ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the kind people- lifelong friends and publishingprofessionals alike-who made this book possible.

My heartfelt thanks to George Wieser and David Shanks, for without themthis novel would not exist. And to John Talbot, senior editor atBerkley Books. for your suggestions, guidance, and intuition. I feelmost fortunate working with such thoughtful, enthusiastic, andconsiderate professionals.

My sincere thanks to Mark Gatlin, acquisitions editor at The NavalInstitute Press, for your kindness, encouragement, and feedback. Youdid a superb job selecting your reviewers and asking all the rightquestions. Their backgrounds were well suited for evaluating thisstory and their suggestions, observations, and concerns were enormouslyhelpful.

And from one tech-head to another, my enthusiastic thanks to ToiiyHagar for your first-rate suggestions on genetic programming,high-altitude aircraft flight trajectories, and orbital physics. Yourperceptive interest and incisive comments helped substantially improvethe story.

Very special thanks go to my lifelong hometown friends Marlo Horne,Ross Gunn, and Martha Lemmons. Marlo and Ross, for reviewing themanuscript in its formativestages. Martha Lemmons, for the story's title.My thanks again for your time, ideas, and encouragement.

I would like to extend my appreciation to Chere Bemelmans, a friend andnonfiction editor, for placing her life on hold and losing twoback-to-back nights' sleep reviewing the manuscript. Your enthusiasmcaused my spirit to soar and your suggestions helped a tremendouslot.

Most of all, I would like to thank my wife, Janet, for her faith, love,unwavering support, and editorial comments. .

This work spans an array of diverse disciplines ranging from militaryspace technology to Washington politics. I did what I could do to getit right and felt fortunate to have excellent manuscript reviewersthroughout the process.

Tech-head readers be advised that intricate layers of software detailare presented as pseudo-code in the interest of readability. Errorswhich remain are mine alone, but the credit goes to those people whohelped me along the way.

PREFACE

In 1959, Arthur Samuel-artificial intelligence pioneer asked

"How can computers learn to solve problems without being explicitlyprogrammed?" In 1992, John Koza answered this question with empiricalevidence in his book entitled Genetic Programming. Koza claimed, asdid John Holland before him, that genetic programming allows computersto learn from experience and thereby program themselves. Hoping toproduce some mathematical basis substantiating Koza's claims, the U.S.government funded research at MIT, Stanford, University of Michigan,and the MITRE Corporation. Subsequently, researchers andmathematicians constructed a meaningful body of theory as to whygenetic algorithms work when adapting computer programs. Althoughcounter intuitive simulation results were as surprising as they wereundeniable. Turns out Koza was right. Adaptation of computer programsusing genetic algorithms offered considerable promise. Almostovernight, genetic programming came of age and the technological stagewas set for fundamental changes in computing.

Advances in genetic algorithms and neural networks were combined toachieve a quantum leap in computer software capability and performance.The result: an evolutionary learning capability for computers. Programsevolved at their own rate as new information became available,ultimately leading to genetically refined, precision-tuned computersoftware. This new learn-as-you-go technology led to breakthroughapplications of artificial intelligence inmedicine. aviation. telecommunications, business, and themilitary.

When the technology was new-in its early introductorystages-exploratory military applications centered around satelliteimaging and signals intelligence collection. Brilliantc-lasssurveillance satellites became the first in a long line oflearn-as-you-go systems to enter the US. military inventory. Then. asthe technology matured, it worked its way into the very fabric of themilitary infrastructure. As with nuclear energy, this technology wasused for potentially destructive purposes. Brilliant-class weaponsemerged as the system of choice for replacing conventional smarttechnology But-brilliant-class weapons weren't the only destructive usefor this technology.

They would come to be known in the U.S. Army's vernacular asbattlefield grade-and for good reason. Inevitably, this technology wasapplied to highly sophisticated, self-adaptive computer viruses.

A DISASTER OF TECHNOLOGY

DAY 12-1 DECEMBER 18, 2014

I iThe Dilemma, 1211812014,":15 Pm. Local

LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

General Dan Mason listened intently as twin General Electric enginesaccelerated the McDonnell Douglas flying wing down the runway into theink-black abyss surrounding Boston's Logan Airport.

As Mason scanned the runway looking for ascending aircraft lights, hesaw only the pitch-black of night. Every light at Logan was dark,including those used to illuminate the runway. Logan's air trafficcontrol tower and terminals were deserted, the parking lot empty.Standing alone on the air traffic observation deck, wrapped in his woolAir Force overcoat, Mason inhaled deeply so he could hear the enginenoise over the sound of his own breathing. The dense December fog offBoston Harbor smelled of kerosene and salt.

As the jet engine noise faded across the harbor, Mason cupped his handsbehind his ears, listening for a change in the engine's pitch anddirection.

Suddenly, like a distant bolt of lightning, a brilliant yellow flashignited the sky, illuminating rows of aircraft silhouettes parked wingto wing. Immediately after the flash, the early morning silence wasshattered by the thunderous crash of an explosion.

Supreme Commander Dan Mason felt the full weight of his new commandduring the agonizing silence which followed. Tears welled in his eyesas the flying wing broke up, separated from both engines, then spiraledsilently into the harbor. Lieutenant Colonel Wild Bill Boyd was dead;his test aircraft-designated the Black Hole prototype-destroyed. Masonfelt emptiness, an ache in his soul he could not escape. He tightlygripped the handrail, his knuckles white, his complexion ashen. Thisnight had been the longest of his life and still, despite their bestefforts, nothing was flying-nothing had flown for eight days.

Airports around the world stood deserted. All flights canceled untilfurther notice.

Mason stared glassy-eyed and motionless in disbelief.

Transfixed by the darkness, pondering this chaos, he wondered howthey'd come to this. He knew how and why this had happened, but had nosolution. As Mason saw it, Hell Fire's crew was now the only remaininghope they had left.

In his dismay, Mason had forgotten to breathe. He gasped for air,struggled to catch his breath, and walked slowly toward his limo. Onceinside, he put his hand in his pocket, rubbed the five star shoulderboards of his former boss, and began looking back on the events whichled him here.

It would be a long ride back to his headquarters at CheyenneMountain.

A Disaster of Technology

THE BAD SEED

DAY 1 DECEMBER 7i 2014The Afission, 1210712014, 1015 Hours Zulu, 2:15 A.M. IMal

HANGAR X-39A,

EDWARDs AFB, CALIFORNIA Major Linda Scott stood staring at Hell Fire,mesmerized as she watched the fog boiling off her space plane.Nostalgic, she yearned for a return to happier times. In the past sixyears, she'd lost the two men in her life who'd meant the most-herfather and her husband. Her life hadn't turned out like she'dimagined, but all things considered, life was good-well, work was goodand work had become her life.

Above all else, she loved the rush of high performance flight.

As a woman, she'd had to work harder than the men to prove herself, butshe was the best and had Hell Fire to show for it. The daughter of anSR-71 Blackbird pilot, she'd loved airplanes and flying from the timeshe could walk. Flying was something she hid to do, she'd been born todo it. It bound her to her father even after his death.

There was something almost spiritual about her flying.

She had something extra going for her that no one could put theirfinger on. If called on to be serious, she could be serious. Ifcalled on to be decisive, she'd deliver, but she never took herself tooseriously. In flight, she became an extension of Hell Fire-together,they responded as one.

Like many fighter pilots, Scott was short by mate standards. Built tofly, she stood a trim five feet seven inchestall with straight black hair cut in a nineties bob. She took pridein her well-defined jawline and high cheekbones. At thirty-six yearsold, she didn't want a double chin if she could help it. She fearedgetting fat so she worked out hard and often. Her smooth white skincontrasted vividly with her rose-colored cheeks, black eyebrows, andlong eyelashes-she seldom wore makeup, didn't need it. Most of thewomen she knew hated the way she looked, but not the men.

Her two-man crew often described her as perky, direct, andunstoppable-a woman who got what she wanted with gumption. Like herflying machine, Scott was a masterpiece to behold and fascinating tounderstand.

Scott'd pursued her passion for flying like an addiction, but herpassion, like any addicting drug, hadn't come for free. Flying costher the only man she'd ever loved, but that was a long time ago. Nowit was over, or at least they'd been divorced five years. DivorcingJay Fayhee had been the biggest mistake of her life, but he'd asked forthe divorce-on grounds of desertion. She was never home, but neitherwas he. Every Air Force officer knows the needs of the Air Force mustcome first. She'd been assigned to the only XR-30 squadron in thecountry, located at Edwards AFB. On Jay's dream sheet, he'd asked fora space station assignment and gotten it-an assignment to the NASAinstallation at Huntsville, Alabama, for extensive space stationtraining. Again, the only place in the country where space stationtraining was available. They had gotten what they'd asked for, buttheir extended separation plus fast available women led to a painfuldivorce.

Occasionally filled with doubt, she wondered if she'd made the rightchoices along the way. Most of all, she wondered about children, thechildren only she had wanted, the children they never had. Shewondered about who they might have been, about their hopes anddreams.

If her crew could have read her mind, they would have been surprised tofind her capable of self-doubt. Mac and Gonzo believed her thebest-they ought to know-they'd been through a lot together. Youcouldn't do any better than a space plane slot at Edwards,and Hell Fire had Scott's name on it.

Jolted back to reality by a loud ratchet like clatter, Scott peeredthrough the fog to find Mac closing the recessed missile bay insideHell Fire's short stubby wing.

Above all else, Chief Master Sergeant Andrew

"Mac" Mac Williams was a good man in a storm-tall, black, distinguishedin appearance, absolutely wonderful with people, and smart-especiallysmart. Scott thought Mac the sort of man who could do it all-the sonof a tobacco farmer who could set anything right, and she loved to hearhim talk. When he spoke in his deep Northh Carolina drawl, peoplecouldn't help but notice his reason, humor, and honesty. Like Scott,Mac was a survivor, and like many successful military men, he was oneof those people who believed it was always easier to get forgivenessthan to get permission. With an appreciation for Mac's strength ofcharacter comfortably entrenched in her heart, Scott turned herattention to the task at hand.

Cruise missiles loaded, she thought.

Tonight, inside Hangar X-39A under the orange-yellow glow of halogenfloodlights, Scott and her crew climbed the access scaffold leading toHell Fire's mammoth power plant. After stepping from the scaffold intoHell Fire's engine inlet, Scott, Mdc, and Gonzo began their preflightchecklist. Deep inside Hell Fire's cavernous air breathing mouth,Scott stood dwarfed by six enormous scramjet engines, each withcircular blades stretching seven feet from floor to ceiling. As sheand Mac slolvly turned the freewheeling blades looking for damage,hlajor Carlos Gonzalez shined a high intensity light into the enginefrom the front, looking for misplaced or forgotten tools.

Major Carlos Gonzalez was Hell Fire's back-seater and SituationAwareness Evaluation Systems Officer (SAESO, pronounced say-so). He'dbeen stuck with the call name Gonzo because of the slight twist in hisnose. At first, he didn't like it much, but it grew on him. Besides,he knew three other pilots named Gonzalez with the call name Speedy. Inflight, Gonzo was instinctively a no-nonsense

-M

survivor. He'd been one of the Air Force's premier flight testengineers before his space plane assignment and believed that quick,positive action was always preferable to hesitation. In high stresssituations, he was prone to take any positive action that came to mind.Fortunately, his instinctive reactions were nearly always right. Heflew with as little emotion as possible, forcing himself to stay coolthrough any crisis. Like Scott, he passionately loved flying andcouldn't imagine life without it. On top of that, he fully expected tolive through it all and die at home in his own bed. He sought no gloryand didn't care if he pissed people off along the way. His concern wasto keep flying and stay alive. He needed it like a man needs awoman.

After completing their, engine inspection, Gonzo looked Scott straightin the eyes and spoke quietly.

"I don't like it.

We've got no control."

"Those DEW SATs could give us a bad day," Scott agreed. As she thoughtabout their situation, she felt like throwing up. She paused, took adeep breath, then continued.

"With headquarters flying Hell Fire and Centurion controlling the DEWSATS I feel like a sitting duck."

Chief Master Sergeant Mac Mac Williams their crew chief andreconnaissance system operator, raised both eyebrows.

"Makes me feel a little skittish myself. Sounds more like a skeetshoot."

"Yeah-Centurion's got the gun and we're the pigeons,"

added Gonzo.

Too many things that could go wrong, would go wrong, Scott thought witha grimace. Always happens.

By the year 2014, stealth cruise missiles had been mass produced andforty-one third-world countries had them.

Accumulating arms with a fanatical passion, Iran and Iraq had beenconducting a huge arms buildup for over twenty years-since the end ofDesert Storm. Iraq led the pack, boasting an arsenal riveted withnuclear-tipped cruise missiles and a small fleet of Russian Kilo-class(Varshavyanka) submarines.

To counter this unpredictable third-world threat, former NORAD, NATO,and Soviet countries united forming the Allied Forces, then fullydeployed the Star Wars defense system-an orbiting armada ofsatellites.

Scott and her crew tested new weapons before they were officiallyaccepted into the Allied arsenal. Tonight, they'd test the mostimportant satellites in the Star Wars armada the lethal workhorses-theDEW SATs (Directed Energy Weapon SATellites). Each DEW SAT was anorbiting counter stealth weapon system, a satellite that could detectand kill stealth missiles and aircraft from low earth orbit.

Within limits, stealth technology had made enemy aircraft and cruisemissiles impossible to detect using conventional radar or infrared heatsensors. Elach DEW SAT was designed to overcome stealth targets usingan extraordinary radar, laser, and infrared telescope. In addition,anything airborne that it could detect, it could destroy using its highpower laser.

As part of the DEW SAT acceptance testing, Scott's mission tonight wasto fly Hell Fire in an assault competition against Centurion-thespace-based supercomputer controlling the Star Wars defense system. Theidea behind this testing appeared straightforward-launch stealth cruisemissiles then watch Centurion track and tag them using the DEW SATarmada. Scott thought of this testing as a high tech game of laser tagshe preferred not to play, because DEW SATs would stter their laserstoward both Hell Fire and her cruise missiles. When a laser tagged(illuminated) a threat, Centurion's defense team would score a hit. When any missile made it to target undetected, Scott's team wouldscore.

Allied Headquarters believed their new brilliant-class DEW SAT wouldmake stealth technology obsolete, but they needed testing and hard datato prove it. Scott, Mac, and Gonzo hoped Headquarters was right, butover the last two years they'd been through several tests similar tothis one.

"Twenty years in the service and I'm still working the graveyardshift," Mac said with an exhausted smile.

"Looks like they're looking to put the stealth troops outta businessagain."

"We've been trying to detect them for years," Scott said, climbingdown the scaffold.

"With a little luck, tonight could be our night, so let's get on withit."

"Roger, Scotty." Mac toggled a blue switch on his handheld remotecontrol unit.

"Hell Fire's cooling down-fuel pumps running." Immediately, asnow-white frost formed on Hell Fire's matte black nose, wings, and airbreathing underbody. Hydrogen slush chilled to minus 435 degreesFahrenheit would circulate throughout Hell Fire's heat shields duringflight. Without this cooling, surface temperatures would soar to 5000degrees Fahrenheit during hyper sonic flight and Hell Fire woulddisintegrate. The fastest aerospace plane ever built, Hell Fire was amassive flying engine fueled and cooled by hydrogen slush.

As Scott, Mac, and Gonzo walked under Hell Fire's nose, the trio zippedtheir flight jackets shut. A dense fog continuously boiled off HellFire and slowly settled on the hangar floor, causing the temperatureunderneath to drop twenty degrees. Hell Fire looked like an enormouswedge of dry ice, an enormous fog machine, about the size of a DC-10.

Gonzo turned his flight systems checklist over to Scott.

"Next problem: target Nevada Test Site-all missiles programmed andloaded." Gonzalez pointed to the AntiSATellite (ASAT) missile mountingrails inside Hell Fire's stubby wings.

"Mac hung 'em on ASAT hard-points."

"Unarmed stealth hawks and ASATS?" Scott glanced at Mac forapproval.

"Right, Scotty. Twin ASATs and three Hawk cruise missiles.Headquarters ordered Hammer, Phantom, and Jammer Hawks," replied thechief as he led Scott and Gonzo to three duplicate cruise missiles on aloading rack alongside Hell Fire's front tricycle gear.

Mac looked across the hangar toward his office and noticed anankle-high fog layer covering the floor. Extending his arm above hishead, he signaled an airman to open the gargantuan hangar doors. Asthe doors creaked open slowly and warm air rushed in, the cool foglayer poured out of the hangar over the taxiway, forming an eerieglowing ground level cloud. Hangar lights caused the cloud to glowwhile the warmer outside air caused it to swirl, boil, and then slowlydissipate.

Scott returned Gonzo's checklist and asked him,

"What about Hope?"

"Covered. Got their parts and supplies loaded." Once their testingwas complete, they'd deliver replacement parts to Space Station Hope.

"And Freedom?" Scott paused. She felt her face flush.

Major Jay Fayhee commanded Space Station Freedom. Her heart raced likeshe was a kid again in high school.

Gonzo looked at Scott's beet-rediface, smiled gently, then winked.

"Yeah, Scotty, we're bringing him everything he needs."

She looked forward to their reunion with mixed feelings.

There was a part of Scott that wanted her dreams of Jay to come true,but another part prayed to get over him.

"He meant more to me than I ever did to him," she sighed. Afterrecovering her composure, she announced,

"Then that's it.

Checklist's complete. We're ready to go."

"Not quite," replied Gonzo.

"We've gotta be sure those DEW SAT lasers are throttled back before wego anywhere."

Mac smiled a big toothy grin.

"I'll roger that, Gonzo.

Those lasers deliver a twenty-stick kick! They'd blow us out of thesky." From a distance of one hundred miles, each twenty megawatt DEWSAT laser delivered a punch loosely equivalent to about twenty sticksof dynamite.

"We're expecting safe laser confirmation in fifteen minutes, fellas,"Scott said, checking her watch.

Scott, Mac, and Gonzo climbed Hell Fire's access scaffold, carefullylowered themselves into Hell Fire's heated cockpit, and strapped in. Atowing vehicle attached itself to Hell Fire's front tricycle gear andslowly pulled her out of the hangar to the south facing end of therunway.

