The complex software constantly scanned the Web sites of every newspaper and television station in the country in search of stories containing several preprogrammed key words and phrases, prioritizing those with the highest concentrations. The software left the most mundane stories in black, ones of some note in green, and those of the highest interest in red, which were accompanied by a pinging sound when his computer received one.
The stories pulled were confined mostly to accidents, crime, and particularly murder, the vast majority of which were mundane and easily dismissed. Disappearances interested Marsh the most, along with sightings of strange lights, machines acting up in inexplicable ways, animals behaving strangely, and other unexplained phenomena. The software organized the most notable among these incident reports by region in search of geographical patterns. Other data banks were searched for patterns as well, including large migrations from some areas and influxes into others.
Marsh knew what he was looking for; he just didn’t know how exactly to find it. This war was his life’s work, something that had driven him to amass the vast fortune he had for the power that came with it. Power he intended to use to fight an enemy the rest of the world refused to acknowledge. Why should they? After all, that enemy hadn’t yet struck at them, as it had at Langston Marsh, changing his life inalterably and setting him down this path when he was a mere child.
A buzz emitted from an unseen speaker built into his desk.
“Colonel Rathman is here, sir,” the voice of his assistant followed.
“Send him in.”
Marsh rose from his chair, turning toward an elegant section of wood-paneled wall as it parted into a doorway, allowing a huge man dressed in black 5.11 tactical gear to enter. Rathman stood as close to seven feet as six, even without combat boots. He was strangely and utterly hairless, not from birth, Marsh had read in his dossier, but from the heat wave loosed from a terrorist bomb. He had no eyebrows or hair and his arms bared beneath a tight short-sleeve T-shirt looked slathered in oil. The heat had been so intense that it had burned off Rathman’s tattoos as well, something Marsh hadn’t thought possible, leaving a patchwork of embroidered scars behind.
Then again, Marsh’s entire life’s work was based around what nobody thought possible.
“A pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”
Rathman came to a rigid halt ten feet before Marsh, virtually standing at attention. “And you, sir.”
“You saw duty in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“I did, sir. Eight tours.”
“Which ended rather unceremoniously in your discharge. What was the procedure called again?”
“It was called an Article Thirty-Two hearing,” Rathman explained routinely, no trace of embarrassment or indignation in his voice. “I accepted a nonjudicial punishment in exchange for agreeing to resign my commission.”
“And this was over the alleged murder of civilians.”
“There was nothing alleged about it, sir. But ‘civilian’ is a variable term. My superiors didn’t see them the same way I did.”
“But, then, your superiors weren’t there, were they?”
“No, Mr. Marsh, they were not. The rules of engagement, apparently, had changed, while I didn’t.”
Marsh followed Rathman’s gaze as it swept the office, his eyes flashing like a camera, seeming to record everything he saw.
“Anything strike you as odd, Colonel?”
Rathman looked toward the sprawling window offering a majestic view of the sea and waves beyond. “We’re inland, sir. The Pacific Ocean is hundreds of miles away.”
Marsh waved a hand before an unseen sensor. Instantly the seascape vanished, replaced by a tranquil mountain scene with mist riding the peak.
“Is this more to your liking? You see, Colonel, I don’t believe in windows. The ability to see out brings with it the ability to see in. Windows create vulnerability, and against the enemy we face there can be no vulnerability.”
Rathman stiffened a bit at that, his expression flirting with a smile.
“How much do you know about what you’re doing here, Colonel?” Marsh continued.
“I know you’re building a private army.”
“And its purpose?”
The big man shrugged. “Armies only have one purpose.”
“You believe we’re going to war.”
“You wouldn’t be talking to a man like me, sir, if that wasn’t your intention. War is what I do and I do it well.”
“As your experience in black ops would definitely attest to. You haven’t asked about our enemy.”
“Because I don’t care. You point me toward them and I do as I’m told. That means people are going to die, since that’s what I do.”
“You’re only partially correct, Colonel.”
Rathman’s expression narrowed, self-assurance replaced by sudden uncertainty.
“We’re going to war, all right,” Marsh continued, “but not against people. They may act like us, even look like us but, make no mistake about it, they are not us. Would you like to see how I know that, where it all began? Come, allow me to show you.…”
34
GUARDIAN