RWD: 4.07

4.07

“Not likely they’ll be found, … the way they were hidden.”

—LADY JESSICA, DUNE

The drive back to the warehouse passed in relative silence for the first few minutes, the weight of what they had just accomplished settling over the truck's occupants like a heavy blanket. Behind them, the sky was a placid, indifferent grey, betraying nothing of the violence they had just inflicted upon it. In the back seat, Brian and Alec were still murmuring, scrolling through PHO feeds on their phones, tracking the last embers of the chaos Paul had ignited. The reports were a staccato rhythm of contained fires: the ABB pulling back, Empire forces scattered, the Merchants predictably folding. Lung, the final variable, had been pacified by a concerted effort from Armsmaster and New Wave. A clean operation.

But beside Paul, Lisa was silent. He didn’t have to turn to sense the way her shoulders tensed, the pallor of her skin under the sunlight. Her phone lay dark in her lap. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, but she wasn’t seeing it. Her stillness was a stark contrast to the low-grade adrenaline that still buzzed in the truck’s cabin. It was the quiet of a circuit on the verge of overload.

"What's the matter?" Paul asked without taking his eyes off the road.

Lisa swallowed. Her throat worked. She glanced at him, her expression a tight knot of anxiety. For a moment, she seemed to weigh her words, deciding if the concern was worth voicing. It was. “I think we might have gone too far with this test, Greg,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

She took a breath, the words spilling out easier now. “They’re going to up the ante. The PRT. The government. They’ll have to. We demonstrated the capability to strike anywhere on the continent. They won’t care that it was an empty warhead. They’ll see the potential. A biological agent, a dirty bomb, a chemical payload… we just put every city from here to Texas on a target list. Capes have been assigned kill orders for less.”

For a moment, no one spoke. 

“You are not wrong,” Paul agreed in the end. “In fact, you may be underestimating the severity of their reaction.” He navigated a turn, the motion smooth and automatic, before slowing at a red light. “Director Tagg is already a man on the defensive. Coil’s unmasking was a public humiliation for the PRT. So was the debacle with Dinah and her captor’s eventual execution. We've just demonstrated conventional military capabilities that transcend the PRT’s mandate to handle parahuman threats. They are an organization designed to manage parahuman threats within a legal framework. But now we are operating so far outside that framework that it has become irrelevant. Tagg will have no choice but to push for the most extreme measures possible. An S-class designation is inevitable, but it won't stop there. In a few dozen minutes, the Triumvirate will most likely convene for an emergency teleconference. The trio will almost certainly be placed on a standby rotation within CONUS airspace—their power set representing the closest thing to a guaranteed ABM shield the government possess. An inefficient use of a strategic asset, yes, but that’s the only viable option."

Paul glanced at the rear-view mirror. Brian and Alec had fallen silent, their attention now fixed on the conversation.

"Simultaneously," Paul continued as the light turned green, "intelligence and security officials in Washington will convene emergency sessions. This escalates beyond parahuman agencies to the national security apparatus. DOD involvement is guaranteed. The implications are too significant to remain within the PRT's sphere of influence. Also, let’s not forget the Guild: The international implications of our newfound intercontinental strike capability cannot in anyway be ignored. Dragon's surveillance networks will be tasked with identifying our organisation's infrastructure and membership. Her surveillance networks are comprehensive, but I have taken precautions. The Guild’s Tinkers, however, will be a greater concern. Scion’s campaigns against nuclear arsenals worldwide left the U.S. missile defence apparatus severely atrophied. Our test, however, has exposed a critical vulnerability in the country’s defences. They will work to patch it, to bring their systems up to a standard that can track and engage a distributed, unpredictable network of IRBMs.”

"Jesus Christ."

Lisa's face had gone pale, and she was staring at him with something approaching horror. "How can you be so calm about this?"

"Because this is only the beginning," Paul drawled. "The government will issue an 'orange' level public alert to Brockton Bay residents within hours. Voluntary evacuation would be suggested, curfew enforced by Protectorate capes and the National Guard. They cannot legally order a full civilian exodus in this context, but they will attempt to lower the city’s value as a potential hostage pool, should they decide I am the type to consider such options.”