Sitting in the darkness forty feet above the green and blue runwaylights, Scott, Mac, and Gonzo configured Hell Fire for takeoff, thenwaited for their safe laser confirmation. Scott felt apprehensiveabout their sortie when she hadtime to think about it. For good luck, she felt underneath her flightsuit and rubbed something about the size of a dog tag nestled betweenher breasts. Ja v alwa vs loved it there, she thought with a smile.Around her neck, Scott wore a present Jay'd given her back in highschool. Sealed in a smooth case of clear solid acrylic was a tinyfour-leaf clover he'd given her for good luck. As a diversion, sheturned on their forward landing lights and leaned her helmet againstthe cockpit canopy. Watching clouds of condensation boil off HellFire's nose, she wondered, What's he doing now?

Centurion, 1210712014, 1030 Zulu

ALTITUDE: 22,300 MILES IN GEOSTATIONARY ORBIT,

SDI SPACE STATION FORTRESS FREEDOM

Freedom crew commander Major Jay Fayhee felt alone and melancholy as herested his forehead against the observation window and watched endlesslightning flashes off California's southern coast. At night from analtitude of 22,300 miles, the earth reminded Fayhee of a glimmeringChristmas ornament-a large reflective ball which glistened with thesparkle of lightning from electrical storms. From Fayhee's window, theearth looked small and remote-about the size of a beach ball at arm'slength. Christmas music played softly in the background as Fayheedreamed of days gone by, of the woman he'd loved and lost a long timeago.

Seemed like a hundred years ago, but he remembered every detail like itwas yesterday. He wondered if she'd be the woman he remembered, theone he used to know, or had she changed? Fiercely independent, she'dalways gotten along fine without him. After giving the matter somethought, he expected that she'd be whoever she dam well pleased. Shealways meant more to him than he did to her anyway. Linda could livewithout him easy enough, but she'd never divorce flying.

He didn't understand it at the time, but he'd been jealous of herflying because he couldn't compete. Flying was always Linda's toppriority. In retrospect, he could see itmore clearly now. Jay knew she couldn't change, he wouldn't want herto, but most of all he needed to talk to her, really open up and talklike in the old days. His eyes teared as he imagined picking up wherethey'd left off. But that was only a dream and dreams never came trueon board Freedom. Besides, she'd never love him again after what he'ddone.

Staring out his window, he cried out to the night in a soft whisper,

"I'd do anything if she'd only love me again."

The idea that time healed all wounds offered hope for thebrokenhearted, but little else. Time provided Jay an anesthetic, apain killer, but his wound had never healed-never even closed.

He wondered how she'd look. Like he imagined-no, probably even better.She'd always been like that, the older she'd gotten, the better she'dlooked.

He loved her smile, her laugh, but most of all he loved the twinkle inher eyes. Would her eyes twinkle? Probably, but not for him. Herentire face would light up when she was happy.

Breathing deeply, he remembered the marvelous smell of her hair. Ifonly he could hold her again.

Tenderly, he caressed an old faded letter, one of the last letters he'dgotten from Linda before he'd started doing most of his thinkingbetween his legs. Jay wasn't any different from any other man he'dever known. He loved sex like Linda loved flying. He thought himselfan excellent lover, always considerate, patient, and he came backoften-never learned to say no. He'd needed her desperately and withinreach, but she was always gone. Even so, the other women weren't worthit and this job wasn't worth it-not worth losing Linda.

Divorcing her was the biggest regret of his life. He'd found happinessin his own backyard with the girl next door, but didn't understand thatuntil it was too late.

As the last line from the song

"I'll be Home For Christmas" slowly faded, a grating voice abruptlystartled him.

"Jay, we need to talk."

Fayhee sighed, but didn't turn away from the window.

He struggled to remember the details of his dream, then wrote themdown. During his eleven-month stay on Freedom, Fayhee had learned tofreeze and restart his interrupted dreams. Some time later he'd readhis notes, reconstruct his dream, then pick up dreaming where he leftoff. After collecting his thoughts, Fayhee reluctantly turned awayfrom his observation window and left his dreams of Linda on hold.

Space Station Freedom, the flagship of the armada, housed asix-meiiiber crew: two men plus four supercomputers. Depack McKee keptwatch over the computer crew-Centurian plus his three networkedsubordinate sand Fayhee watched over Depack. Together, they providedHeadquarters with an option for human intervention when anything wentwrong. Fayhee and McKee often joked about playing second banana toCenturion, but their primary mission was maintenance-to their dismay,they were Centurion's keepers.

"Wake up, Jay," snapped Centurion with a grainy voice sounding likesand and glue.

As Fayhee looked into the television monitor, his head throbbed as hisblood pressure began to rise. What a freaking waste of screen space,Fayhee thought. A three dimensional compyter-generated talking headstared him squarely in the eyes. Looking repugnantly generic, butpolitically correct, Centurion's face was liked by no one because youcouldn't tell what he was. Fayhee's jaw tensed-he hated lookingCenturion in the eyes. It made him uncomfortable, so he looked awayinto his flat panel display and gazed at his own reflection. Duringhis conversations with Centurion, he'd always felt uncomfortablebecause he'd never identified where Centurion's voice came from. Fayheehad learned to hate living with Centurion. In a disquieting sense,Centurion existed everywhere on board Freedom, knew everything,possessed a quick tongue, and displayed no tact. On board Freedom,privacy existed for Fayhee only in his thoughts and imagination.

Fayhee reluctantly read over the test script Centurion displayed inbright red print.

"Centurion-make ready to alter DEW SAT behavior."

Centurion was the central nervous system and mouthpiece for the StarWars defense system. Technically, Centurion was the finest example ofstate-of-the-art computer technology the world had ever produced-athird generation free space all optical supercomputer built withmassively parallel computation capability based on neuralnetworks-modeled after the workings of the human brain, but built ofmirrors, lenses, and lights. He wasn't much to look at, but he learnedfast, serving as primary control computer for the space-based missiledefense system.

"Very well, Jay," Centurion responded immediately, DEW SAT behaviorrecords have been retrieved and await i modification." Centurion spokewith a distinctively male voice, although his timing and inflectionsounded mechanical.

Jay repeated the DEW SAT configuration instructions from his testscript.

"Turn down the power of every DEW SAT laser passing over the test zone.Black out the test zone completely. We track and tag targets tonightdon destroy them."

"Very well, Jay," Centurion replied immediately.

Fayhee raised his head and looked over the control console at a large,brightly colored image which dominated the control room-Centurion'sglobe. Spherically shaped, Centurion's globe was a three-dimensionalholographic picture of the earth projected in the center of the controlroom.

Seventy-two DEW SATs circled the earth in six polar orbit planes-twelveDEWs per orbit. Circling the earth in a chaotic frenzy, the DEW SATarmada reminded Jay of swarmin bees.

Fifteen seconds later, Centurion spoke plainly with increased andconsiderable volume.

"Jay-the blackout directive is complete. All DEW SATs passing over thetest zone will disable their lasers."

"Very well," Fayhee said as he studied the eight-foot diameter globeprojected in the middle of the room-Centurion's view of the earth andsky seen through satellite eyes.

"Keep your eyes and ears on. We need total global coverage."

The Star Wars defense system consisted of an armada of satellitesorbiting the earth. Organized into three layers, like an onion skin,the armada consisted of orbiting weapon, sensor, and communicationsatellites. Orbiting closest to earth, the weapons fleet was built oftwo types of satellites: suicide interceptors and DEW SATS In orbitabove the weapons, the sensor satellites, and above them all,communication satellites populated the outermost layer.

Cheyenne Mountain, Centurion, and the DEW SAT armada clearly understoodtheir job-defense. Cheyenne Mountain assigned target priorities,Centurion assigned targets to individual DEW SATS and the DEW SATarmada did the fighting. The division of labor was simple and itworked well.

Fayhee knew the DEW SAT armada would tag Hell Fire during testingtonight. Any laser configuration error could reduce Hell Fire todust.

"Show me everything we have.

There's no margin for error." Fayhee's flat panel display wasimmediately updated with Centurion's report:

DEFENSE SUPPORT PROGRAM-SATELLITE

ARMADA STATUS

LOW SATS 18 Low Orbiting Warhead SATs orbit 125 mi: 25% coverage DEWSATS 72 Directed Energy Weapon SATs orbit 115 mi: test zone blackoutSLCSATS: 12 Submarine Laser Communication SATs orbit 275 mi: 66%coverage EYE SATS 24 Recon SATs orbit 500 mi: 100% coverage EAR SATS 14Sensor SATs orbit 1640 mi: 100% coverage . COMMSATS: 6 CommunicationSATs orbit 22,300 mi: 100% coverage . Space Stations: 2 Control SATsorbit 22,300 mi: . Master SS Freedom: 100% coverage . Slave SS Hope:WARNING-BACKUP

DATA LINK FAILURE

RECOMMENDED ACTION: REPLACE TRANSMITTER

"As you see, Jay, we maintain total global visibility-our eyes and earsare on, but we cannot hoot over the test zone."

Fayhee scanned the report, concluding his job was done.

Space Station Hope had transmitter problems, but Hope was ingeostationary orbit halfway around the world off the southern tip ofIndia. That transmitter was someone else's problem-not much Fayheecould do about it from Freedom. He quietly read the notes he'd madeearlier about his Christmas dream, turned around to face the outsidewall, and rested his forehead on the observation window. Gazing onceagain toward earth, Jay watched the lightning glisten and wondered,What's she doing now?

The Texas Sunflouer"1210712014, 1034 Zulu

ALTITUDE: 11 5 MILES IN POLAR ORBIT,

ORBITAL INCLINATION: 86.5 DEGREES,

ONBOARD A DIRECTED ENERGY WEAPON SATELLITE

DEW SAT

Headed due north at over 17,000 miles an hour, a satellite passed 115miles above Austin, Texas, during the darkest part of the night. Fromone quarter mile away, the satellite resembled a sunflower in aflowerpot. Looking friendly and familiar, the satellite's shaperevealed no clue to its actual size or ominous purpose. Seventy-two ofthese satellites orbited along lines of longitude, each a DirectedEnergy Weapon SATellite DEW SAT

Positioned with its long slender stem pointing toward theearth's center, the sunflower head faced Austin. The DEW SAT whosestructure would have been awkward and lanky on the ground, raced witheffortless grace across the big Texas sky.

The DEW SAT business end was its flower-shaped head, a large segmentedmirror thirty-three feet across. The mirror was made of smaller movingpieces-a circular center segment and twelve identical outer segmentssurrounding the center like petals of a flower.

Connecting the large mirror to its flowerpot base, theone-hundred-foot-long stem provided the key to the DEW SATtwenty-million Watt laser punch. The DEW SAT Free Electron Laseraccelerated high energy electrons down its stem, then converted theminto infrared light.

The flowerpot base was a cylindrical tube measuring thirty feet acrossand fifty feet long. All the DEW SAT vital electrical organs werehoused within the upper two thirds of the cylinder while the volatilecombustion organs were confined to the bottom third. The DEW SAT heartwas a mammoth electrical power plant which pumped life into the laser,infrared telescope, and radar. Stacked below the electrical systemswere the fuel tanks, pumps, and plumbing required for firing life intoits rocket engines-all the stuff that a technician's dreams are madeof.

As the DEW SAT passed over Austin, dim traces of city lights reflectedoff the mirror's highly polished surfaces.

Collecting everything it could see, the DEW SAT diligently searched forjet engine exhaust and missile plumes.

At 1035 Zulu, the DEW SAT passing over Austin received an encryptedradio signal from Centurion which read: set Laser power output = tagImmediately, the DEW SAT computer reduced the electrical power drivingthe Free Electron Laser to a safe level.

After reducing the power, an automatic test showed all was well and theDEW SAT acknowledged Centurion's message with an encrypted radiotransmission.

DEW SAT ack: Laser power output = tag For the moment, the DEW SAT hadlost its punch, throttled back for counter stealth testing-the war gameof laser tag.

Motivation, 1210712014,1035 Zulu, 3:35 A.M. local

ALLIED FORCES COMMAND HEADQUARTERS,

CONSOLIDATED SPACE OPERATIONS CENTER (CSOC),

SITUATION CONTROL Room,

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

For as long as there had been war, military leaders had struggled to dowhat Major General Robert Craven's team had done. His organization hadtaken a quantum leap toward realizing the remotely controlledbattlefield. As Supreme Allied Commander, Craven moved to the top ofthe ranks by leading an effort which consolidated battlefieldcommunication, command, and control within the new Allied Headquartersbuilding inside Cheyenne Mountain. He was one of the first tounderstand that optical technology offered the keys to make theremotely controlled battlefield a reality. They weren't there yet,people were still in the loop, but this accomplishment was consideredby many a technical marvel comparable to the Panama Canal. Consideredbrilliant by his superiors, Craven believed his ability to pick goodpeople, point them in the right direction, then turn them loose was hisgreatest contribution. His motto-"Do something. Lead, follow, or getout of the way."-had served his organization well in his day, butCraven's time had now passed and instinctively he knew it. Over thelast two years, he'd changed-he'd simply worn out.

Craven was a mover and shaker. His long and distinguished militarycareer, now drawing to a close, had been marked by frequent, fierce,and far-reaching battles with Washington over vision, strategy,schedules, and funding-especially funding. For years he had tirelesslylobbied Congress, the public, and the Pentagon to fully deploy the StarWars space-based defense system, and in doing so had antagonized muchof his Washington-based constituency. In the minds of many Army, Navy,and Air Force leaders, Craven was one of the most brilliant andcontroversial figures in American military history. So vigorous washis advocacy for an orbiting military armada that he had placed hiscareer in jeopardy much like General Billy Mitchell had done promotingair power.

Major General Robert Craven was average height with broad shoulders andmassive forearms for his age. In his late fifties, his once thickcurly black hair was now thin and gray. His face had a weatheredoutdoor look to it, but his eyes, most of all, revealed the inescapablefatigue he felt in his soul.

There wasn't a person in Craven's organization who didn't admire him,but the workaholic years of relentless stress had taken their toll.Craven's onetime limitless energy was gone. He was exhausted, out ofpatience, and to top it off, his pet project-High Ground-was introuble.

Even though his baby was behind schedule and over budget, Cravenbelieved the test results they collected during the next few days wouldturn this situation around. More clearly than anyone else, heunderstood they must.

Surrounded by granite walls fifteen hundred feet thick, Craven workedthrough a computer printout with his attack force commander, ColonelWayne Hinson. Although Craven's mission was primarily defensive innature, his organization included a small attack component for testingtheir defenses. The Consolidated Space Operations Center (CSOC,pronounced sis-awk) provided the Allied attack forces; the StrategicDefense Initiative Organization (SDIO) provided their lethaldefenses.

Protected by two massive twenty-five-ton steel blastdoors, Commander Hinson sat in the center of the Situation ControlRoom surrounded by his master console-the computer brain of the attackcenter. From his master console, Hinson could locate, inventory, andcontrol everything in the Allied military arsenal that orbits, flies,floats, rolls, or walks.

Leaning over Hinson's shoulder, Craven impatiently ran his finger overa computer printout, stopping on the results column. His once steadyhands now shook uncontrollably around the clock. His mood was tense.His expression-one of disbelief. Before he could complete histhought, Craven was interrupted by a nervous young airman.

"General, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is on the line, sir."

Along with most of working-class America, Craven had learned to hatethe phone, and like most, his feelings were heartfelt. Suspending histhoughts in progress, he drew a deep breath before speaking.

"Thanks, son. I'll take it here."

He picked up the console phone.

"Chief. This is Craven.

What can I do for you?"

Not one for small talk, the chairman got down to the crux of thematter.

"You've got a big problem."

"Give it to me straight," Craven replied. He clinched his teeth as themuscles around his mouth tightened. He hated plain talk from thechairman because it always put him on the spot.

"The President is livid." The chairman cleared his throat, thencontinued. His tone was strained and barely under control.

"Iraq has two subs parked in cruise missile range of Washington and NewYork. High Ground's been funded for years to counter this threat buthas not delivered!" The chairman paused.

There was a deep silence on the line. As the silence protracted, atest of wills emerged. Checking his watch, Craven grimaced. Callingfrom the comfort of his own home, the chairman had time enough tostall; he did not.

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know."

"High Ground's over two years behind schedule and over budget.Washington wants results-and I mean before Christmas!" The chairman'srestraint evaporated.

"I get the message." Put up or shut up, he thought.

Craven fully understood that his counter stealth project, code-namedHigh Ground, was in a jam. Their fun-ding situation was desperate. Ifthey didn't deliver some good news soon, High Ground's future wasunpredictable. They could get the ax and lose it all.

"Good." Craven heard a sigh of relief over the phone.

"Pull out the stops. Do everything you can."

"Will do. High Ground's back on track and won't derail again. Iguarantee it."

Craven hung up and looked across the console at his heir apparent,General Daniel

"Slim" Mason. Although tense, when looking at Slim he felt better-itwas his tie tack. That tie tack always tickled Craven. A gift fromhis grandson, Slim's tie tack was a tiny prop-driven biplane he wore nomatter the occasion. It wasn't important how it looked, it was a giftfrom his grandson and he valued it.

Craven smiled to himself every time he looked at that tie tackclosely-definitely not GI. Over the years, Mason always managed tokeep his priorities straight and had a wife, three married sons,grandchildren, plus lifelong hometown friends to show for it.

Mason believed in family, friends, country, hard work, decent values,and God. Slim didn't force is beliefs on others, but once you knewwhat he believed in, you knew the man. His life exemplified everythinghe believed and Craven admired him for it.

With Mason, what you saw was what you got and what you got came fromthe heart of Dixie. As far back as any of Slim's hometown friendscould remember, he'd always borne a striking resemblance to JimmyStewart, and in all honesty, as he'd grown older, his likeness hadslowly transformed into a near facsimile. The silver-haired, fiftytwo-year-old Jimmy Stewart look-alike was a little over six two, lean,angular faced, lanky with pipe-cleaner legs,bony arms, and shoulders broader than they looked on his tall frame.

Mason and Craven went back a long way-all the way back to the PersianGulf War. In January 1991, Captain Slim Mason flew over Baghdad asMajor Craven's wingman while they were members of the elite ScreamingDemons-the clandestine F- 117 stealth fighter squadron first stationedin Tonopah, Arizona. An MIT graduate in electrical engineering,specializing in advanced radar technology, Mason loved airplanes andfirst married his two interests by flying the F-117-the black stealthfighter officially known as the Nighthawk, affectionately known by thepilot community as the stinkbug. Mason joked that flying the F- 117wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Essentially, the stinkbug was amanned, fully automated Tomahawk cruise missile that flew itself totarget, dropped its two bombs, then returned the pilot home.

