m not twelve! Wait one second…Lisa, what’s the name of the guy who turns into the Hulk when he’s angry?…She doesn’t know…How about Superman?…Superman is Clark Kent…Thank you, Lisa.

—Imagine that Clark Kent walks into your office one day and offers his services to fight for America. You are given the opportunity to recruit a near-indestructible soldier with superhuman strength who can fly faster than a supersonic jet fighter. Would you say no because Mr….

—Kent.

—Because Mr. Kent might someday fall ill?

—That’s it? That’s your point? I can tell you this: I’d certainly think about it if I had to start by invading a dozen countries to pick up body parts from Mr. Kent all over the map.