Brian's voice came from the back seat, tight with confusion and unease. "Wait, hold on. If you knew all this would happen, why did you go ahead with the test?"

Paul's expression didn't change. “Because it is the natural evolution of our position,” he answered, his tone flat, matter-of-fact. “Provoking this response serves several purposes. The first, and most important, is legitimacy. By forcing the hand of the federal government, by making them react on this scale, we have credible proof that we can threaten their interest. One does not negotiate with an entity one does not perceive as a threat. We have established that threat. And in turn, this threat establishes us as a peer entity rather than a subordinate problem to be solved. It is a proof of capability, setting the stage for future negotiations from a position of strength. Concessions, immunities, technology sharing… all become possible when you hold a weapon to their head.”

"A peer entity?" Lisa's voice was incredulous. “With the US government?”

“Yes.”

The logic was inexorable, but Paul could see the resistance in their faces. They were still thinking like criminals, like people who operated in the shadows and hoped to remain hidden. He needed to expand their perspective.

"The second purpose is more subtle and relates to secondary effects," he continued. "In anticipation of a large-scale confrontation with a secretive organisation possessing seasoned PMCs and reasonably potent capes, the state will instruct FEMA to begin pre-positioning supplies for a Brockton Bay refugee surge. Those resources will be essential in the event of an Endbringer attack on the city."

Alec's voice cut through the silence that followed. "Why would we need to worry about an Endbringer attack?"

Paul glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Because I predict there's a high probability that Leviathan will attack this city within the next few weeks."

The truck fell silent except for the hum of the engine. Brian and Alec stared at Paul with expressions of shock and disbelief, while Lisa closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath.

The silence that followed was profound. Brian leaned forward, his voice carrying denial. "That's... you can't know that. That's not how Endbringers work. They're random, unpredictable—"

"Actually," Lisa interrupted, her voice heavy with resignation, "he's right. I've reviewed the data he analyzed to come to that conclusion. If the city isn't stabilised soon, we'll be targeted next. The patterns are there if you know how to look."

"You knew?" Brian's voice rose, anger flashing across his face. "And you kept this from us? Lisa, what the hell—"

"She kept it from you because I ordered her to," Paul cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. "That information was classified on a need-to-know basis. Now you need to know."

Brian's jaw worked as he struggled with the implications. "Why haven't you shared this with the PRT? They have protocols for this kind of thing. They could prepare, evacuate—"

"I will share it with the PRT eventually, but now is not a conducive time. It would expose too much of our capability to the organisation at a time when we are not optimally situated to resist attempts at subversion by it." Paul turned onto another street, bringing them closer to the warehouse. 

He could see the arguments forming in their faces, the moral objections and practical concerns. He needed to redirect their focus.

"I never expected us to maintain anonymity indefinitely," he continued. "We need to accomplish what we can while we still have it, in preparation for when we don't. The PRT is already reputationally fragile after Gallant's death and Coilgate. Another major embarrassment risks congressional budget cuts, which means they'll be more invested in unmasking and arresting us. The only way to emerge unscathed is to escalate our capabilities before they can respond effectively—hence the rapid upscaling in capability now that the missile test has announced said capability."

“Rapid expansion just makes us a bigger target,” Lisa argued, finding her voice again. “More people, more infrastructure… more ways for them to find a loose thread and pull.”

"A valid concern," Paul acknowledged, "which is why I've taken precautions. Unlike the payload, the first three rocket stages survived the test intact. I fully expect the feds to recover those components within forty-eight hours. In fact, I'm counting on their success. Their analysis of those stages is a crucial part of my plan as it would lead them to identify materials used—the carbon fiber airframes, the tungsten thrust vanes, and other exotic alloy parts. 

 From there, they’ll start tracing supply chains. Within a month or so, they’ll uncover dozens of shell companies buying these bespoke components, as well as fabrication sites in Sinaloa, Texas and Vancouver producing the assemblies. But I never intended to use those materials, or those supply chains, in the final design. The carbon fibre airframes will be replaced with commercially available aluminium alloys. The custom tungsten vanes will be scrapped in favour of cheaper gimballed thrusters. The only exotic components that remain are the solid-state rocket fuel and the carbon-carbon ceramic leading edges—both already manufactured in-house. A fragment of Coil’s former drug trafficking network has been repurposed to handle the fuel, and the carbon-carbon leading edges are 3D-printed using extruders of my own design. Every other component will be purchased from legitimate, untraceable commercial sources. They won't find a thread to pull, because the thread they would be chasing isn't attached to anything."