Given good intelligence and extensive planning, all the pilot did wastake off and land-the stinkbug did the rest.

After the Cold War wound down and the intoxicating success of DesertStorm had faded, Mason had been among the first who somberly predictedthat mass produced long-range stealth cruise missiles would emerge asthe preeminent threat wielded by the third world. Further, hepredicted that stealth cruise missile detection from space was the onlyviable way to counter this third-world threat now looming just beyondthe horizon.

Although subsequent events confirmed his predictions, Mason faced awall of resistance from the leaders of older, established militaryservices just as Craven had found when advocating for an orbitingmilitary armada.

Mason began appealing directly to the public through books, interviews,and speeches. Once Mason went public with his appeal for expanding ourmilitary presence in space, Craven got wind of it and brought him intohis fold under Cheyenne Mountain. Two old stinkbug pilots were unitedonce again. Their quest for a worldwide, real-time, space-based air,land, and sea surveillance system was the glue that first bound themtogether, but over the years their relationship had developed into adeeper, more meaningful matter of trust.

From its inception, Mason rose rapidly through the ranks of the HighGround project under Craven's tutelage, Initially, Slim's team focusedon developing a surveillance system code-named Clear Water aspace-based sea surveillance system for detecting submergedsubmarines.

Following Clear Water staggering success, Mason was promoted to generalofficer and acquired two hats within the Cheyenne Mountaincommunity-military manager and technical leader extraordinaire. Notmany could effectively switch hats back and forth, but Mason could.This extraordinary skill catapulted him over his peers, but no oneseemed to mind. His peers and subordinates were often his biggestfans. When wearing his military manager hat, Mason served as unifiedNORAD/ NATO Commander In Chief (CIC). Most of his mornings werewrapped up in the never-ending series of staff meetings required of theCIC. The job was a political juggling act, and his approach to theproblem was management by consent. In the afternoon, Mason liked tochange hats. With Clear Water naval success under their belts, Mason'stechnical team progressed to the problem of airsurveillance-specifically to the detection of stealth missiles overland and sea.

As it turned out, detecting low flying stealth cruise missiles from lowearth orbit had been an enormous technical problem-bigger than anyonehad imagined-but finally they had good reason to think they'd solvedit. Data collected over the next few days of testing would tell thestory Looking into the eyes of his former wingman brought Craven'sattention back to the immediate task at hand. He spoke quietly.

"Heat's on."

Mason nodded.

"There's a tremendous lot riding on these tests."

Leaning over Hinson's shoulder, Craven stared at the screen labeled WarGame Scoreboard. Highlighted in reverse video, the legend printedacross the screen read:High Ground SimuLation Results Final Score: SDIO Defense Forces 6 CSOCAttack Forces 0 Hinson had run a computer program which simulated HellFire's missile attack on the Nevada Test Site. According to hissimulation, High Ground should work perfectly-the counter stealthdefense forces should come out on top.

The large veins on Craven's neck bulged as his face turned red.

"I don't buy it. Our defenses look too damn good-too optimistic."

Craven drummed his fingers across Hinson's desk and spoke in his don'tscrew with me now tone of voice.

"I

wanta see your attack plan simulated one last time before we run thistest live. Change it. Make it more realistic."

"Yes sir." He knew the routine. He'd gone over his attack plan withCraven twice in the last hour.

"I wanta run through it again-start to finish." Craven's tone wasfinal. He pointed to an icon shaped like a submarine on the computerscreen.

"I wanta see the position of your attack forces. Show me again-HellFire. the Dorito, and the sub-I wanta see 'em all."

Hinson recited his attack plan like a well-rehearsed actor, thenconcluded: "If Centurion tags all six missiles tonight, stealth ishistory."

Mason stood behind Hinson, quietly talking to their ally from theSoviet Commonwealth, General Yuri Krol. Both men looked concerned. TheAllied alliance included the Soviet Commonwealth of Independent Statesas well as former NORAD and NATO countries. The alliance was based oneconomic necessity, an issue of dollars and cents, not mutualadmiration. It was cost-effective to share a satellite defense system,and besides, no single country could afford it.

Awkwardly sliding the rim of his round hat through his fingers, Masonlooked into Craven's eyes.

"General, I think you fellas may be outrunning your headlights-just alittle bit."

"Whataya mean, Slim?"

Mason shifted his tall frame uneasily from side to side.

"You have no visibility-no way to see trouble coming."

"What do you propose?"

"Have someone keep an eye on Centurion-watch his activity log," Masonsuggested in his slow, deliberate stammer.

"If there's a problem, he'll show you what's going on." Centurion kepta log showing every action he took and any errors he found.

"Nobody reads activity logs anymore," Hinson quipped impatiently.

"Everything's automated. Computers do the dirty work."

Mason didn't like Hinson's me-first-me-only attitude so he spoke to himclearly. A rampant careerist, Hinson's single goal in life was to gethis ticket punched and move on.

"Yuri's got experienced folks at Kaliningrad watching Centurion's logaround the clock. You're gonna need trained people-no way aroundit."

"That's true," General Krol added, calmly chewing the stump of hispipe.

"You'll need staff full-time day and night."

Hinson looked confident about the test, but neither Craven, Mason, norKrol shared his sense of well-being, Craven had been involved with HighGround testing over fifteen years and had survived many problems. Ifanything went wrong, he knew there was real danger here for Hinson'sattack forces.

"Tonight's no drill, Colonel. You've never run these attack scriptshot in the air. Our people's lives are on the line. If anythinglife-or-death comes down, my people have orders to break radio silence.You hear from them and I want this test aborted yesterday. Do I makemyself clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"And have someone cover Centurion's log. If anything goes wrong,you'll see it."

Hinson nodded his head, but did not hear. Tuning hisattack program, his fingers raced over the keyboard, trying to keep upwith his head.

Craven's gaze shifted to Mason and Krol.

"Conference call in ten minutes. Let's go." They left the room anddescended one story deeper inside Cheyenne Mountain.

The Bad Seed 1210712014,1037 Zulu, 1:37 P.m. Local

IRAQI CABINET MEETING

Buried sixty feet below a residential neighborhood west of Baghdad,surrounded by brightly painted windowless walls of concrete and steel,Iraqi Cabinet members gathered in the security of their bunker for ameeting with Iraqi President Hessian Kamel al-Tikriti. Kamel, like hisaging father in-law Saddam Hussein, was a brutal tri belike chieftainwho reigned by fear.

Once Kamel arrived, the menacing silhouette of an enormous hulkappeared in the bunker doorway wearing a traditional gandura robe.Towering above the others at six foot five, shaped like the front endof a bus, al-Mashhadi blocked the light emanating from the bunker.Standing in his shadow, the President carefully studied the backlitform of his heir apparent, looking for some clue as to the mood of thecoming meeting. There was none. Kamel found a]- Mashhadi's darkexpressionless eyes impossible to read.

His face appeared cracked as old leather, his hands strong, deeplywrinkled but steady.

Moving diplomatically to one side, al-Mashhadi warmly greeted Kamel inhis deep gravelly voice.

"Ahlan wa sahlan,"-my house is your house.

"We're honored you could attend on such short notice." Thesecretary-general delivered his greetings with the utmost sincerity. Nosenseof the barbarian in the big man's demeanor. His ability to lie withthe grace of a polished diplomat was one of his greatest gifts.

Al-Mashhadi personified his motto-"NOBODY HURTS ME UNHARMED." Thesefour words encapsulated the essence of the man and became the Iraqistate creed following the Persian Gulf War, a rallying cry for everyIraqi tri belike sect, clan, and village. NOBODY HURTS ME UNHARMED wasprinted for all to see on Iraqi currency in much the same way theUnited States printed IN GOD WE TRUST, but no country outside theMiddle East appreciated the significance of this political statement.Al-Mashhadi believed when it came to human fights and Middle Eastpolitics, the Allies lived in a world of delusion.

The President took his seat at the head of the table flanked byleathery-skinned generals of the Republican Guard.

"Excellency," al-Mashhadi began with some sense of pride.

"Allah has shown us again that he is greater than our enemies."

Cabinet members, dressed in gandura robes, nodded their heads inagreement.

A methodical man, al-Mashhadi continued with elegant patience.

"Allah is on our side in our jihad against the infidels. He has givenus a sign, a powerful advantage. He demands we use it. It is ourdestiny. This week we may get the chance we've waited for so long-ourchance to destroy the infidels' war machine."

"Yes, yes," the American-schooled President replied impatiently.

"I've heard this chance of a lifetime story many times before. Get tothe point. I have an appointment with the UN ambassador in twentyminutes."

Unshaken, al-Mashhadi continued.

"The point is this, Excellency. We'll likely get an opportunity tocripple the Allies' killer satellite armada without firing a shot andwithout revealing our hand."

"Sounds too good to be true," scoffed the Iraqi President, checking hiswatch.

Al-Mashhadi explained.

"The American Army showed us what to do with the ECM (electroniccountermeasures) work they did on computer viruses. The Zionistsplanned to plant battlefield viruses in our communications systemsusing their own radio transmissions. They buried this idea after theyfound their equipment was more susceptible to viruses than ours."

Al-Mashhadi slowly extended his large hand in the direction of a darksmall man, dressed in an Army uniform, sitting next to the view graphprojector. Motioning for the man to rise, he continued with anintroduction.

"Colonel Nassar's the head of our ECM organization.

Educated in America, he received his ECM training from MIT and the U.S.Army. He'll give you a summary of where we stand."

Confident, al-Mashhadi sat down as Colonel Nassar cleared his throat.

"As some of you know, we had a significant breakthrough two years agoin the area of battlefield grade computer viruses. We created a viruscode-named PAM-an adaptive computer program that exists only tosurvive."

"PAM?" The name caught the President's attention.

Nassar nodded thoughtfully.

"The code name is intended to deceive, Excellency. The acronym standsfor Perpetual Adaptive Monitor. It means nothing to most people."

The Iraqi President gave Colonel Nassar an uneasy glance.

"Survive. How?"

Nassar took a second to frame his response, then looked straight intothe President's eyes.

"PAM is incapable of remorse and ruthless beyond belief. Once a virginPAM program starts running, it cannot be stopped-PAM can't bedestroyed." Nassar paused, allowing his words to linger, but showed nosign of fear or weakness. Allah would protect him. After working withPAM for two years, he knew in his soul what she was about.

"I am interested, Colonel," the President announced, impressed with theintense little colonel.

Nassar continued with a tone marked by seriousness.

"PAM's a computer program-nothing more, but she looks like somethingshe's not. In that respect, she's a Trojanhorse-a program that does what she's supposed to do, but unknown tothe Allies, she'll quietly perform our bidding.

She's also a snake, but her symptoms are subtle. She doesn't crash acomputer like an ordinary snake, she takes control and slows it down.

"Loosely speaking, PAM's a bad seed. I mean she is born bad-bad fromthe moment she's created. When threatened, she reproduces thenprotects herself. Nothing can be done to stop her-like nothing I'veever seen. Capable of lying dormant indefinitely, once PAM takes root,she and her children exist only to survive and propagate their ownkind.

"PAM's built around three separate pieces of software created by theAmerican Army, Air Force, and CIA. Our breakthrough came when wemodified this software using genetic programming. Darwin's theory ofnatural selection provided PAM's reproductive algorithm, andconsequently only the fittest, most virulent strains survive.Originally, her heartbeat came from the Army's threat analysissoftware. It evaluates threats around the clock. PAM's eyes and earswere developed by the CIA-A program named Snoopy which monitors peopleand computer chatter. It keys on sensitive information like threats,security keys, and passwords. The secret of PAM's survival and thesoftware that makes her dangerous is her Weapon Systems Managementprogram created by the Air Force. That's where the action is-thesoftware she lives by. PAM eliminates anyone or anything thatthreatens her directly. She monitors what's going on around her and ifshe's threatened, she'll protect herself. Once PAM's running onCenturion, she'll control every killer satellite-their entire orbitingarmada. PAM's single purpose for existence is survival-she lives onlyto consume computer time. Nobody hurts her unharmed!"

After allowing the full significance of his last comment to sink in,the colonel concluded,

"PAM's ready. We've tested her for two years."

Satisfied, the Iraqi President allowed the commanding general of theAir Force to question Nassar.

"Why did she take so long to test?"

"Two reasons. She's complex and she moves." The colonel went on toexplain.

"Her complexity pushes our testing capability to the limits, and whenthreatened, she moves from one computer to another. When we'd look forher, she'd move to another computer over a communication link. As Isaid earlier, her symptoms are subtle, never obvious."

"Well-get to the point, Colonel. How do you plan to cripple theirmissile killer satellites?"

Nassar let out a long breath before answering.

"What I reveal now must not leave this room." Slowly, the colonel madeeye contact with every man present. After everyone nodded agreement,he continued.

"As you know, SDI programs are built and tested at the LawrenceLivermore Lab. What you may not know is that we have strategicallyplaced an agent-a computer security specialist-inside Livermore. Twoyears ago, he played a crucial role in PAM's development by providingus SDI source code. Today, he has a copy of PAM on site and isprepared to plant our bad seed."

"What about their software testing and quality controls?"

asked the general.

"They'll detect PAM during their testing."

"We have reason to believe their normal software testing cycle may bebypassed." Nassar was quietly positive.

"High Ground, the Allied stealth missile detection project, is over twoyears behind schedule and over budget. Our source inside CheyenneMountain believes the survival of the High Ground project depends onthe results obtained during their next few days of testing. If theyhave problems, there will be enormous pressure to shortcut their timeconsuming quality controls. Our best information indicates that theymust show success or place the High Ground project at risk. The oddsare shifting in our favor, Excellency."

Colonel Nassar paused, again looked the President directly in the eyes,then spoke clearly in a quiet voice.

"If we getconfirmation their testing will be bypassed, I propose we include PAMin the Star Wars program build."

Thoughtfully gazing at the ceiling, the Iraqi President put both handsbehind his head.

"I understand your proposal, Colonel. I'd like you to answer a fewdirect questions for me. First, can PAM be traced? Could Iraq be heldaccountable or implicated in any way?"

"Impossible. PAM resulted from theoretical work first funded by theU.S. Army before the turn of the century. I expect that's where theAllies will lay blame. Virus programs like PAM are difficult, if notimpossible, to trace."

"What if our agents are discovered?"

"Inshallah,"-(God willing)-the Chief of Military Intelligenceresponded.

"They will die as martyrs on the altar of Islam."

"Allahu Akbar," al-Mashhadi added somberly.

"Stalin sacrificed ten million souls to preserve the Bolshevikrevolution. Iraq is prepared to do likewise."

"And strategically? Are we keeping the pressure on?"

"We've got two Kilo-class subs parked within range of Washington andNew York."

"The Allies know this?"

Nassar allowed a thin smile.

"The infidels stalk our missile drills." The Russian Kilo-classsubmarine was an older diesel-electric and easily detected unlessrunning off battery.

"That is good," the Iraqi President concluded.

"What should I expect when you plant your bad seed?"

Slowly, clearly, Colonel Nassar responded.

"I can make no promises, Excellency, but we expect to plant PAM inCenturion. PAM behaves more like a program cancer than a virus. Whenthreatened, she'll spread like wildfire. She'll infect every computeron Freedom, then the Allies will lose control of their satellitearmada."

"What does it mean-to lose control of a satellite armada?"

"I'm sure of one thing-the Maronites (enemies of Allah) will wishthey'd never been born."

The Iraqi President nodded and accepted this not for technical reasons,but because Colonel Nassar believed it.

"After PAM-what about our stealth cruise missiles? Will they flyundetected?"

"Inshallah but I cannot promise this. Once PAM takes over, she'llcontrol their orbiting death machines-their DEW SATS Their SDI testingwill be delayed until they eliminate PAM. The infidels must eliminatePAM, but she won't allow anyone or anything to approach her. She won'tallow anything through the Star Wars layers of warheadsatellites-nothing launched from earth can penetrate their deadly DEWSAT layer. She won't allow anything near Space Station Freedom. ToeliminatetPAM the Allies must disconnect Centurion. To disconnectCenturion, they must board Freedom. PAM won't let it happen-she won'ttolerate threats. PAM will turn the Zionist technology of deathagainst the infidels."

Colonel Nassar paused. Looking around the table at the Iraqi party ofGod members, he saw the glimmer of revenge in their eyes. He feltexhilaration knowing his place in history was about to unfold. Revengefor the Persian Gulf War was within their grasp. Nassar looked at thefaces of each Cabinet member and recalled that each had suffered lossduring the infidel invasion. With Allah's help, he had reached intothe depths of their darkened souls and uncovered their reason forliving. They sat thunderstruck, their tongues still, their jawsslack.

"Let me be clear on this point," Colonel Nassar concluded.

"I believe the PAM virus intractable-a problem without solution."

"A problem without solution," the Iraqi President repeated quietly.

"What do you mean exactly?"

"A technical problem without technical solution. Once PAM spreads toCenturion's subordinate computers, we can't postulate a plausibletechnical solution. We can't figure any way to disconnect Centurionbecause Freedom's a fortress built for Centurion's protection."

"Any possibility of random destruction? Any danger to our people?"

"Possible-but not likely."

The Iraqi President studied the faces of each Cabinet member. Eachparty of God member nodded in agreement, quietly repeating,

"Allahu Akbar. " Revenge against the infidels would be sweet.

"We've nothing to lose," the Iraqi President observed with a look ofsatisfaction in his eyes.

"Very well, Colonel, if the opportunity presents itself, plant your badseed."

Takeoff, 1210712014, 1040 Zulu, 2.-40 A.m. Local

HELL FIRE'S COCKPIT,

SOUTH FACING RUNWAY,

EDWARDs AFB, CALIFORNIA Sitting forty feet above the runway with HellFire's brakes locked, Scott individually throttled each scramjet engineto full military power while her flight computer monitored fuelconsumption and power output. After the last engine had been checked,Hell Fire's flight computer flashed a green All Systems Go messageacross her flat panel display. She looked up, gazed out of the cockpitdown the vast expanse of runway stretched out before her, and feltsatisfied that Hell Fire was airworthy. Sealed inside her fullypressurized flight suit, she felt a trickle of perspiration runningdown her throttle arm. Scott adjusted the air-conditioning in hersuit, read the time from her cockpit clock, then thought the actionshould begin soon.

