Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Forrester held up a hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Forget it.”

“Look,” Forrester said. “Wasn’t this Sienna’s idea in the first place? Didn’t she ask you what good more money would do in your bank account? She wanted you to start giving back and here you are. We all know the Phalanx design and architecture was Sienna’s stroke of brilliance. It’s her legacy. As long as the system lives on, she’s made a mark in the world that no one can erase.”

Westgate pursed his lips, unable to either agree or disagree.

A knock at the door told them it was time to go onstage.

Both men stood up. Westgate walked out the door and onto the stage to fairly loud applause.

He began in earnest, talking almost too quickly. But as he hit his stride, he began to forget about the crowd, the contracts, and even David Forrester, and he began to talk from the heart.

He spoke about education and opportunity and the vast investment his company was making in America’s schools. He spoke about how computers and training meant better jobs for single mothers and why technology and education meant a way out of poverty and off the government rolls.

He didn’t mention the deals his company had just made to upgrade security for a basket of federal agencies, didn’t mention the multibillion-dollar contracts with the DOD, SEC, the Fed, and Homeland Security. Nor did he mention the sinking or the loss of his family.

He didn’t have to. The reporters in attendance brought up both the moment he began taking questions.

A tall woman in a red dress went first

. “We understand your company has just been chosen to upgrade Internet security for most branches of the federal government. A million computers is a large gift, but it’s small in comparison to a multibillion dollar contract.”

Westgate smiled. He’d been prepped with exactly the same question, phrased exactly the same way, the night before. It dawned on him that Forrester was behind it, most likely paying the woman to ask, keeping the message pure and ensuring the face of the corporation stayed on message.

Westgate held his smile just long enough for the cameras to snap a few shots.

“The computers are just the beginning,” he said. “The next phase is to open secure learning centers in all the downtrodden neighborhoods. Safe places where children and adults can learn for free. We don’t just want data to be secure, we want the people using it to be secure.

“As for the big contract,” he added, “a billion dollars a year is small potatoes if it prevents twenty billion a year in thefts. Did you know that in the last year alone, anonymous hackers and state-sponsored groups have breached allegedly secure networks at the FBI, the Department of Energy, the Social Security Administration, as well as the data storage centers at NASA and the Defense Department?

“And that’s just the government breaches. Every day, companies around the world are under siege from criminals, state sponsored terrorists, and purveyors of corporate espionage. The Phalanx system my wife helped develop creates a different kind of security when it’s installed. It literally thinks for itself, detects threats using logic, not just random matching of code. The Fed and the Department of Defense are thrilled. And the rest of the country will be too.”

A smattering of follow-on questions were easily handled before a reporter from a local TV station asked about Sienna and the children. Westgate paused. He tried to collect himself, but when he spoke his voice genuinely cracked and he couldn’t quite get the words out.

It was unplanned, and awkward for him, but from the corner of his eye he saw Forrester grinning. Some part of him wanted to apologize and deflect the question, but he pushed on, despite a sudden pain in his temple that felt like the beginnings of a stroke.

“A part of me thinks I should be in mourning,” he said. “And, privately, I am. I miss my wife and children. They were the light of my life. But Sienna would be the first to say don’t wallow in grief or self-pity. She was the first to stand up and help others even when she was hurting herself. This program was hers. I’d like to think it’s her legacy. One that will help protect our country in what has become an undeclared war.”

A hush of respect lingered over the crowd before a few easier questions came his way. When he finished, the applause was loud and heartfelt. By the time he walked off the stage, Brian Westgate was glad he’d decided to push through.

Forrester met him on the steps and the two made their way back into the Smithsonian.

“Great work,” Forrester whispered.

They stepped inside and turned down the hallway toward the office they’d been allowed to use as a waiting room. As they neared the door, Westgate noticed two men approaching.

One of the men looked vaguely familiar. The square jaw, the bright blue eyes, the mane of platinum-gray hair.

“I have a question,” the man said.

“No more questions,” Forrester replied.

Westgate paused at the door, eyeing the man. It dawned on him suddenly. Kurt Austin. Before he got a chance to say anything, Austin spoke again.

“Where were you?”

“Excuse me?” Westgate said.