Free Predator One by Jonathan Maberry Page A

painand discomfort of his injury, was doing most of the talking.
    “We’re tearing the car apart,” he explained. “So far, we’ve eliminated simple mechanical problems. The senior mechanic thinks that the onboard computer system is the culprit.”
    “The car was turned off,” said the president. “Isn’t that what you told me? James had the key in his hand.”
    “He did, and I’m not trying to protect one of myown when I say that I don’t think he is in any way to blame for—”
    The president flapped a hand. “Oh hell, of course not. And I don’t want to hear about James being transferred to the dark side of the moon. I can’t see how this is his fault. He’s a good kid.”
    “We think the problem is in the autonomous vehicle software.”
    “The what?”
    “Autonomous—”
    “I heard you. I mean … since when do we havethat installed in the Beast?”
    Alice Houston answered that. “Eighteen months ago, Mr. President. You, um, were briefed on it when you took office.”
    “Oh,” said the president. “Right.”
    Brierly said, “The systems were installed to allow the car to operate in a defensive and protective manner, sir. Even if the driver were incapacitated, the car would use its GPS and other software to get you outof there. It’s tied to all of the internal security systems and countermeasures and is in constant contact with the White House Communications Agency. The idea is to make sure you’re never sitting in a dead or driverless car.”
    The president gave a sullen nod. He was a year and a half into his presidency, and the glamour of the gizmos and geegaws had long since eroded, revealing a set of securityprotocols that were ponderous and annoying. Necessary, sure. But annoying. The Beast was a perfect example of what he considered overpreparedness. It was sealed against biochemical attacks and had a full medical kit in the trunk, including pints of blood in the president’s type—which he found deeply unnerving. It even had its own oxygen supply. And it was so heavily armored that it barely goteight miles to the gallon.
    Now this. An autonomous driving system.
    “I would have assumed,” he said acidly, “that someone was supposed to vet this system before we paid whatever we paid—probably fifty times what we should have—to have it installed?”
    “Yes, Mr. President,” said Brierly. “The operating software package has been thoroughly tested by DARPA and some independent labs.”
    “Then explainto me why and how this happened, Linden.”
    Brierly had no answer to that.
    No one did.
    The president got wearily to his feet. Everyone else got to their feet as well. “I can’t do this anymore. I need some sleep. Alice, you kick whoever you need to kick, but by the time I wake up, I want to know why my car turned into a Transformer. Are we clear? No excuses, no buck passing. I want a clear andcogent answer. Capisce?”
    “Yes, Mr. President,” she said.
    The crowd began edging toward the door, with the president walking behind them, arms wide, like a shepherd driving his flock into a pen. When they were outside, he closed the door and turned and leaned back against it, blowing out his cheeks.
    “Damn,” he said, sighing out the word so that it was stretched as thin as he was. After a moment,he pushed himself upright and had just hooked his fingers into the knot of his tie when someone knocked on the door.
    Very hard, with great insistence.
    “Jesus H.…”
    He bellowed, “Come in, damn it.”
    The door opened and two heads leaned in. Alice Houston and Linden Brierly.
    “It’s too soon for good news,” grumped the president. “So, if it’s bad news, I don’t want to hear it.”
    “Mr. President,”said Houston, pushing past Brierly to come in. She crossed to the TV, snatched up the remote, and clicked it on. “You have to see this.”
    The screen filled immediately with a video already in progress.
    Three hulking armed figures in dark clothes stood in a tight