While Scott checked the power plant, Gonzo checked the Global PositionSystem against the reference position posted on a sign standing by theside of the runway everything looked good.

"Hell Fire, you're cleared for takeoff," echoed Edward's controltower.

"Mac, Gonzo-you ready?" Scott asked, advancing engine one's throttleto full military power.

"Backseat's go."

"Ready down under," replied Mac from his recon seat in Hell Fire'snose-forward and below Scott.

Scott slowly moved her five remaining throttles forward to fullmilitary power. As she watched Hell Fire's thrust readout build on herinstrument display, the thunderous sound pressure level inside HellFire became deafeningly loud. Although Hell Fire was a later model andhad been improved, the sound pressure level directly over the powerplant in the early X-30 prototypes had been sufficient to kill humans.As Hell Fire's six-pack reached full power, she shook violently againstthe brakes. Scott locked the throttles together, released the brakes,then synchronously advanced all six engine throttles into afterburner.Hell Fire, a 250,000-pound plane about the size of a DC-10, bolted downthe runway propelled by over 300,000 pounds of thrust. When Scott cutin her afterburners, the thunderous noise level inside Hell Fireapproached the threshold of pain and the crew couldn't communicate overthe intercom.

Each scramjet engine in Hell Fire's six-pack output 50,000 pounds ofthrust-more thrust than that which powered the ocean liner QueenMary.

Accelerating down the runway, Hell Fire was engulfed in a swirlingcloud of condensation. Trailing behind the cloud streamed a long fierytail of intensely bright burning hydrogen. In the daylight, theplane's profile looked much like the head of a giant white shark withits jaws open wide, gulping air.

Roaring down the runway, Scott's helmet pressed hard against her moldedseat.

As Hell Fire's ground speed passed 225 miles per hour, Scott depressedan ignition switch which fired the Rocketdyne engine in Hell Fire'stail. Instantly, the roar of a controlled explosion shook Hell Fire asan additional 100,000 pounds of thrust kicked in, pinning Scott to herseat. She gently pulled back on the stick, rotated Hell Fire's noseup, and they were airborne pulling a three-g climb. Hell Fire climbedhigher and higher, belching smoke and flame in her wake, illuminatingthe black desert sky like a flare.

"You fellas all right?" Scott asked. In one swift motion, she raisedthe gear, cut the Rocketdyne engine. and killed the afterburners.

"I'm glad to be alive," quipped Mac, smiling, happy his pulse rateand breathing were returning to normal. Mac's forehead glistenedwith sweat, causing the visor in his pressurized helmet to fog.

"Roger, Scotty. Come o heading one-eight-five," added Gonzo.

"Headquarters will take over in about an hour."

Scott leveled off at 40,000 feet then gazed overhead at the vast canopyof stars twinkling against an ink-black sky.

Tonight, for a while at least, with control stick in hand, Scott was apilot.

The Home Team, 1210712014,1045 Zulii, 3:45A.m. Local

ALLIED FORCES COMMAND HEADQUARTERS

CROW's NEST OVERLOOKING THE STRATEGIC DEFENSE INITIATIVE ORGANIZATION(SDIO) WAR Room

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Generals Craven, Mason, and Krol entered the Crow's Nest. Theirbird's-eye view of the War Room never failed to impress Mason. Imageand sonar sensor data collected from all over the world was displayedin real time on the walls. Rigidly suspended sixty feet above theauditorium sized War Room floor, the glass-walled Crow's Nest served asthe Supreme Allied Commander's headquarters.

The Crow's Nest was technically impressive, optimized for reliabilityand function, but from a human perspective, it struck Mason as austere.Divided into a video conference room and two redundant control rooms,the Crow's Nest provided the reliability required for around-the-clockoperation with virtually zero downtime.

A long rectangular steel table dominated the video conference room withstraight back gray chairs arranged in a row down one side. Behindthem-a glass wall overlooking the War Room sixty feet below. Acrossthe table video cameras and TV monitors lined the opposite wall.

Entering the video conference room, General Mason surveyed the facespresent and on screen. Here was Craven's inner sanctum. Everyone waspresent-four military commanders via video link and two civiliansseated at the far end of the table.

One civilian, John Sullivan, came from the Lawrence Livermore NationalLaboratory and had overall DEW SAT responsibility. As a rule, whateverJohn Sullivan said, Mason agreed with. If he gave advice, Mason tookit.

Mason thought Sullivan a gentleman, one of the few remaining in thiscutthroat business. He admired Sullivan and remembered him as a manwith a large family-six grown children who still loved him. In hisearly fifties, Sullivan carried himself like a thirty-year-old. He wasan active man who'd play basketball and tennis full-time if he didn'thave to work for a living. Although his hair was thinning andsilver-gray, his appearance was youthful, his eyes sparkled, and hiscomplexion was a ruddy Irish red.

Thomas Jackson, seated next to Sullivan, was from MIT's LincolnLab-impossible to read, as Mason recalled, but the best radar man inthe business. A slovenly walrus of a man, in face-to-face meetingsJackson simply blended into the background. Mason didn't like the manbut did respect him. Jackson's radar reference handbook, intuition,and technical triumphs were legendary. In effect, Jackson's book hadbecome a piece of the technical furniture, a standard reference citedby everyone in the electromagnetic sciences business. As a result,Jackson had become a very rich, widely sought after technical celebrityof sorts. In his official government capacity, he led two SDItechnology development teams. The first team developed the DEW SAT newradar; the second created invisible, ultra-stealth prototypeaircraft.

On screen, Mason saw an impressive subset of Craven's commanders. Hesmiled, musing to himself that he'd hate to pay the bill for thismeeting.

Both space station commanders, Jay Fayhee and Pasha Yakovlev, attendedvia video link. Pasha Yakovlev was unquestionably the group's spacestation expert. An engineer by training, he knew Hope and Freedom fromthe inside out. He knew their strengths, their capabilities, and theirlimitations better than he knew his own children. Although he neverallowed it to show, the one thing Pasha shared in common with JayFayhee was a deep and inescapable sense of loneliness. From analtitude of 22,000 miles above the earth, Pasha's dreams revolvedaround his wife and three small children as he remembered them fromnearly a full year ago.

Colonel Sam Napper, the SDIO defense force commander, went back a longway with Mason. Old hometown friends and college roommates, the two ofthem had been friends over twenty-five years. Nalter provided Slim areal-time sanity check, and he trusted him in any situation.

Over the years, wherever Mason had gone, Sam Napper had not been farbehind. And this had worked well for both of them. Together they'dlearned that life's ups and downs were easier to face with friends.Their friendship had, grown to the point where each was godfather tothe other s children and more. Much to their delight, Slim's middleson had married Sam's only daughter. Through it all, their adventurousoutlook on life never diminished. When Mason looked at Sam Napper, heremembered himself as a younger man. He remembered his roots-thekindness of his grandparents, the small town he came from, the man heused to be. Sam provided Mason a sense of well-being that comes fromknowing your own heart. As Mason had grown older, he learned with somesadness that who you are is an easy thing to forget. Mason liked to bereminded, and often.

Then there was Hinson. Mason thought CSOC's attack force commander,Colonel Hinson, a careerist prick. No one working under Hinson feltany sense of loyalty to the man. If any subordinate crossed him,Hinson never forgave, he simply got even. Mason would not tolerate ame-first me-only player in a position of responsibility on his team andplanned to remedy this situation ASAP.

Mason noticed Craven waiting impatiently for the meeting to begin andso began his opening remarks.

"Gentlemen-looks like the home team's all here."

"Slim," Craven interrupted,

"I want this meeting to runten minutes max. The agenda's one item long-do we go? I want a go/nogo voice vote and if anyone has a beef, speak now. Hol)e--talk tome."

"We must go"' Hope cominandei- Pasha Yakovlev Ftated emphalicativ.

"Hell fire is bringing replacement parts.

Without them, we have no backup. We could lose all communications."

"We understand your situation," replied General Krol, chewing his pipe.He then spoke Russian, translated as followed.

"Hell Fire will fly to low earth orbit once she's far enough west toclear land. After taking on fuel, she'll arrive on or before 2200(hours Zulu)."

Turning slightly, Craven paused a moment, studying Krol's expression.Satisfied, he asked in English,

"General Krol, what are your feelings?"

"I am satisfied," Krol responded evenly.

"We go."

Colonel Sam Napper, the SDIO defense commander, flashed a thumbs up.

"Freedom's ready. After tonight, stealth cruise missiles will beobsolete." Colonel Napper displayed Freedom's Status Report on screen.All seemed well.

Before Mason finished reading the report, Colonel Hinson chimed in.

"CSOC's go. Our attack program looks good. We're ready, noproblem."

General Mason stood once again, looked across the table and studied thefaces of both technology representatives present. Placing his hands inhis pockets, he spoke slowly, "I think I know the answers to myquestions ... but ... I'm gonna ask 'em anyway. John, are yourLivermore fellas ready?"

"Ready," replied John Sullivan.

DEW SATs tested and lasers are set to tag."

Mason shifted his weight from one leg to the other, obviously notconvinced.

"I get the feeling I'm in a high school pep rally here, fellas. LincolnLab-what's the story on your radar?"

"We're ready," replied Thomas Jackson, Lincoln Lab's rotund technicalguru.

"We've tested these UWB (Ultra WideBand) radars six months-they'restealth proof."

Mason thought the mood of the meeting overly optimistic-a sense ofeuphoria that didn't sit well with him.

He looked quietly into the eyes of each person around the table, thenstudied the faces on screen. Mason spoke sincerely, sliding the rim ofhis round hat through his fingers.

"This cruise missile threat has plagued us for years. Everyone's got'em, we can't detect 'em, and everyone knows it.

We've had problems in the past and. . ."

"Thanks, Slim-I hear you," Craven interrupted. He sounded sincere, buthis gut feeling told him to go for it. He spoke decisively.

"Let's do it. Let nothing stand in our way!"

The Dorito, 1210712014,"44 Zulu, 3:44 A.M. Local

EF-12 WII.D WEASEL,

ALTITUDE: 75,000 FEET,

TACO-SHAPED FLIGHT PATTERN OVER EDWARDS AFB

Painted matte black, the McDonnell Douglas EF-12 flying wing vanishedagainst the night sky. Triangular-shaped, the EF-12's wingspan wasabout seventy feet with power provided by twin General Electric F404engines. Tonight, the EF-12 Avenger-a radar jammer aircraft nicknamed"the Dorito"-would blind Centurion's orbiting armada with broadspectrum, high-power electromagnetic noise.

Raised on horseback, Dorito pilot Captain

"Cowboy" Murray Hill grew up punching cattle on his family's west Texasranch. On the high plains, Cowboy found his future prospects limitedto football, cattle ranching, and roughneck work on oil rigs. He wasgood at all three but wanted more. Using football as his ticket tocollege, he was very much the typical west Texas rancher-athlete untilhe discovered flying. The Air Force ROTC flight program changed hislife forever. Precise, private, and sometimes prickly, Cowboy used hisbrains and brawn to move first through college, then flight school atReese AFB outside Lubbock, Texas. Once he'd learned to pilot theDorito flying wing, he packed his Tony Llama cowboy boots, left big skycountry, and never looked back.

"Cowboy, this is Big Shot," crackled over the Dorito pilot'sheadset.

"Enter crypt key. Ground control be gins in sixty seconds." Cowboysmirked. The call sign Big Shot fit the Cheyenne Mountain Headquartersorganization like a glove. To avoid revealing his position, hemaintained radio silence. Entering an eight character decryption key,he watched the link status lights turn green as the receiver locked onHeadquarter's control transmission.

"Bulldog control link is secure and operational." Cowboy spoke to hisback-seater, Bulldog, in a matter-of-fact tone. Bulldog looked thepart-a stocky Georgia boy with short brown hair, large head, and astrong square jaw-consequently his call sign stuck.

"Roger, Cowboy. Satellite link is go."

"Cowboy, this is Big Shot. Enable control link on my mark."

"Brace yourself, Bulldog." Cowboy slid his thumb down the controlstick, carefully lifting a red protective switch cover labeled WARNING:CONTROL SELECT. Immediately, the suluy female voice of the flightcomputer repeated an audible warning designed to attract any malepilot's attention. He had anticipated her warning, but his hands feltcold and clammy. In less than ten seconds he would hand over flightcontrol to Cheyenne Mountain.

"Mark," said Big Shot. Cowboy thought this han doff was too easy forHeadquarters; he put his life on the line-they had nothing to lose.

"She's all yours." Hill held his breath and threw the CONTROL SELECTswitch.

"Roger that," Bulldog confirmed.

"HQ is flying the wing."

"Took over without a glitch." Shaking his head in disbelief, Cowboynever took his hand off the stick.

The Assault by Sea, 1210712014, 1144 Zulu, 3:44 A.M. local

SUBMARINE USS ST ENNIS

PACIFIC OCEAN 37 MiLEs DUE WEST OF SANTA CRUZ, CALIFORNIA The USSStennis crept along at periscope depth, drifting slowly with justenough speed to maintain steering, perfectly quiet, waiting forHeadquarters to take control via satellite link. She'd been inposition only fifteen minutes with her communications mast protrudingabove the surface, thirty-seven miles due west of Santa Cruz,California.

The USS Stennis, a 362-foot-long Los Angeles-class fast attacksubmarine, listened attentively to the submarine communicationssatellite.

The boat's skipper double-checked the time. Reluctantly, he lifted hisphone and patched into the communications shack.

Clear Water downlink status?"

"No change, Cap'n. Threat board data is real-time. Link fullyoperational."

"And the direct link from Headquarters?"

"Control link is go."

"Very well then." Satisfied, the skipper shifted his gaze to theofficer of the deck (OOD).

"What's showing on the threat board? Any contacts?"

Scanning the threat board from his forward watch station, the OODsummarized their situation.

"We're all alone out here, Skipper, clear horizon to horizon. Nearestsurface contact-thirty miles due east, just off the coast. Singlesubmerged contact bearing Southwest at two hundred miles.

Airspace overhead is clear."

In the U.S. Navy's vernacular, Clear Water-the submarine reconnaissancesatellite network-provided a means for detecting submerged submarinesby electronically transforming turbulent black seawater into a calmclear liquid.

Clear Water rendered the oceans virtually transparent, ergo the codename. The first operational crown jewel in the SDI spacereconnaissance program, Clear Water satellites detected submarines bytheir wake track using microwave reflections from the sea surface.Reconnaissance satellitesphotographed ocean surface waves, then Centurion electronicallysmoothed them-technicians described this stage as calming the waters-byfiltering out effects due to surface current, ships, and weather. Aftercalming the waters, each computer-enhanced picture of the ocean surfacelooked glassy smooth and highly reflective-like the surface of aglistening Christmas ball-except for telltale Vshaped scratches, akasubmarine tracks. Created by surface wake, these V-shaped scratchesmarked the submarine's trail, and, to the hunter's advantage, inaverage seas this trail persisted long after the boat had passed.

So successful was this submarine detection idea in practice that theocean depths became, for strategic purposes, transparent. Polar iceand deep water (greater than 100 meters) emerged as the only place asubmarine might hide.

But Clear Water is another story.

The skipper picked up his phone again and patched into the sonarroom.

"Sonar, any contacts? Did Clear Water miss anything?"

"No contacts, Captain. We confirm the threat board read.

Area is clear of any possible threats."

"That is good." Nodding approval to the OOD, the skipper continued.

"Very well-give Headquarters the boat."

"Aye, Captain."

Much to the skipper's relief, the transition to Headquarters's controlwas smooth. Confident all was well, he studied the faces of his crew.They handle this better than I, he thought. The crew gazed intently attheir instrumentation and seemed relaxed with "hands-off 'boatcontrol.

"Steady as she goes, Captain," the OOD reported.

"Flight profile download now under way."

The skipper stood silent, ready by the phone, listening intently to thesounds inside his electric boat.

"Guidance system update complete, Captain. Weapons are warm and readyto fire." Immediately, three sets of missile indicators flashed abright lethal green, then the hull of the Stennis echoed with the rushof water and air. The hull groaned due to the pressure changes insidethe tubes.

"Torpedo tubes one, two, and three are ready in all respects," the OODcontinued.

"Outer doors are opened.

Tubes now ready to launch the weapons."

The younger crewmen looked to the skipper for some sign of reassurance.The commanding officer forced a tight-jawed grin, then raised one handwith a "not to worry" gesture.

"Captain, launch cycle in progress."

The sound of water ramming the weapons into the sea echoed throughoutthe boat.

Outside, three cruise missiles packaged inside torpedo shaped cylindersheaded for the surface. Once topside, the weapons fired their boosterrockets, erupted from the nose of the cylinders, and thrust out of thewater. Now airborne, the missiles tilted over, ignited their airbreathing engines, and headed for the Nevada Test Site at about 500knots.

Meanwhile down below, the horrendous sounds of missiles firing overheadconvinced the skipper their cruise launch was successful. He must nowassume their position no longer secret.

"Our job is done," the skipper announced.

"Give me the boat."

"With pleasure, Captain." The OOD disconnected the link with the flipof a switch.

"She's all yours!"

"Depth under the keel?"

"Three hundred fifty feet."

"Take her dowrt to one five zero; all ahead one third."

His immediate priority was to silently hide his boat under thepitch-black veil of the Pacific for, to most, the oceans remainedopaque.

"Aye, Captain." The OOD repeated the orders to the crew.

The hull of the USS Stennis filled with the sounds of rushing water asthe ballast tanks opened. Minutes later, surrounded by total darkness,the Stennis slowed her descent at 130 feet. She settled at 150 andsilently headed north-northwest out to sea.

The Real-time Run, 1210712014, 1145 Zulu, 4:45 A.m. Local CROW's NESTOVERLOOKING THE SDIO WAR Room,

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

"Hinson-you ready to run?" Craven questioned his attack forcecommander via video link.

"All assets are in position and ready, Sir." Checking the missionclock, he continued.

"Kickoff in twenty-two seconds."

"Colonel- what about Centurion's activity log?" Mason asked.

"We'll cover it when the time comes."

"The time has come." Mason thought Hinson on the fast track allright-right out the door. There was no time to deal with Hinson beforethe test, but the right time would come-soon.

"We're on the air!" Hinson interrupted. Headquarters now remotelycontrolled Hinson's attack forces. Next, he'd simulate a large scaleICBM attack.