“Of course,” Paul continued, conceding, “there would be performance penalties from using suboptimal parts, but those would be mostly circumvented by optimising previously unoptimized designs and slightly increasing the generated delta-V of the engines.” 

Still driving, he reached over and reopened the laptop lid, closing the program that had recorded the test rocket's telemetry before navigating to and opening some CAD files for Lisa to see. The screen displayed a tubular vehicle with propellers that looked vaguely like a torpedo.

"What am I looking at?" Lisa asked.

"An autonomous marine mobile launch platform for the revamped rocket design," Paul replied. "Designation: AN/BLQ-001 'GUPPE'—Guided Undersea Persistent Payload Ejector.  It is, in effect, a long-duration, long-range torpedo designed to carry a single rocket out into deep bodies of water and loiter until it receives a signal, after which it would orient vertically, rise to the surface, and launch the internally held payload."

"The GUPPEs and their payload will be assembled and launched from a private fishing charter I've purchased in Old Saybrook, approximately an hour and a half from here. From there, they'll travel to loiter positions in the North Atlantic, Labrador Sea, Hudson Bay, Gulf of Mexico, and Northwest Passages. This positioning allows us to threaten targets along the entire U.S. eastern seaboard and deep into Canada."

"Without dialogue," Paul continued, "targets including the Capitol, White House, Supreme Court, Pentagon,, CIA headquarters at Langley, NSA at Fort Meade, Norfolk Naval Station, PRT ENE, over forty other PRT department buildings within the US and all major military and federal installations along the eastern seaboard would remain at risk. Not to even mention the fact that the majority of the country’s economic and energy infrastructure is in the east, well within range. The same applies to Canadian government facilities—Parliament Hill, NDHQ Carling Campus, and all major military and economic installations within nineteen hundred miles of their shoreline. When the full extent of the threat we can pose should we choose to becomes public knowledge, the government of both countries would have no choice but to negotiate in good faith."

Lisa stared at the screen, her face pale. "Why are you showing me this?"

"You'll be responsible for vetting staff and overseeing the program," Paul informed her. "I won't have time to manage it directly."

"Greg, I don't think—I can't—this is too much responsibility, too much risk—"

"Stop fretting," Paul said firmly. “I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't believe you could handle it competently.”

From the back seat, Alec spoke up with characteristic dry humour. "That’s a hell of a lot of work for a glorified firecracker. I remember your rockets carried a payload of just twenty-five pounds. Twenty-odd pounds of C4 isn’t going to do much more than rattle some windows at the Pentagon.”

“True,” Paul agreed. “Conventional explosives would be uniquely unsuited for our purposes.”

A chill settled over the truck's occupants. Lisa's voice was barely audible. "Greg, please tell me you're not talking about nuclear weapons."

"Of course not," Paul chuckled. "Besides, a twenty-five-pound payload still falls well below the minimum critical mass requirements for a nuclear warhead. Even that is too small."

"Then what—" Lisa began, then stopped as her power provided the answer. Her face went white. "You have a Tinker. One who specialises in… exotic payloads… Bombs. Bakuda. You have Bakuda working for you."

Paul could see she desperately wanted to be wrong, but he could only confirm her fears. "Yes."

Alec whistled appreciatively. "Seriously? How did you get that madwoman to abandon the ABB and work for you?"

Paul gave a slight shrug, his eyes on the road as he pulled up to the warehouse. “I crippled and held her prisoner for a few weeks in a storage unit. Eventually, I lost interest in playing host and offered her healing from another cape in my employ, in exchange for her services."

The truck’s cabin became a vacuum, all sound sucked out of it. The revelation hung there, heavy and grotesque. After a long moment, Alec broke the silence, a joking edge to his voice.

“Let me guess. You kidnapped the healer, too?”

Paul turned off the ignition, the engine rumbling into silence. He met his gaze in the mirror.

“Yeah.”