As the two tugs pushed Toledo alongside the pier, Glass looked up and saw it for the first time. It was the shape of the Mystic, dangling like a gigantic hooked fish below a massive pier crane. That brought home once again why they were here.

That machine was designed to rescue submariners trapped deep below the surface of the sea. They had been summoned to deliver it to some place out there. It could be no more than a simple drill. It could also be that brother sailors were in deep distress and he and his crew and boat were their last hope.

Chapter 8

“I appreciate you and your people coming down for this meeting, Mr. Smythe.” The tall, distinguished man had started the meeting at precisely nine a.m., at least three digital watches in the room all tweeting in harmony to confirm it. “It will be a quick one, but I felt it was important for us all to meet face-to-face one more time, considering how much more closely our staffs will be working together until the final implementation of your system.”

Alstair McLain was the director of the Market Regulation Division for the Securities and Exchange Commission. With his full head of silver hair, strong, piercing eyes, and commanding presence, it was clear who was in charge here. The fact that he had the full regulatory force of the U.S. government behind him added to his considerable majesty.

Alan Smythe nodded in his direction and tried to sit up just a bit straighter in his chair. He knew his future, the future of OptiMarx, was as much in this man’s hands as anyone’s.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

Smythe, Carl Andretti, and Dmitri Ustinov sat across the broad conference table from McLain and two of his people, a rather nondescript man in a bad suit and a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman. McLain waved his arm in their direction.

“I believe you know Stan Miller, my deputy. I wanted you to meet Catherine Goldman as well. Ms. Goldman is head of the Information Technology Branch and will be your key contact on the OptiMarx project from this point forward.”

The three OptiMarx executives had been frequent visitors to the imposing SEC Headquarters Building, which stood just two blocks north of the Mall in the heart of downtown Washington. From this building, the powerful government agency watched over even the tiniest move of every player in the U.S. stock market. While the exterior and public spaces of the headquarters spoke of power and grandeur, the working areas were plain to the extreme. This conference room was one of the working spaces. Windowless pale green walls accented the utilitarian furniture. Each plastic chair bore its Government Services Administration serial number, proclaiming it to have been bought from the lowest bidder. The lone concession to human comfort was the coffee carafe and stack of china mugs in the center of the Formica-topped table.