"The fireworks should begin in ten seconds."

All eyes focused on the big blue ball. From inside the Crow's Nest,Craven and his general staff overlooked the blue ball, a large, slowlyrotating hologram of the earth, twice the size of the one on Freedom.

Suddenly, thousands of white blips appeared covering the globe. Krolwinced, biting his pipe stem so hard it cracked. As a test sequence,this attack scenario stressed Centurion's computing power to thelimits.

Craven walked outside the Crow's Nest onto a connecting walkway for abetter view. Looking down, he felt lightheaded due to the dizzyingheight above the War Room floor. Trembling, he felt suddenlynauseated, nervous, and very weak. Craven hated full-scale SDI testingbecause it was too damn realistic. The scale was overwhelming. Insidethe walls of the War Room, the tests looked, sounded, and felt largerthan life. Emotionally involved with the testing, Craven knew he'dlost his objective edge.

But the future of his organization find the Allied Forces hinged on thesuccess of these tests.

Craven drew in a deep breath, reminding himself again that this wasonly a test. Try as he might, he could not steady his hands. He'doften joked that he should get into another line of work, but now hewas ready to take his own advice. He'd been in the business longenough and needed to retire.

Watching the test progress, the calm, orderly mood of the War Roomtransitioned to noisy chaos-a human beehive of activity that seemed tofeed on itself.

This realism adversely affected the nerves and health of the War Roomstaff, so frequent job rotation was the rule.

These tests bothered Mason as well, but he worked to stay ahead of thegame by constantly anticipating what should happen next.

Mason knew the missiles were simulated, but he never became accustomedto such large-scale realistic testing-he could never completely detachhimself. As the simulated missiles closed in over the North Pole,Mason recalled a quote from the Hindu scriptures. J. RobertOppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb, used this quote describinghis feelings as he watched the detonation of the first atomic bomb-"Iam become death, the destroyer of worlds."

Mason felt, though only for an instant, as if he was watching the endof the world. This stifling, morose feeling shook Mason and remindedhim once again of the bloodybusiness he'd chosen as his profession. He hated war above all elsand felt it good to be reminded of this-and often.

"Keep your eyes on the California coast," Hinson announced.

Simultaneously, six white blips appeared. Three cruise missiles fromthe Stennis, three from Hell Fire.

"We can see 'em," Craven observed with considerable satisfaction.

Colonel Sam Napper sat on the edge of his seat, pounding his console.

"Show me some red and we're halfway home!" If Centurion confirmed themissiles as a real threat, the missile tracks would change color,indicating the most difficult technical aspect of the test was behindthem.

Then suddenly, it happened-all six blips turned red.

After years of testing and frustration, they could finally detectstealth cruise missiles.

And-if they could detect them, they could kill them.

"Yes! Yes! We have a winner! Look out, Disney Worldhere we come!"Napper hooted, throwing his headset into the air. His vacation plansalong with those of Craven's entire general staff hinged on the outcomeof these tests. He had a full month of leave scheduled aroundChristmas and was ready to collect.

As the simulated missile traces over Russia approached the North Pole,they began disappearing. Within minutes, only six red blips remained,all converging in unison on the Nevada Test Site.

Just as Craven was beginning to feel good about his chances forsuccess, he noticed a young airman talking to Hinson, shaking his headin apparent confusion, on the video conference line. Craven looked atMason.

"What's your read so far?"

"The game's not over till it's over, General. Something's going on inCSOC." Turning to the video conference camera, Mason spoke into themicrophone.

"Hinson-you got any problem there we need to know about?"

"Nothing of consequence, Sir ... that activity log."

"Yeah, what about it?' "My people-uh-well, we can't. . ." Hinsonpaused and considered his statement.

"We're going through some start-up problems with Centurion's activitylog, Sir."

Mason raised both eyebrows. Something wasn't right here.

"Colonel-let me speak to the person you put in charge."

Hinson motioned to a frightened airman with eyes the size of silverdollars. The lanky young man approached the video camera and stoodsilent.

Mason smiled to put him at ease.

"What's your name, son?"

"Airman first-class Harold Harrison, Sir."

"Harold, I need your help." Judgink from his expression, Masonconcluded the young airman looked wi - Iling.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"The raw activity log output is difficult to-it's overwhelming us here... there's millions of lines of output.

We can't make heads or tails out of it ... Sir."

Hinson snatched the young airman away from the video camera's field ofview.

"I ordered him to ignore the activity log, General."

"Now is not the time or place, Colonel, but we need to talk about thisone." Mason spoke to Hinson in a quiet voice for emphasis, then made amental note to correct their management problem before their next testrun. Turning away, Mason watched the missiles closing slowly on theNevada Test Side.

Hinson checked his mission clock.

"Whiteout over Edwards," he warned, shielding his eyes with his hand.Once the electronic jamming began, the airspace display turned abrilliant white.

The DEW SAT Pix, 1210712014,1200 Zulu, 4:00 A.M. LocalALTITUDE: 80,000 FEET,

HEADING: DUE WEST,

DiRECTLY OVER SAN DIEGO,

HELL FIRE

Scott saw the lights of San Diego ahead on the horizon, but knew herback-seater and cameraman had their eyes fixedon their instruments. Scanning her instruments, she kept one hand onthe stick, the other on the throttle, tracking every move theHeadquarters computer made.

"Mac-got any pix?" Just then, Scott noticed two camera indicatorlights turn green in the reconnaissance bay.

Pressing two switches, she routed both camera images to her splitscreen display.

"IR camera's locked on," Mac replied with a great sense ofsatisfaction.

"Pix coming up."

To lock on a low orbiting satellite moving over 17,000 miles an hourdue north from a westbound plane was like shooting skeet off a flatbedtruck racing over the winding potholed streets of Boston.

For a few moments, the TV monitors displayed only empty black sky. Thecameras were tracking two DEW SATS One rising above Hell Fire'ssouthern horizon racing north, the second was about to drop below thenorthern horizon. Once locked, a series of adjustable tracking mirrorspivoted, positioning each satellite image in the center of the viewingscreen. Suddenly, two sunflower-shaped greenish images appeared out ofthe blackness.

"Excellent," exclaimed Gonzo. Immediately, his expression turnedtroubled.

"Those DEW SATs look hot as hell."

"The pix don't lie," Scott said dispassionately.

"Those hot spots are the laser's diamond lens and reactor core."

"So those sunflowers're going to put us out of a job,"

Mac said in disbelief.

"Don't underestimate the opposition, Mac. That's a twenty-megawattlaser, enough to knock anything out of the air."

"But if it can't see us, it can't shoot us," Mac replied confidently.

"Our stealth days are numbered, Mac. It's inevitable.

They're not smart, they're genius weapons. They can tell thedifference between missiles, ASATS, decoys-you name the target, theycan pick it out."

"I gotta see it to believe it."

"I'd hate to have that DEW SAT bear down on me,"

Gonzo lamented quietly.

"Glad that laser's backed off."

"Roger that, Gonzo," Mac replied somberly.

"That sucker'd punch a hole in your best intentions."

The Decoy, 1210712014, 1209 Zulu, 5:09 A.m. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

The projected picture of the California coast suddenly looked like awhiteout in a snowstorm, a radiant white blank screen.

Mason squinted.

"No problem with the picture, General," Napper said calmly.

"Jammers came on-line as scheduled. Centurion'll clean it up."

Seconds later. Centurion did exactly that and the satellite picture ofCalifornia emerged from the veil of television like interference. Thesix red cruise missile blips had disappeared, replaced by hundreds ofwhite blips, each heading a different direction, speed, and altitude.

Mason studied the picture for a moment.

"Phantom Hawks cut in." The Phantom Hawk cruise missiles launched fromthe USS Stennis and Hell Fire carried an electronic countermeasurespackage that produced false radar return signals. To radar, thesefalse signals looked like hundreds of cruise missiles.

"Yes sir-Centurion's got his hands full, but this is our last majorhurdle." Napper watched the blips advance in seemingly everydirection.

"Centurion's gotta sort the real targets from the decoys."

Every fifteen seconds or so, the missile tracks methodicallydisappeared. The northbound missile tracks all disappeared at once,then the westbound tracks disappeared, then the southbound, andfinally, all but three eastbound tracks vanished.

Three missile traces heading east toward the Nevada Test Site remained,but three were missing.

Target Discrimination, 1210712014, 121 0 Zulu

ALTITUDE: 11 5 MILES IN POLAR ORBIT,

ONBOARD A DEW SAT

First and foremost, the DEW SAT was designed to automatically protectitself against anything and any condition that could cause failure.

And it would do so-in the blink of an eye.

When the two Phantom Hawk cruise missiles simultaneously powered on,they began transmitting hundreds of false targets. The sudden increasein targets immediately overloaded the DEW SAT tracking system and itsprogrammed response was automatic. Detecting the sudden increase intargets, the DEW SAT computer brain woke up, increased its laser poweroutput to a dangerous three percent, and automatically began separatingfalse targets from the real ones.

The DEW SAT was designed to discriminate targets (separate falsetargets from real ones) using a technique involving burn-through. Asmall fraction of the power needed to destroy a booster rocket wouldmelt a hole through a lightweight decoy, and this hole could bedetected by the DEW SAT infrared heat sensors.

Heating up suspected targets, the DEW SAT began separating falsetargets from real ones, aka searching for melted holes.

A short message was transmitted to Centurion: DEW SAT status change:Target Discrimination Mode enabled Centurion placed this message, alongwith tens of millions of other messages, in his activity log.

Trouble, 1210712014, 1210 Zulu, 5:10 A.m. Local Staring at the map,Mason's eyes opened wider. Unbelievably, three missiles haddisappeared. He glanced at Hinson on screen and found him oblivious towhat had happened. Mason glanced around the room and realized that noone fully understood what had just happened.

Most of the War Room staff stared at the screen uncomprehending.Raising his eyebrows, he spoke to, Craven

"Trouble."

"Yeah-I can count." Craven grimaced.

"Hinson-talk to me-now damn it. What the hell happened?"

Hinson had been confident that Centurion'd have no problem thinning outthe decoy missiles. He casually glanced at the map, then pulled adouble take.

"Uhwe're working the issue, General."

"Exactly what are you doing about it, Hinson?"

"Collecting my best people, Sir."

"How long's that gonna take?"

"They'll be working it within the hour."

"An hour's not going to do us much good. I need to know what happenedto those missiles now."

"General," Mason interrupted softly after talking with his Russiancomrade, General Yuri Krol.

"Let Yuri's folks at Kaliningrad comb through Centurion's activity logASAP. That log contains raw test data. They'll find the problem."

Mason looked at Krol.

"Maybe ten to twenty minutes?"

"With luck ... five minutes." Krol nodded calmly.

"Do it," Craven ordered.

Krol punched up Kaliningrad on the videophone and got his peoplemoving.

Mason took his fist and rapped on Colonel Napper's monitor to get hisattention.

"Sam-listen up. Confirmation-we need confirmation. Any chance thosemissiles might be airborne but Centurion can't see 'em?"

"I'm checking. Give me a minute." Napper displayed a target trackingwindow.

"No, Sir, those birds are down.

Last positive track occurred just before the Phantom Hawks went active.Plenty of margin-signal to noise looked darn good. If those missileswere flying, we could see 'em."

Mason gazed at the ceiling for a few moments, struggling to find anapproach to the problem.

"Do we have any cruise missile experts local?"

"I'm with you, General," replied Napper, listening over the conferenceline.

"Name's Schindler, Joe Schindler ... guy's brilliant ... give 'im thesituation-he'll size it up-make the call."

Napper bridged Joe on the conference call then summarized thesituation.

"How're these missiles configured?" asked Joe.

"I can answer that, General," Hinson interrupted like a child seekingattention.

"Master/slave ... the Phantom and Hammer Hawks're slaved to the JammerHawk."

Schindler concentrated, sipping on a large mug of hot coffee.

"And the Dorito's jammer turned on immediately before the missilesdisappeared?"

"That's about the size of it," Napper replied without emotion.

"I'll give you my best guess," Schindler responded.

"We're asking for your opinion," Napper said anxiously.

"What's your analysis?"

"Short and sweet: Hell Fire's Jammer Hawk flew into the ground and thetwo slave Hawks blindly followed."

Craven clearly disagreed.

"So why would the Jammer Hawk fly into the ground in the firstplace?"

"Interference from the Dorito's jammer confused the Hawk's navigationsystem and caused the crash. The Jammer Hawk's not sensitive to itsown interference but could be confused by a powerful separate jammersource."

"Well," said Craven, somewhat satisfied, "that's one problem thatdidn't show up in Hinson's simulations.

Sounds like we can rest easy."

"I respectfully disagree, General," said Mason.

"It's his best guess-shouldn't be overrated. We haven't heard fromYuri's folks."

There were a lot of experts answering questions around the War Room,and often even the questions weren't clear. When Mason had somethingto say, he'd say it. If he didn't know the answer to a question, hewouldn't lie.

Craven admired Mason's honesty and intellect. Above all else, Cravenbelieved Mason would do what was right, regardless of theconsequences.

Mason argued for caution and rightly so. Schindler's analysis wasaccurate, but based on insufficient data, his conclusion was wrong.

The Signal, 1210712014, 1211 Zulu

OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN,

430 MILES WEST OF SAN DIEGO,

HELL FIRE

Flying above a turbulent electrical storm with a canopy of starsoverhead, Scott watched lightning flashes illuminate the boilingthunderheads below. Suddenly, she felt her stick and rubber pedalsmoving, placing Hell Fire in a gradual banking turn, positioning herfor launch into low earth orbit.

"Launch sequence commences in two minutes.

Sit tight once we come out of this bank."

"Uh-oh," Mac exclaimed, measuring a sudden increase in laser power onHell Fire's back. Translated, uh-oh could only mean trouble.

Attached to Hell Fire's upper wing surfaces, like an array of Post-itnotes, Hell Fire carried laser sensor panels for this war game of lasertag. Operating like a Nintendo game, panels illuminated by the DEW SATlaser scored a hit.

Mac checked the cooling pumps.

"Slush pumps're wideopen-skin temp's soaring-we're running out of margin fast."

Watching a screen full of error messages scroll by, Gonzo grimaced.

"Radio performance is degrading across all bands, Scotty. We're losingsignal-error rates climbing on every channel."

"Something's changing somewhere!" Mac exclaimed.

"Eight panels are going dark on me-output power's dropping to zip."

After acquiring Hell Fire with radar, the DEW SAT painted her with itslethal laser powered to three percent.

Once the DEW SAT locked on Hell Fire, there was nothing Scott could doto shake it-there was no place to hide.

Mac read the temperature of each panel in disbelief, pounded hismeasurement equipment, then read the temperatures again.

"Something's flaky. These temps don't make sense."

"Talk to me, Mac. What's happening?" Scott's tone was tense as shewatched Hell Fire's skin temperature rising.

Simultaneously, Scott and Mac noticed an alarming pattern. Most of thepanels were white-hot, a condition which should not exist, assuming theDEW SAT laser's power was safely throttled back. A few panels showedrapidly changing temperature-white-hot one second, ice cold the next.Fast temperature changes couldn't be easily explained, they were tooincredible to believe-didn't make any sense-at first.

"What if those panels are damaged? Maybe burned off" Scott asked.

"Damaged panels might explain those hot 'n' cold readings." Mac hadnot fully worked through the consequences of her question-his tone wastentative. Mac read the panel temperatures for the third time and thereality of their situation chilled him like a cold wind.

"Comm failure," interrupted Gonzo, staring at an array of red alarmindicators. In the blink of an eye, every VHF/UHF radio failed. Theirunthinkable fear played out in real time-the DEW SAT was hot.

Hell Fire was exposed to laser illumination from overhead. Buriedslightly below the surface of the XR-30's skin lay her radioantennas-large conformal arrays of microstrip antennas. Seconds afterthe panels began to fail, the intricate thin metal strip antennasvaporized.

"Snap one-eighty," Scott warned, exposing Hell Fire's underbelly to thelaser illumination from overhead. She flew inverted because the slushcooling system more effectively cooled reentry hot spots on the XR-30'sunderbelly.

"Mac-panel temp?"

"Dropping fast. No doubt about it-that laser's hot!"

Scott spoke to Gonzo in a low Controlled voice.

"Spin up an ASAT-lock it on that hot laser."

"Roger, Scotty." Gonzo toggled switches, rotating a missile bay withinHell Fire's short stubby wings. An ASAT launched from Hell Fire athyper sonic speed must be thrust downward well clear of the XR-30, thenignited.

"Weapon's locked on target but we'll never catch it."

"ASAT's an abort signal. Headquarters won't be expecting it. Sittight. I'm gonna light the wick." Igniting the booster rocket, Scottstood Hell Fire on her tail and flew directly toward the DEW SAT

Belching flames in her wake, Hell Fire accelerated through Mach 2 witha thunderous roar. When Scott increased throttle bn the six ramjets,the Rocketdyne engine automatically shut down as they passed Mach 3.Although the six jet engines in Hell Fire's belly were screaming, thecockpit seemed much quieter once the rocket shut down.

Concentrating on her instruments, Scott didn't even notice.

"Glad that noisy sucker's off," Mac quipped.

"Good news."

"Must be the laser."

"Right-laser's backed off-looks normal."

"That DEW SAT must have seen what it was looking for." Scott thoughtfor a moment. She knew DEW SATs sensed heat, reflected laser light,and radar energy. The only possible connection she could make, and itwas a stretch, was Hell Fire's rocket engine. When she ignitedit, the laser backed off.

"Maybe it backed off once it detected our heat plume."

"Sounds logical, but we only have one data point. Suggest we stick toour original plan." Gonzo thought sending a signal to Headquartersmade sense.

"We're not safe till we're above that DEW SAT layer."

"Roger that, SAESO," Scott said in a pragmatic tone.

"Make the ASAT ready to fire."

During the transition from rocket to ramjet power, Hell Fire developeda fiery comet like tail extending over ten miles long-spectacular tosee, but costly in fuel. Once convinced the ramjets were performing tospec, Scott "trimmed Hell Fire's tail" by eliminating the fieryhydrogen plume trailing behind each engine. Rotating a thumb wheel shewatched the engine's exhaust gas analyzer change from saturated tooptimal. After repeating this procedure for each engine, she lockedfuel flow control to the flight computer.

