Caldwell chuckled—a dry, chilling sound that echoed off the steel hulls of the container stacks:
“A necessary operational transition, my dear. In this world, true power does not belong to generals who salute civilian politicians and beg for annual budget appropriations. True power belongs to the men who own the ciphers that control the strategic balance of the globe.”
Caldwell pointed his cigar toward the titanium case in my hand:
“Your grandfather Emilio was a genius, Laura. But he was a sentimental fool. He believed that the nuclear deterrence of the United States should be locked inside the DNA of an innocent girl who would spend her life designing living rooms in Coral Gables.”
Caldwell took a slow step closer, his eyes dropping to my stomach with a predatory, calculating hunger:
“Do you know how much a private sovereign consortium in Zurich and Singapore is paying for the master bio-quantum root ciphers to the Columbia-class fleet?”
