condescending, Wyse thought. But instead of the snide comment on the tip of his tongue, he said, “Blowback? Tell me you’re joking.”
“Don’t give me that ‘I’m amazed’ routine. We discussed this, what, a couple hundred times already? These guys are affected by the political winds just as much as any other government bureaucrat. No one within fifty miles of the Lincoln Memorial wants to risk getting their ass fried. You know damn well there’s a huge leap between PTSD and the war on terror. Ever since the whole water boarding brouhaha, there’s been increased sensitivity in, shall we say, interrogation techniques.”
What was he talking about? As long as his implants yielded a bulletproof way of obtaining pristine intelligence why should anyone give a rat’s ass? So what if the present subjects didn’t know they’d been implanted? Other than a few harmless memories, they came though the procedure totally intact. Besides, how could Wyse and Cunningham be expected to do classified research if the subject knew the all details? Fucking ridiculous to say there were issues.
Hell, if the CIA, FBI, or whatever, had used torture to learn about the 9/11 attacks before they happened so they could prevent them, would people in their right mind argue that torture wasn’t worth it? Hell no! So what’s the big ethical dilemma here?
“That’s it? They’re worried about political blowback?” Wyse asked.
“No. They also worry that your numbers are too small to convincingly prove it works. They want longer follow-up on your implanted subjects too. In other words, before they stick their necks out, they want assurance that it works without any problems. And I’ve got to tell you that although the Russell interview is convincing, it sure as hell didn’t help us any.”
“Then they missed the whole point. Need I remind you that you agreed to use the Russell interview? It’s a convincing demonstration precisely because ninety-nine percent of married men aren’t going to describe strangling a goddamn hooker to death while boning her. I assume you emphasized that point to your little group of choir boys?”
“Of course. I’m just telling you how it played.”
Wyse was seething now.
“And that,” Cunningham continued, “brings us back to the McCarthy problem.”
“Wait, we haven’t finished this topic yet. Answer me this, do you think they’re going to buy it or not?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know. Eventually. Maybe. But I didn’t push it because I didn’t want to appear too eager. At this point my best strategy is to lobby each member of the committee until I can get solid support. Right now, we’re not even close.”
“What kind of timeline we talking about?” Fuck! This was all McCarthy’s fault .
“How should I know? Look, just do your job, and let me do mine. Do you understand this concept?”
“But you will work on it. And work it hard?”
Cunningham said, “Hey look, I have just as much at stake in this as you. Maybe even more.”
The fuck you do! “Maybe even more ?” Wyse barked a sarcastic laugh. “What the hell do you have on the line? Another star on your cap? This blows up, you still have a nice fat pension. Me? I’ll have nothing.” He caught himself before letting slip about the overdue mountainous debt.
Silence.
Wyse managed to reign in his emotions. “Sorry. I interrupted. What were you going to say about McCarthy?”
“Apparently he was called into surgery early this morning, so he wasn’t in the office when it opened. But I’ve been assured matters are being taken care of now.”
W YSE HAD DEVELOPED a fascination in the Nobel Prize in grade school. Not the peace prize and the other pantywaist social ones, but the hardcore medals for physics, chemistry, physiology, medicine. The appeal wasn’t their academic or intellectual significance; it was the fame bestowed to the recipient. Not rock star, Brett Favre, or Alex Rodriguez type fame. Rather, a
“Don’t give me that ‘I’m amazed’ routine. We discussed this, what, a couple hundred times already? These guys are affected by the political winds just as much as any other government bureaucrat. No one within fifty miles of the Lincoln Memorial wants to risk getting their ass fried. You know damn well there’s a huge leap between PTSD and the war on terror. Ever since the whole water boarding brouhaha, there’s been increased sensitivity in, shall we say, interrogation techniques.”
What was he talking about? As long as his implants yielded a bulletproof way of obtaining pristine intelligence why should anyone give a rat’s ass? So what if the present subjects didn’t know they’d been implanted? Other than a few harmless memories, they came though the procedure totally intact. Besides, how could Wyse and Cunningham be expected to do classified research if the subject knew the all details? Fucking ridiculous to say there were issues.
Hell, if the CIA, FBI, or whatever, had used torture to learn about the 9/11 attacks before they happened so they could prevent them, would people in their right mind argue that torture wasn’t worth it? Hell no! So what’s the big ethical dilemma here?
“That’s it? They’re worried about political blowback?” Wyse asked.
“No. They also worry that your numbers are too small to convincingly prove it works. They want longer follow-up on your implanted subjects too. In other words, before they stick their necks out, they want assurance that it works without any problems. And I’ve got to tell you that although the Russell interview is convincing, it sure as hell didn’t help us any.”
“Then they missed the whole point. Need I remind you that you agreed to use the Russell interview? It’s a convincing demonstration precisely because ninety-nine percent of married men aren’t going to describe strangling a goddamn hooker to death while boning her. I assume you emphasized that point to your little group of choir boys?”
“Of course. I’m just telling you how it played.”
Wyse was seething now.
“And that,” Cunningham continued, “brings us back to the McCarthy problem.”
“Wait, we haven’t finished this topic yet. Answer me this, do you think they’re going to buy it or not?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know. Eventually. Maybe. But I didn’t push it because I didn’t want to appear too eager. At this point my best strategy is to lobby each member of the committee until I can get solid support. Right now, we’re not even close.”
“What kind of timeline we talking about?” Fuck! This was all McCarthy’s fault .
“How should I know? Look, just do your job, and let me do mine. Do you understand this concept?”
“But you will work on it. And work it hard?”
Cunningham said, “Hey look, I have just as much at stake in this as you. Maybe even more.”
The fuck you do! “Maybe even more ?” Wyse barked a sarcastic laugh. “What the hell do you have on the line? Another star on your cap? This blows up, you still have a nice fat pension. Me? I’ll have nothing.” He caught himself before letting slip about the overdue mountainous debt.
Silence.
Wyse managed to reign in his emotions. “Sorry. I interrupted. What were you going to say about McCarthy?”
“Apparently he was called into surgery early this morning, so he wasn’t in the office when it opened. But I’ve been assured matters are being taken care of now.”
W YSE HAD DEVELOPED a fascination in the Nobel Prize in grade school. Not the peace prize and the other pantywaist social ones, but the hardcore medals for physics, chemistry, physiology, medicine. The appeal wasn’t their academic or intellectual significance; it was the fame bestowed to the recipient. Not rock star, Brett Favre, or Alex Rodriguez type fame. Rather, a
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