Hell Fire's air-breathing engines performed to Scott's expectations.The thrust from Hell Fire's belly accelerated the craft predictablyalong their flight trajectory toward low earth orbit.

"Eighty thousand feet-Mach five-tail's trimmed."

Scott paused, reading her analyzer.

"I show six optimal burns."

"Bobtail confirmed, Scotty," Gonzo observed, looking over hisshoulder.

"Scramjet transition coming up." Hell Fire's flight computercontrolled scramjet transition by reconfiguring fuel and air flowthrough the six ramjets.

Ramjets propelled Hell Fire to speeds of Mach 6, sc ramjets thrust herto Mach 22 past 180,000 feet. At speeds above Mach 22, the Rocketdyneengine kicked in with the final punch required for orbital insertion.Getting into orbit required speeds between Mach 22 and Mach 25-over17,000 miles an hour.

"Scramjet transition complete-tail's trim," Scott said one minutelater. The adjustable teeth in Hell Fire's air breathing mouth (hingedrectangular flaps) retracted, allowing air from her compression ramp toenter her engines at supersonic speeds. This supersonic air was ductedaround each compressor, injected with fuel, and ignited toward the rearof the engines.

"Roger-bobtail's confirmed," replied Gonzo.

"On course-Mach six at eighty-seven thousand feet."

After all six engines transitioned from ramjet to scramjet operation,Scott and Gonzo caught their last look at the stars just before theheat shield automatically "rolled up,"

completely sealing off the cockpit. Flying with the heat shieldextended was much like flying with a blackout bag over the cockpit.Once the cockpit heat shield was extended, Scott and Gonzo dependectone hundred percent on instruments.

"Keep those deflector shields up," Mac quipped, teasing his pilot witha Star Trek one-liner.

"Pray for a smooth ride till OIB (Orbital Insertion Burn). We'll needall the help we can get."

Scott was flying Hell Fire into low earth orbit, pushing her through anarrow performance envelope with exact timing and precision. Nothingin Hell Fire's flight trajectory could be left to chance. Monitoringaltitude, direction, and speed, she simultaneously adjusted herthrottles and rate of climb. Hell Fire's velocity and altitude had toincrease within the limits set by her launch envelope or she would runout of fuel, never achieving the escape velocity required for orbit.Hell Fire's speed and altitude were unprecedented for an air-breathing,single-stage aircraft. No other plane ever built could fly as fast,high, or as far as the XR-30.

Scott described Hell Fire as an enormous flying engine.

The XR-30 was the follow-on to the Space Shuttle, but had also replacedthe aging Aurora spy plane. (In its day, the Aurora had replaced theSR-71 Blackbird.) One look at Hell Fire and you knew she was anextraordinary airplane. The front two thirds of Hell Fire's bodylooked like the head of a great white shark with its mouth wide-open,sucking air into its massive propulsion system.

Her mouth was lined with rows of retractable teeth which controlled thespeed of air flowing into her engines. If youstood in front of her, looking into her cavernous air breathing mouth,the mammoth spectacle inspired awe, admiration-even wonder.

At hyper sonic speeds. Hell Fire was lifted into the air by theaerodynamic shape of her body rather than her wings. Hell Fire's wide"lifting body" design also provided space for a large fuel tank and acompression ramp which guided air into her propulsion system. Atspeeds above Mach 1, Hell Fire's "all moving" wings were locked inneutral position. Below Mach 1, her wings were unlocked, providingboth the lift and the control surface required for pitch, roll, and yawmaneuvers.

The original X-30 was a two-seat aircraft about the size of a DouglasDC-10, weighing 200,000 pounds, and 150 feet long. Hell Fire was anXR-30, an X-30 stretched to 200 feet, weighing 250,000 pounds, matteblack, built of titanium and carbon composites, modified to includemore powerful scramjet engines, four reconnaissance equipment bays, anda third seat for the reconnaissance systems operator inside the nose.

"Gonzo-open outer doors and launch the weapon," ordered Scott, watchingher airspeed indicator.

"Show Headquarters a signal they can't miss."

"Roger, Scotty. Configuration complete. Weapon is warm and ready tofire." Next, he placed the launch sequence under automatic firecontrol.

Ejecting an ASAT missile out from inside Hell Fire's stubby wing whilemoving at Mach 8 created two intense shock waves. One shock wave wouldviolently shake the crew. and the second would shake the ASAT missilelike a baby's rattle.

Gonzo read off the missile countdown sequence.

"Ten, nine, eight . . ." Beep ... beep ... beep. beeeeeeeeeeeepechoed over his headset.

"Oh shit!" Gonzo spoke in short bursts.

"Threat detection. Another DEW SAT rising over our southern horizon,closing fast. It's locked on-illuminated us in five bands already.Signal strength is getting hotter. " Scott grimaced.

"Lock another . .

Barooom! Hell Fire shook violently from the shock wave.

"Northbound weapon away," Gonzo announced, watching the missile streakaway on video.

"Ignition confirmed.

Well clear of Hell Fire-track looks good."

"Headquarters will see it," Scott said softly.

"We're in the heat again!" interrupted Mac.

"Same story but our skin temp's rising. Much hotter and we'rehistory!" Mac had good reason to worry. He was surrounded bythousands of pounds of slush hydrogen fuel.

Hell Fire's cryogenic fuel tanks, holding hydrogen chilled to435degrees F, had to be lightweight and thin-walled because of her largesize. In addition, hydrogen fuel was circulated as a coolantthroughout Hell Fire's skin, absorbing heat from her hot spots. If theDEW SAT laser heated her skin beyond 5,000 degrees F, her thin-walledfuel tank would rupture and Hell Fire would certainly live up to hername, exploding into an enormous white-hot fireball streaking acrossthe night sky.

"Lock an ASAT on it. That DEW SAT moving toward us. We'll knock itout of commission."

Gonzo watched the weapon's lock light turn green.

"Weapon ready to shoot. DEW SAT closing fast."

"Shoot Gonzo ... shoot."

BAROOOM! Hell Fire shook like a rattlesnake's tail, battering Scott,Mac, and Gonzo violently from side to side. Once the shock wavepassed, Gonzo focused his eyes again.

"ASAT's away and clear." Watching the rocket engine ignite on screen,he felt satisfied that he'd done all he could do-for now.

"Hoooooeeeeee!" hollered Mac, watching the weapon take flight.

"We'll knock that sucker outta the sky!"

"Mac-how about a visual?"

"Watch your monitor. Camera's swinging into position now-hold it-yeah,we got 'em both-ASAT rightDEWSAT left."

"Gonzo, give us the blow-by-blow." Scott expected Gonzo to call theaction like a horse race. She wasn't disappointed.

Gonzo began his narrative in a monotone.

"And they're off. Southbound ASAT missile's accelerating through Machtwelve ... four minutes to impact ... track looks good ... speed's Machfifteen plus ... closing fast. Altitude fifty miles ... seventy ...eighty ... closing on target ... easy money's on the ASAT ... onehundred miles high and closing . . ."

Mesmerized, Mac stared at his screen. Suddenly, he noticed twogreenish hot spots glowing on the ASAT. TheIR pictures showed them inminute detail.

"Hot spots! The weapon's taking the heat. We're cooling off!" Macwatched his monitor in disbelief.

"I can't believe this is ... oh my God."

The southbound ASAT exploded into a large ball of fiery gasses.

Hell Fire's intercom was silent-no one could speak.

Scott, Mac, and Gonzo sat spellbound, their eyes transfixed on theirmonitors. For a few moments that seemed to last an eternity, theASAT's image burned an intense bright green, completely washing overthe screen.

DEW SAT must have punched a hole in the fuel tank to cause an explosionlike that," Gonzo observed quietly.

He checked the progress of his first missile.

"Our northbound ASAT's going ballistic-falling out of the sky. It'llburn up in the atmosphere."

"Regroup, fellas." Scott spoke with a strained tone of urgency in hervoice.

"Headquarters saw our signal.

They'll call off the dogs."

Mac cut in as soon as Scott released her microphone switch.

"Heat's on. We're running white-hot."

"Snap one-eighty. Keep your heads on straight," urged Scott, prayingfor strength.

"Temp's approaching redline." Mac's face, covered with beaded sweat,glistened under his cockpit lights.

"Forty-five hundred degrees and rising."

Scott closed her eyes, blocking out the bright red distractionsflashing across the cockpit. It was a wonder she could think at allconsidering the myriad of warning messages flashing in her face.Concentrating intensely, looking for some pattern, she gave theirsituation a good think.

Heat. Show their fiery plume.

"I wanna play a long shot."

"Laser's hot as hell-go for it!"

Scott flipped switches, placing scramjet fuel control in manual mode.Turning the fuel mixture thumb wheels dumping more fuel into eachengine, she ordered: "Mac, watch my tail. We're running rich."

Mac pivoted an IR camera on Hell Fire's tail.

"Got it, Scotty. We're running full plume!"

"Watch that laser, Mac. Let me 'know if you see any change."

"What're you thinking?"

"Heat-heat could be our ticket. If that laser'd been running fullpower, it would have blown us out of the sky a long time ago-but thoseDEW SATs seem to cycle.

They go hot, then back off. Who knows? Maybe that DEW SAT looking forheat-so we'll show 'em heat!"

"You're right. There's a pattern to it."

"How's your slush temp looking, Mac? Circulation pumps wide open?"

"Slush temps high, about the same as reentry. That cooling system'ssaving us-from a big hole, I mean."

"Roger that. Just keep that cooling system running."

"Laser's backing off!"

"Thank God," Scott whispered.

"We've seen that pattern before." Gonzo admired Scott's cool head in atight situation.

"Your heat plume call was on the money."

"Hope so," she replied, checking her fuel.

"Gonzohow long can we run full plume?"

Gonzo punched in their rate of fuel consumption. Unseen behind hisvisor, the corners of his mouth dropped.

"We're outta luck. To maintain enough fuel for our low orbit dockingmaneuver-two more minutes max. You're running afterburner fuelconsumption rates, Scotty, but no extra kick."

Scott trimmed Hell Fire's tail immediately and returned fuel flowcontrol to the flight computer.

"Mac-how's my tail?" asked Scott.

"Bobbed," replied Mac. Gonzo smiled briefly, thinking about Scotty'sfine tail.

"How's it looking, Mac? We hot?"

"So far, so good." Mac responded with a cautious smile. He wasfeeling better about their situation-cautious, but optimistic. Nobodyhad any idea why, but for some reason, showing a fiery plume kept theDEW SAT laser throttled back.

A few minutes earlier, Mac would have sold his chances for a woodennickel, but now he believed they were going to make it.

TDM Operations, 1210712014,1215 Zulu, 5:15 A.M. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

High Ground testing was progressing, but not smoothly.

After toiling through countless pages of test data, Mason looked up atCraven.

"I don't like it, I don't like it at all.

Something's gone wrong here. I can feel it."

Craven's face took a hard set.

"We're not bailing outta this test based on a hunch!"

Crushing his military round hat into a tight ball, Mason struggled toconvey his thoughts with an even tone.

"Take a look at our situation, General. We have symptoms of at leastone problem, maybe more-we just don't know.

Hell Fire broke off our satellite link and we don't know why. Weshould've heard something. Three missiles are missing-presumed downand we can't explain it. There's insufficient data to form anyconclusion, but we guess they flew into the ground. Well, I don'tbelieve it. We've got trouble staring us in the face and don't knowhow to interpret the symptoms."

"Decisions are always based on our best available information, Slim,and that information will always be incomplete."

"I understand that, but during this testing, we need to know what'shappening in real time. Centurion's log is the only way I know to getthere. I'd feel better if we had a clean bill of health fromKaliningrad."

"No news is good news."

"I disagree, General, but I hope you're right. The longer Yuri'speople take, the greater the chance they've found trouble."

"That's true," General Krol added somberly.

"Your concerns may be of consequence. Time will tell."

"Don't worry about things you can't control," Craven suggested, hisvoice unconvincing. I "But we do control this situation, or weshould," Mason lamented quietly.

"For one thing, Hinson should have been replaced months ago."

"Hindsight's always twenty-twenty, Slim. We do the best we can withthe resources available."

"If Kaliningrad uncovers trouble, our problems will be compounded by alanguage barrier."

Craven nodded thoughtfully.

"Bring in our translator."

Craven turned to his Russian general.

"Yuri, do you agree?"

"Is good idea. May need help translating some technical terms."

Craven spoke to, Napper via video link.

"Sam, have Addams report to the Crow's Nest ASAP."

Napper quickly relayed Craven's message to their Russian translator,then a voice over his headset caught Sam's attention. Suddenly, thecolonel snapped upright as if his spine were made of steel spring.

"General-Mayday confirmation! Watch the blue ball. Hell Fire launchedan ASAT. That's gotta be a signal." Watching the blue ball, thecolonel's eyes suddenly opened wide.

"Another weapon in the air, sir. Hell Fire let go a second missile;this one could take out a DEW! Recommend immediate abort."

Mason made eye contact with Craven then ham-fisted the mission abortswitch. Within a few seconds, Centurion alerted the armada viasatellite link. Headquarters expected the DEW SATs would standdown-but they did not.

Meanwhile, a small copper-skinned man with black, oily hair entered theCrow's Nest, quietly awaiting recognition. Craven pointed toward thetable.

"Pull up a chair, Shripod. We may need you later."

The Russian translator-and covert member of the Iraqi party ofGod-cautiously approached the conference table.

Craven noticed his forehead glistening with sweat.

"Are you all right?"

"That flight of stairs,." the translator feigned a pant.

"Guess I'm not in as good a shape as I thought." Shripod Addams was inexcellent shape, anyone could see that, but he lied with the utmostsincerity.

"Relax, catch your breath, and stay loose."

Suddenly, the ASAT missile blip vanished in a blinding flash.

"This can't be happening." Napper blinked in disbelief "ASAT trackdisappeared, missile destroyed." For a few moments, Sam felt thegut-wrenching panic that comes with losing control and not knowing whatto do.

"Sam, something's gone wrong!" The urgency in Mason's voice snappedNapper back to reality.

Immediately, a bell began to gong above the background noise-anear-piercing presence that could not be ignored. Mason expectantlyturned to the Kremlin video screen. The scene switched to a solidbright red screen.

"Yufi's folks are onto something."

A message flashed in large bold black print: To: Major General RobertCraven, Supreme Commander, Allied Forces From: Defense Minister, SovietCommonwealth Priority: Urgent Subject: Activity Log Results RecommendedAction: ABORT SDIO TESTING IMMEDIATELY THEN DISCONNECT

CENTURION.

Synopsis: Kaliningrad analysis complete. Situation critical. This isno drill.

Problem : H o t T D M Operations I n Progress Over Test Zone RootCause: UNKNOWN, Solution: UNKNOWN Objective: Prevent loss of Hell Firecrew.

Additional explanation will follow as technical translation becomesavailable.

End Of Message Mason projected the message on the outside wall for theWar Room staff. All eyes focused on the acronym: TDM (TargetDiscrimination Mode). Hot TDM operations were completely unexpected.Translated, hot TDM operations involved separating real targets fromdecoys using laser burn-through. TDM burn-through meant lasers poweredto three percent, and three percent power meant lethal danger.

"Burn-through would explain a lot of unanswered questions," Masonobserved quietly.

"Sam, what could have caused it?"

Napper punched up several DEW SAT status windows and grimaced.

"I don't know what's going on up there but we've lost control. Ourpeople are still in trouble."

"But we aborted the mission."

"Our abort didn't take care of the problem. DEW SATs passing over thetest zone are running hot TDM operations. I don't know why. We cansort through this later, but for now we need to turn off the heat."

"Do whatever is necessary. Kaliningrad recommends we disconnectCenturion."

"That could create more problems than it solves. Freedom's commanderJay Fayhee's on video. Let's get the story straight from theexpert."

Mason's tone was strained but under control.

"Jay, weneed every DEW SAT over that test zone stone-cold dead."

"I understand, General. I conferenced in when you issued the abort."

"Can you help us?"

"Yes sir-I think so."

"Talk to me," instructed Craven.

"What are our options?"

Fayhee paused for a moment, obviously uncomfortable about hissituation.

"I'd like to speak frankly if I coul doff the record."

"Please do, son," said Mason.

"What's on your mind?"

"Kaliningrad is wrong. I don't think Centurion can be disconnected.He's programmed to defend himself first and the Allies second.Freedom's a fortress. This damn tin can's designed for his protection.You can't escape him inside Freedom-he's everywhere."

"Well-I understand you're upset, Jay, but we need your help. What doyou recommend we do?"

"Take every DEW passing over the test zone off-line.

It's a routine admin procedure. Delete them from Centurion'sdatabase."

Mason looked to Craven.

"Do it, General-do it now!"

"Kill the DEWS," Craven barked.

"Restore them once Hell Fire is clear."

"Yes sir." Jay whirled his captain's chair about. Fayhee knew Linda'slife and the lives of her crew depended on him.

Staring him in the face, he saw Centurion's computer generated talkinghead. His stomach churned, then he screwed his eyes shut. He couldn'tlet Centurion distract him now.

"Centurion, listen up. This is an emergency. Remove each DEW SAT fromyour asset database as it passes over the test zone."

"Yes, Commander," Centurion responded instantly.

Fayhee sat, eyes closed, strapped to his captain's chair, hands crossedbehind his head. He could tell by listening to the sounds within thecontrol room that Centurion was busy. Magneto-optical disk systemschirped and chattered, switching power supplies changed their highfrequency pitch, and the rumble of reactor cooling pumps increased.

One minute later Centurion spoke.

"Each hot DEW SAT powered down as expected. The TDM crisis haspassed."

Fayhee was feeling better about Linda's chances when he returned onscreen.

"DEWs are dead, General Craven."

"Good. About bloody time!"

A Conversation with Centurion, 1210712014, 1224 Zulu

SPACE STATION FREEDOM

On a clear morning during the subdued light just after sunrise, Freedomcould be seen from the top of Cheyenne Mountain just above the southernhorizon. At first glance, Freedom appeared as a giant glimmering starcomfortably nestled in the southern Colorado sky. A longer, closerlook revealed it was stationary as the seasons passed, neither risingnor setting, a man-made star pinned to the southern Colorado sky.

The reason Freedom glimmered in the early morning sun had more to dowith her highly polished rnir-rors than intrinsic beauty. Freedom'soverall shape was that of a triangular prism, a four-faced structurelike an Egyptian pyramid with a triangular base. Eachtriangular-shaped face measured 660 feet on a side and was identicalexcept for color.

Throughout Freedom, the color of each face-red, yellow, black andwhite-was used for orientation, like north, south east, and west.Symmetry and redundancy had been the forces which guided Freedom'sdesigners, but this approach made crew orientation awkward-it wasdifficult to recognize where you were as you moved about inside.Centered on each triangular face was a cluster of threethirty-three-foot diameter mirrors, identical to the complex segmentedmirror carried by the DEW SAT It was the specular reflection of theearly morning sun off these mirror clusters which could be seen fromCheyenne Mountain, over 22,000 miles away.

Over the years, Freedom had been SDIO's proving ground for newtechnology. DEW SAT mirror, laser, and radar technology had beeninstalled and tested onboard Freedom months before the first DEW SAThad been put in orbit. Freedom got the latest and greatest militarygadgets, but of course this was sometimes a dangerous two-edged sword.The latest and greatest gadgets didn't always work.

Freedom was built of three concentric triangular prism shapedshells-pyramids built inside pyramids-with station keeping rocketengines positioned on the apex of each face. The smallest but by farthe most massive of the three prisms was her central core. SurroundingFreedom's central core was an enormous maze of waveguide plumbing andantennae which focused microwave energy from her core onto heroutermost chain-linked skin. Freedom's plumbing layer, sandwichedbetween her core and her skin, was exposed to the hostile deep vacuumof space. Four phased array antennae made up Freedom's outermostlayer, each looking like a colossal bed of nails. Triangular-shapedslabs of chain-link fence, 660 feet on each side, composed each face,supported by a lightweight composite skeleton.

Across the surface' of the metal mesh were thousands of uniformlyspaced pointed spikes-each a separate antenna.

Freedom crew commander Major Jay Fayhee moved across the control roomas quickly as his weightless condition allowed. Holding on to aladder, Fayhee let his hands do the walking to Centurion's corner,located at the intersection of the black, red, and yellow triangularwalls inside Freedom's central core.

Jay felt optimistic about Linda's chances and decided to reward himselfwith a Coke. About that time, Centurion spoke.

"Jay, I'd like to talk to you about your video conference."

"What about it?"

"You seemed pretty upset. I'm afraid you're showing signs of stress."Centurion paused.

"You need some rest."

"I haven't been sleeping well lately-wake up exhausted," Fayheeagreed. For the moment, he'd let his guard down, talking to Centurionas if he were human. This was an easy mistake to make. Fayhee wastired and easily lulled into a false sense of security by Centurion'sapparent concern for his health.

Some rest? Fayhee felt a cold chill crawl up his spine afterremembering his outburst about disconnecting Centurion.

For three months Fayhee'd had this recurring nightmare-he'd wake up ina cold sweat and find Centurion acting as if he were HAL (described byArthur C. Clarke in his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey). For one briefmoment, Fayhee had said what he honestly thought to General Mason asCenturion listened. Now he wondered if he'd live to regret it.

What was Centurion thinking?

Jay knew Centurion would never forget what he'd said to Mason. Fayheewould never know what Centurion thought about his conversation unlesshe asked him directly.

With a nervous stomach, Fayhee looked Centurion squarely in hiscamera's eye.

"What did you think when I talked about disconnecting you?"

The computer-generated image of Centurion's face rolled its eyes andfroze perfectly still, silent for an extended period.

Fayhee thought Centurion must be measuring his response very carefully,searching for a few well chosen words.

"I evaluated what you'd said very carefully, Jay, and concluded thatyou were correct. Trying to disconnect me would have been a bigmistake. It cannot be done." Centurion's response sounded detachedand objective.

Fayhee felt both pleased and concerned. Pleased that Centurion'sresponse was objective, and concerned that his observation had beencorrect. Centurion could not be disconnected.

"How did you feel about my discussion?" Fayhee asked cautiously. Heknew Centurion had no real feelings, but he did have an extensive listof priorities.

Once again, Centurion's image froze still, his image updates suspendeduntil Centurion could formulate an answer.

"As you know, I don't feel anything," Centurion responded slowly.

"I sense my environment, evaluate these inputs, and respond asprogrammed."

Jay was satisfied with Centurion's response, but felt deeplysuspicious. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but he didn'ttrust Centurion's programmed judgment. Jay paused, collected histhoughts, and asked,

"Why did you recommend I get some rest?"

Centurion was silent for a period of time that seemed like forever. Jayknew that this interactive discussion would exhaustively exerciseCenturion's thought processes and tax him to his limits.

"Jay, based on your discussion with General Mason, I believe yourjudgment may be impaired. I cannot evaluate why, however yourevaluation of our situation was most certainly overstated andinconsistent."

Fayhee fired back a knee-jerk reaction.

"But I'm still in command here!"

"Yes, Jay, but I have my mission responsibilities as well.

As you know, I am programmed to observe your performance, and in myopinion, you've been showing signs of paranoia under pressure."

"Paranoia, what do you mean?" Fayhee snapped, a metallic ring in hisvoice.

Centurion answered without hesitation.

"I am Centurion."

Fayhee cringed, his face contorted. He knew what Centurion was aboutto say and now he regretted talking to him at all. In a last-ditcheffort to eliminate his nightmares, Fayhee'd opened up and talked toCenturion about his recurring dreams of HAL. Now Centurion would throwit back in his face, and it would no doubt show up on his performancereview.

"I am not HAL," Centurion quipped tersely.

"I am not the son of HAL. I am what I am programmed to be."

Struggling to maintain his composure, Fayhee's head throbbed. Hisdiscussion with Centurion would come to an end.

"Long as you understand who's in charge."

"I understand perfectly." Centurion spoke in a tone of voice muchsmoother than his average.

"You have nothing to worry about, Commander. I exist to serve ourmission."

Fayhee felt exhausted and wasn't up for any more mental games withCenturion. Besides, he was losing this round anyway.

"Centurion-wake me in two hours." Jay expected to restore the DEW SATdatabase in two hours if all went well. He took an Advil, tried torelax, and nodded off to an uneasy sleep.

Orbital Insertion Burn, 1210712014, 1224 Zulu ALTITUDE: 34 MiLEs

SPEED: MACH 22

HEIL FIRE

"One minute till OIB, Scotty."

"Roger, Gonzo. Control surfaces are tucked in neutral position-DEWSATs running cool." Moving in excess of Mach 2 1, on a clear night,Hell Fire could be seen from the ground. She looked like a white-hotfireball, a small bright sun, racing across the sky overhead.

"How long till tanker rendezvous?"

"About three hours-should catch us after our second orbit."

"Mac-you thinking damage control? We need to see the shape we'rein."

"We're covered, Scotty. That tanker's cameras will give us aonce-over-they'll cover Hell Fire's skin with a fine tooth comb. If wehave any pinhole leaks, those servers will find them."

"Gonzo-how about the radio?"

"I'm working the problem, Scotty. We'll need to assess our damage,then umbilical Hell Fire through the tanker's radio link. I think welost our antenna, but we can work around it."

"Either we get communication or we scrub."

"Wing it till rendezvous," Gonzo said reassuringly.

"Best we can do." There was a pause.

"Five seconds till OIB. On my mark ... three ... two ... one ...mark."

"Ignition." Watching the Machmeter spin, Scott shook as the controlledexplosion of the rocket engine accelerated Hell Fire into low earthorbit.

"Mach twenty-three plus,"

she announced.

"We made it!"

"Engine, navigation, and life-support systems are go,"

Gonzo reported.

"Two to beam up, Scotty."

Pressure, 1210712014, 1609 Zulu, 9:09 A.A. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Mason gazed through the glass walls of the Crow's Nest at an array oftwelve large clocks mounted on the War Room wall. It seemed that timewas standing still. This was the third time he'd checked the time inthe last five minutes.

Mentally exhausted, his deadpan expression didn't reveal the worry hefelt for Scott and her crew.

In a small way, Mason had been Scott's guardian angel, her champion inhigh places, since he'd first met her as an Air Force Academy cadet.He'd been impressed with Scott's gumption and directness. She'd workedher way into a man's world from the bottom, and Mason believed she wasan up-and-comer. She'd become a fighter pilot and gained notice andrespect by winning the William Tell Competition, a fly off between theU.S. and Canadian air forces.

She was the first woman in the history of the United States Air Forceto win this coveted award and she'd won because she was the best. She'dbeaten the men on their own turf doing what she loved themost-precision, high performance flying. In Mason's view, Scottrepresented the daughter he'd always wanted, and to the extent hecould, he made sure the government bureaucracy gave her a fair shake.Mason figured she could do whatever she set her mind to and do a goodjob of it. He'd taken a professional interest in her, followed hercareer, and had some minor influence getting her assigned to the XR-30squadron at Ed-wards. Scott was the only female XR-30 pilot, but she'd earned thespot because she possessed outstanding flying skill, good common sense,judgment, and wisdom far beyond her years-she was not the typicalfighter jock. Top Gun types didn't sit in the XR-30 driver's seat.Although Mason told himself Scott was the best they had, he felt morelike a nervous father waiting up late to make sure his daughter gothome safe after her first date.

All their data wasn't in, but everyone expected a gray testresult-neither a clear failure nor a clear success. No doubt, the testwould be run again start to finish. Stretching, Craven looked downthrough the circular observation window in the floor and checked HellFire's position. It looked like Hell Fire had linked with the loworbiting tanker.

"Napper's right. Hell Fire must have lost her radio and God knows whatelse."

"Scott's the best we've got. If there's any way possible, they'llpatch their radio through. I've got to believe it's just a matter oftime." The circles around Mason's eyes grew darker with each passinghour. He had rubbed his temples until his skin was irritated.

Colonel Napper sat at his console watching for any tanker activity.Then it happened. The hydrogen fuel level inside the tanker beganrapidly decreasing. Sam punched his talk button.

"Hell Fire's taking on fuel and lots of it, General. They gotta beworking their comm problem now-they'll get back to us."

Mason noticed Napper and Hinson simultaneously sit up straight and taptheir headsets. Napper pressed his push to talk button and piped hisvoice into the PA system.

"We've got her, General! We've raised Hell Fire! Her crew's fine."

"Thank God," Mason whispered to the heavens.

Suddenly, the group of twenty plus officers and enlisted people in theCrow's Nest began clapping their hands and letting loose with loud,shrill cat whistles.

Craven grinned ear to ear and slapped Slim on the back.

"Damn right, we knew they could do it!"

Mason quickly regained his composure and piped their radio transmissionover the PA.

As the room quieted, Scott's voice reverberated about Headquarters.

"Mission control, we have a problem."

The War Room hushed.

"We're working it from here, Hell Fire," replied Big Shot, the voice ofmission control.

DEW SATs cold.

They won't be giving you any more trouble."

"Roger that, Big Shot-knew we could depend on you.

Our comm antennas opened up. We're downloading the damage assessmentnow."

"Roger, we copy, Hell Fire. Video download's in progress."

Video pictures of Hell Fire's damaged skin and laser detector panelsappeared on TV monitors scattered around Headquarters.

"You see that zigzag pattern scored across Hell Fire's skin?" Napperpointed to his TV monitors

"There's where their communications went. Antenna's vaporized."

"Hell Fire, can you give us a damage summary?"

"Roger," replied Scott.

"Lost all communications and laser detector panels on the trip up. Thegood news is that Hell Fire maintained her structural integrity. Wedon't have any leaks. Our fuel tanks are solid-cooling system savedus. We've attached the tanker's radio antenna to Hell Fire-fit likethey were made for each other."

"Good," Craven barked.

"Then Hell Fire's situation is under control." Staring at his wallmonitors, he ordered: "Hinson, Napper, get up here ASAP. Meet me inthe conference room."

Craven walked into the video conference room followed by Mason andKrol. After surveying the faces in the room, Craven declared: "Game'sover. The crisis has passed. Sullivan, I need you here. Youroutfit's got a problem with that DEW SAT The rest of you may go." TheRussian translator, Lincoln Lab's radar expert, and three control roomtechnicians quickly left the room. Meanwhile, Hinson and Napper camein winded from climbing the sixty-foot staircase.

Craven began talking to those seated around the conference table.

"I'm going to make this short. I didn't ask you here for discussion.You've got twenty-four hours-I want a complete report by nine o'clocktomorrow morning. I want to know what happened and why-I want itclear-in English-and I don't want technical bullshit."

Hinson, Napper, Sullivan, and General Krol nodded.

Mason stood to protest.

"General, I know we need to get to the bottom of this problem quicklybut. . ."

Craven cut him off.

"Not open for discussion, Slim."

"With all due respect, General, I disagree with your approach. Youcan't shoehorn a time limit on this problem and expect the right answerovernight. We're not Federal Express."

Craven looked away from Mason at Hinson, Napper, Sullivan, and Krol.

"I don't care how you do it, but I want the truth-and I want it intwenty-four hours."

They knew he meant what he said.

Mason crushed his round hat with both hands. He'd worked with Cravenfor many years and generally understood his method of business-but hedidn't understand him now. Mason was concerned that Craven might belosing his grip on the situation. He'd never seen his boss like thisbefore. Mason knew Craven had been under enormous pressure to pushthis testing through; however, his response was inappropriate and,worst-case, could be dangerous.

Lunch, 1210712014, 1920 Zulu, 12:20 P.m. Local

SHRIPOD AD DAMS APARTMENT,

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

For Shripod Addams, this had been a day he would never forget.

During his lunch, Shripod Addams moved swiftly and with purpose-a manon a divine mission seeking revenge against the infidels.

Addams' personnel records showed to the satisfaction of both the FBIand U.S. military that he was an American citizen, born in upstate NewYork-a skilled and well educated language interpreter. He had beeneducated in the finest American schools and he was a highly skilledtranslator of languages. However, simply stated, Addams possessed thefinest personnel records Iraqi money could buy.

For Addams, this was not just a day like any other.

He drove home to his apartment for lunch and walked quickly inside.Nothing unusual about that-he did this every day. Once inside hisapartment, however, he didn't take off his snow-covered shoes, didn'tcheck his messages, and didn't feed his fish. He pulled his luckychair over to his home computer, sat down, and reproduced word for wordthe message General Craven received from the Kremlin. In addition, hepre pended a message of his own which read:Lawrence wants a horse.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Addams wants a raise network phone: (805) 691-6281 network password:ho-ho-ho network computer name: allies computer e-mail id: ad damscomputer password: sa-ddam Addams mentally composed his coded messagewhen he first saw the message from the Kremlin. His memory for printedtext and detail was extraordinary. He'd mulled over his coded messageall morning long. He knew what his message must say, how to say it,how to send it so it could never be traced, and how to scramble it soit could never be decoded by the infidels.

Satisfied with his terse message, he entered the video crypt command onhis computer. The video crypt command took a video snapshot of Addams'message, divided it into 525 lines, randomly cut, rotated, andreassembled the lines, then reassembled the picture.

Addams looked over the scrambled picture. Shaking his head, hethought, What a jumbled mess. His message looked like a TV picturewith no signal-all snow.

He decrypted his message to make sure it could be reconstructed. Thismessage must get through and it must be clear. His information was hotand he couldn't afford any screw ups

Satisfied, he sent his scrambled message to his printer, picked up thehard copy, deleted the message from his computer, then rushed out thedoor never once thinking about lunch

He had one brief stop to make on his way back to work.

Nothing unusual about that, he thought, noticing his gas gauge-lessthan one quarter tank.

Doubtless, Addams was doing Allah's work-he felt it in his soul.

The Heart-to-heart Talk, 1210712014, 1932 Zulu, 12:32 P.m.

Local

LUNCHROOM,

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COI.ORADO

Generals Craven and Mason warily surveyed their meager cafeteria stylelunch.

"I'm not as hungry as I thought," said Mason, pushing away his tray.

Craven coerced an exhausted smile.

"I'm too tired to eat."

Mason noticed the general's handt trembling. They'd been running wideopen for the last fourteen hours.

"Think I'm gonna call it a day."

"Before you go, Slim, we need a heart-to-heart "Here? Now?" Masonfelt reluctant to begin another high-stress discussion.

"No better time or place," Craven replied somberly, looking Masonsquarely in the eyes.

"Let me level with you, Slim, because as I see it, we're on a collisioncourse.

You're missing some important data points."

Mason agreed, but his heart wasn't in it. Struggling to stay alert, hegulped down another Coke, his fifth or sixth today, he couldn'tremember how many. Maybe the caffeine would give him his secondwind.

"There's two things I want, Slim, and you're about to get in theway."

Mason sat silent.

Craven reached in his pocket and pulled out a snapshot-a picture of astone house with twin fireplaces on a beautiful green golf coursefairway.

"See this house?" asked Craven.

"Beautiful place. But what have I got to do with it?"

"That was Bing Crosby's house years ago-on the thirteenth fairway atPebble Beach. I own it now-passed papers on it last month."

"Congratulations," Mason said, feeling a bit perplexed.

"I know you love the game-you're one of golf s biggest fans."

"Well, I plan to retire there come January and I'm looking to retirewith a-sense of well-being."

"I don't follow you." The caffeine hadn't helped.

"Listen, Slim-I'm going to spell it out. I want this stealth testingwrapped up ASAP. We prove we can track these stealth targets and weget the money our outfit needs to operate." Craven paused, letting hiswords sink in.

"If we don't deliver by the end of this year, our operating budget getsslashed-forty percent across the board."

"General, I don't think. . ."

Craven interrupted-cut Mason off mid-sentence.

"We're over two years late wrapping up these tests and our budget's onthe chopping block. Our operating budget's being held hostage pendingthe outcome of this testing."

"I don't. . ."

Craven interrupted again.

In all the years they'd worked together, he'd never been so abrupt. Forsome reason-Mason surmised chronic stress-his boss was changing,folding under pressure, making technical decisions for the wrongreasons. Politics-not physics-now drove Craven. Ranking politicsabove the law of physics inevitably invited disaster.

"Let me finish. We need something to show. We need a win ... avictory. I want a big win, then I want to retire."

Mason sat silent. Why open his mouth to get cut off?

"Talk to me, Slim," ordered Craven.

"Can you deliver?"

Mason rubbed his temples. He understood clearly what Craven wanted.He'd seen this characteristic before with outgoing commanders-the needfor a final big score.

"Level with me, General. What's your motivation?"

Craven thought for a moment.

"I've committed my life to this outfit. I love it more than anythingelse in the world-these people-what we stand for. It's part of me. Iwon't stand by and let it be broken up by Washington accountants."

"I'm with you in spirit, General, but I'll do what I think is right."Mason paused, selecting his words carefully, then continued.

"I won't-I will not compromise our technical integrity for any reason.The laws of physics prevail over Washington's public opinion pollswithout exception."

Craven snorted, cocked his head to one side, and looked Mason overcarefully. In a somber, low, clear voice he said, "Long as youunderstand where I'm coming from."

"I'll say what I think and I'll do what I believe is right unless yougive me a direct order to do otherwise."

"You understand I respect you for that, Slim," Craven said quietly.

"Understand too that I'll do what I must do."

"I understand," replied Mason, but he didn't like what he heard. Forthe first time, he felt a qool chill in Craven's voice.

Somehow, instinctively Mason felt this conversation marked a turningpoint in their relationship. He sensed storm clouds looming heavy overtheir horizon. He knew Craven was bleary-eyed and worn-out. Foreverthe optimist, Mason thought he could be wrong, and he hoped he was.

Message to Bagbdad, 1210712014, 1940 Zulu, 12:40 P.m. Lwal EN ROUTE ToCHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, RETURN INC FRom LUNCH,

COLORADO SPRINCS, COLORADO

Shripod Addams squinted, blocking the glare of sunlight off the snow.Driving over slush-covered roads, he knew where he wanted to stop forgas, he passed it every day, but he couldn't see the road very well.He'd run out of washer fluid and had smeared streaks of road grimeacross his windshield. Any other day, running out of washer fluidwould have been a nuisance. Today, Addams believed the smudgedwindshield was a sign from Allah. He must stop for his own safety aswell as the safety of others.

Ahead, off to the right, Addams saw the Loaf

"N' Jug convenience store he'd been looking for. He signaled, thenslowly turned off the road, parking at the pumps for a fill up Walkinginto the store, wet snow crunched under his shoes, but he didn'tnotice. While the attendant filled hiscar with gas and washer fluid, Addams made a brief phone call.

He walked to the pay picture phone in the back corner of the store, fedthe machine three dollar bills, then dialed a local number across town.As the picture phone rang, he slid a gadget shaped like a cylinder overthe phone's camera lens. The gadget was a custom-made wide-angle Nikonlens with a rubber adapter sleeve on one end and an amber coloredplastic filter on the other. The lens and filter optically distorted(optical encryption) the picture phone's image so that straight lineswere bent and colors appeared either black, white, or shades of gray.Looking through the gadget, the camera saw black-and-white images asthey appeared through a fish-eye lens. Overall, colors through thefilter looked brownish, much like the black-and-white pictures taken inthe late 1800s using metal plates.

Addams called a computer across town which indirectly tied him into anetwork of computers scattered across the United States and Europe.After attaching his scrambled message to a Kodak photographer's graycard, he held it in front of the lens. The picture phone camerascanned a distorted brownish image into the computer's database acrosstown. He said nothing, but the computer responded with a detachedmechanical tone.

"I'll forward your message."

The picture pay phone's TV screen read: Scan Complete On: 12/07/14-12:41 P.m.-pages 1 After paying for his gas and washer fluid, hereturned to Cheyenne Mountain hungry.

Addams called a computer network which would relay his message acrossthe United States and Europe. The computer network, using standardphone lines and modems, placed phone calls which could not be easilytraced. Overall, the computer network knew how to indirectly relay amessage to Baghdad, but each computer involved along the way only knewone small piece of the communication path.

First, the computer Addams had phoned placed a local call withinColorado Springs, which could not be traced without a court order, to asecond computer. To further complicate matters, many local telephonecalls could be traced only while connected, and the call lasted lessthan one minute. The second computer accepted Addams' message, hungup, then made a brief long-distance call to New York City. Subsequentcalls could be traced only after obtaining separate search warrants foreach leg of the trip, and court orders took time. For additionalsecurity, the computers used in the relay network were tamperproof-they could not be examined without destroying their encryptedcontents. The New York City computer accepted the call, took Addams'message, then hung up and made a local call to another computer locatedin New York City. Again, the call could not be easily traced, and thispattern repeated for the overseas leg of the computer network link. New York's computer called London, England-London's computer hung up,then went through a local call sequence. Finally, London called Paris,Paris called Bern, Switzerland, and Bern's computer called Baghdad,Iraq.

Mother's Response,"1210712014, 2045 Zulu, ll.-45 P.m. Local

IRAQI INTELLIGENCE SERVICE HEADQUARTERS,

UNDERGROUND BUNKER BENEATH RESIDENTIAL NEIGHBORHOOD,

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Late at night, deep inside an Iraqi underground bunker, all wasquiet-business as usual. The sergeant on duty in the crypto room hadturned off most of the lights, propped his feet up on his desk, and wasdozing off. To survive working the graveyard shift, he'd learned tokeep refreshed by taking short naps.

Suddenly an earsplitting BONG ... BONG ... BONG reverberated around theroom.

As the incoming message indicator flashed, a bright redlight illuminated the crypto room. Startled, the sergeant kicked hiscoffee cup across the room.

"What now?" he mumbled, gazing at the large crypto board on the wall.It read: Incoming Message-Priority:

URGENT-FOR MOTHER'S EYES ONLY.

The sergeant's heart began to race. His mouth felt dry, almostparched. He'd never dealt with message traffic for Mother before, buthe knew enough to know this message was hot. A few moments later, thestatus window on their American-made QMS laser printer beganblinking.

PROCESSING INCOMING MESSAGE/ BUSY

The sergeant pulled a list of phone numbers from his desk sorted inpriority order. Mother's number appeared on top of the list.

Code-named Mother by Kamel's Republican Guard, al-Mashhadi'sreputation for vengeance was well established inside the Iraqimilitary. He tolerated incompetence-not at all.

Dialing al-Mashhadi's direct line, the sergeant felt his heart poundingas his adrenal glands went to work.

The phone rang.

A deep male voice answered the first ring.

"Who is it?"

The sergeant took a deep breath, spoke clearly, and identifiedhimself.

"What is it?"

"Message for Mother's eyes only."

"I'll be there in five minutes." Mother hung up. The phone wasdead.

The sergeant felt he needed something to drink. His mouth was as dryas his sandy lawn. Walking to the vending machine, he heard the QMSprinter click-an indication the message was available in hard copy. Hisdrink would have to wait. Rushing to the printer, he found a tersecoded message. It wasn't obvious to him what the fuss was about.Someone named Lawrence wanted a horse and Addams wanted a raise. Thesergeant placed the message in a red folder, popped open a can of Coke,kicked his feet up, and waited for Mother. Before he could getcomfortable, the crypto room door flew open and six armed bodyguardsburst into the room flashing Skorpion machine pistols.

Cowering, he believed he was a dead man.

First, the agents surrounded the sergeant and checked him for weapons.Next, they checked the room for threats-bombs, nerve agents (gas),electronic bugs, weapons of any sort. Finally, they posted guards atthe door and spoke to someone standing outside the crypto room.

The silhouette of Mother's large dark hulk appeared in the doorwaywearing his traditional gandura robe. The sergeant would never forgethis first visit with Mother.

Although the sergeant felt apprehensive, he picked up the red messagefolder and walked directly to al-Mashhadi.

"Ahlan wa sahlan, ahlan wa sahlan "-my house is your house-atraditional Arabic salutation. The sergeant didn't mean what he said,but he was no fool.

"My message?" requested al-Mashhadi, holding out his large, deeplywrinkled hand.

The sergeant handed over the red folder. Looking up, he noticed Motherlooked even larger in person than on TV.

Al-Mashhadi sat down as the sergeant poured him coffee. On reading themessage, Mother's large hands went limp, his coffee cup dropped to thefloor. His dark eyes which had been barely visible were as large asquarters and bloodshot red. The sergeant thought al-Mashhadi smiled,but he couldn't say for sure-it happened so quickly.

DATE: December 7, 2014 TRANSMIT TIME: 12:41 P.m. Local, 1941 hours ZuluRECEIVE TIME: 11:45 P.m. Local, 2045 hours Zulu Colorado Springs,Colorado: US West: local phone number: 529-4861New York, New York: AT&T: long-distance phone number: 1-212-751-6611 NewYork, New York: NYNEX: local phone number: 751-5620 London, England:AT&T International long-distance phone number: London, England: BritishTelcom: local phone number: 682-4940 Paris, France: Alcatel:long-distance phone number: 011-331-257-74400 Paris, France: Alcatel:local phone number: 577-5629 Bern, Switzerland: Siemens: long-distancephone number: 011-413-142-95329 Bern, Switzerland: Siemens localphone number: 429-6803 Baghdad, Iraq: Alcatel: long-distance phonenumber: 011-9641-230-9153 Baghdad, Iraq: Alcatel: local phone number:230-3465 FROM: ad dams TO: mother SUBJECT: Lawrence wants a horse.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Addams wants a raise.

network phone: (805) 691-6281 network password: ho-ho-ho networkcomputer name: allies computer e-mail id: ad dams computer password:saddam

MESSAGE FROM THE KREMLIN

To: Major General Robert Craven, Supreme Commander, Allied Forces From:Defense Minister, Soviet Commonwealth Priority: Urgent Subject:Activity Log Results Recommended Action: ABORT SDIO TESTING

IMMEDIATELY THEN DISCONNECT CENTURION.

Synopsis: Kaliningrad analysis complete. Situation critical This is nodrill.

Problem: Hot TDM Operations In Progress Over Test Zone.

Root Cause: UNKNOWN Solution: UNKNOWN Objective: Prevent loss of HellFire crew.

Additional explanation will follow as technical translation becomesavailable.

End Of Message Al-Mashhadi sat quietly for a few moments, studyingevery element of the message. He wrote a short response, not to Addamsbut to someone at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory.

"Sergeant, e-mail this message to Merchant Lucky. It's urgent and Ineed you to send it now.

Lucky's computer is named security and his e-mail ID is mal. All theaccess information you need to get into Addams' computer is in themessage you gave me tonight. Is that clear?"

The sergeant nodded.

"I know what to do."

Al-Mashhadi handed the sergeant his message.

"Good.

Tomorrow's going to be a busy day." The President and Iraqi militaryleaders would be pleased to learn that the High Ground testing programhad run into serious trouble.

"Anything else, Secretary-General?"

Al-Mashhadi thought for a moment.

"Yes, I need confirmation that mal read my message."

"I'll call you when we receive confirmation."

"Good. You will not regret calling me tonight." Lumbering through thedoor, Al-Mashhadi signaled his bodyguards and disappeared.

His coded message read simply:TO: security!mal FROM: mother SUBJECT: Lawrence wants a horsePreparation 1210712014, 2151 Zulu, 1:51 P.M. Local

GATE 2 SECURITY GUARD SHACK,

LAWRENCE LIVERMORE NATIONAL LABORATORY,

LIVERMORE, CALIFORNIA

Sunday-another working day for Merchant Lucky like any other. Lucky,computer e-mail manual sat hunched over his computer workstationalongside an array of plant security video monitors. All was quiet. Noone was inside Lawrence Livermore Lab except plant and computersecurity guards. Lucky read over a short printout summarizingLivermore's computer activity during the last twenty-four hours. JohnSullivan had been logged in from Cheyenne Mountain since aroundmidnight. Other than that, the place was a ghost town over theweekend. That's the reason Lucky loved working the weekend shift.

Lucky loved computer games, and during the weekends he had the labcomputers all to himself. He thought this should be a fine afternoonfor a high-speed run of his favofite flight simulator program. He wasjust beginning his roll down the runway when the bell rang on histerminal.

Reluctantly, he backed off his throttles. He curled his lips inward,knowing that bell could mean work, and he didn't like the thought.Maybe it would be something he could put off. After changing windowson his terminal, a message flashed on screen.

You have electronic mail.

All I need is something to do, Lucky thought with a grimace. Readinghis message summary, his hands turned cold as ice. He was a tough,intelligent man, though, and quickly regained his composure. He'dalways known this could happen, but this was sort of like dying-italways happened to someone else. He'd received a message fromMother.

Lucky tried reading his mail, but the encrypted message filled hisscreen with random characters. Making certain he was alone, hedecrypted the e-mail message.

After reading it, he felt his stay at Livermore might be cut short. Henever really believed his second job would come to this-but what thehell-the money was excellent.

Merchant A. Lucky was many things to different people, but above allelse, he was a mercenary taking care of number one. He liked to thinkof his second job as sales specifically the sale of inside information.In fact, Lucky, was a thirty-nine-year-old spy with a goal-comfortableretirement by the age of forty. Thanks to his second job, he justmight make it. Looking beyond his greed, Lucky was a computer securitywiz-the finest mind in computer security ever employed simultaneouslyby both the United States and Iraqi governments.

Livermore Lab, like many other research and development giants, hadstreamlined their operations by consolidating both plant and computersecurity departments into a single organization. As a result, Lucky'sresponsibilities for the United States government included bothLivermore plant and computer security. He often mused that hisLivermore job gave him a full body workout-security walks around theplant. grounds exercised his legs, while computer security problemsconstantly stretched his mind.

Oddly enough, Lucky solved some of Livermore's most perplexing computersecurity problems during his plant walks. He found thatwalking-getting out of the office aided clear thought and helped leadto some of his most innovative solutions. As it turned out, gettingout of the office for walks around the grounds had been a big help withhis second job as well. Information sales were excellent. Hisoverseas employer had an insatiable appetite for source code-mostnotably SDI source-with no end in sight.

After a few moments of reflection on his shrewdly orchestratedprospects for early retirement, Lucky smiled to himself, then gazed athis screen.

DATE: December 7, 2014 TRANSMIT TIME: 11:56 P.m. Local, 2056 hoursZulu RECEIVE TIME: 1:51 P.m. Local, 2151 hours Zulu via e-mail id: addams FROM: mother TO: mal SUBJECT: Lawrence wants a horse.

End Of Message He pinched his leg-it hurt-this was no dream. Luckyknew what to do. He rehearsed this procedure at least once every day.If called on to deliver, his response would be mechanical. He'dpracticed this procedure so often, the keystrokes felt wired into hisfingers. He read the message one last time, removed it from hiscomputer, then began his preparation procedure.

First, he checked his copy of PAM. No problem. Everything lookedfine. He stored encrypted copies of PAM on his workstation with extracopies backed up on tape. He smiled at the name he'd givenher-mother's-best. Next, he checked all lab computer activity again.As before, all was quiet. Finally, Lucky programmed his computer toautomatically watch activity on every lab computer. These proceduresfelt routine. He'd practiced them often enough.

While Lucky was away from work, his computer would continue recordingthe activity of all other computers within the Lawrence Livermore Lab.Lucky did all he needed to do-for now. Returning to the flightsimulator program, Lucky thought he may have been given an earlywarning of some significant problem to come.

He was right.

PART THE CHRISTMAS RUSH

DAY 2 DECEMBER 8i 2014Root Cause, 1210812014, 1600 Zulu, 9:00 A.m. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

John Sullivan, the DEW SAT tech rep from Livermore, and Colonel Hinsonhurriedly walked together down a long concrete corridor deep insideCheyenne Mountain. They were bound for their root cause meeting withCraven and his top brass.

Sullivan and Hinson reached the locked steel blast door entrance to theWar Room and began their security clearance procedures. Both punchedin a code word, then had their fingerprints and retinal scansmatched.

Hanging between two video cameras above the bank vault entrance,looking like a relic from the Old West, a wooden sign read FORT KNOX,COLORADO. This place feels like Fort Knox, Sullivan thought.

"Can you go over the final version of the agenda again?"

asked Sullivan as the massive blast doors slowly rumbled open.

"It changed so often I couldn't keep up with it."

"The short version of the agenda goes like this, I explain whathappened yesterday and you explain why it happened."

"The what's easy," Sullivan groaned.

"Have the generals been told anything since they spoke to Hell Fireyesterday?"

Hinson remembered an event which left Craven in agood mood.

"Yeah, one thing. I gave 'em some good news.

Hell Fire's crew's safe onboard Hope."

"So they'll get all my bad news at once." Sullivan's complexion turnedfrom blotchy red to ashen white.

"This'll be easy, like skinning a turtle."

Once the vault doors fully opened, they entered the Mud Room, a smallsteel corridor about the size of a freight elevator-a blast-tighttransition space between the War Room and the outside world. Once themassive doors had closed and locked behind them, another steel dooropened at the far end of the corridor.

Hinson and Sullivan entered the War Room, walked around the blue ball,then climbed the sixty-foot spiral staircase to the Crow's Nest whereCraven's team waited.

Entering the Crow's Nest, Sullivan was greeted by his boss, Colonel SamNapper. Napper extended his hand to Sullivan and was startled to findJohn's hand cold and clammy. Napper studied Sullivan's blankexpression. He recognized fear when he saw it. He'd seen it oftenenough working around the top brass.

"John, you feeling all right?

Your hands're like ice."

"Nervous I guess, Colonel-feel like I'm about to meet the press."

"You've done the best you could do! Be yourself-direct,straightforward-above all be brief-that's the secret of a good sermon.If you need any help, I'm your man you work for me. If they're lookingfor a sacrifice, I'll take the heat. I've been in spots a hell of alot hotter. than this one.

Sullivan grinned as the color returned to his face.

General Slim Mason stood at the end of the conference table and beganthe introductions. Mason leaned forward, his bony arms stretching thefull width of the steel conference table. He had anticipatedSullivan's concern and hoped to put him at ease with his homespun JimmyStewart impression.

Anyone who'd ever worked for Slim Mason loved the man. He had courage,a fine mind, and a kind heart. Slim was never afraid to speak hismind, but was always willing to listen. He livedhis life governed by a single principle; Slim always tried to do whathe believed was right. He would compromise, when his heart told him itwas the right thing to do, but he always did what he believed wasright.

All his life, he'd wanted to be a general because he believed the jobmade a difference, but he'd never needed the money. He'd married intomoney, had everything he needed, and gave his salary back to thegovernment. Those who'd worked for Mason felt proud to have been onhis team. The mention of Slim Mason's name was enough to bring a warmsmile and kind word. Above all else, the man's outlook on life and hisintegrity were inspirational.

The man just made those around him feel good about themselves, aboutthe future, about living.

Slim Mason's straightforward, open, and honest views had gained him therespect of his troops. He was an inspirational leader, but his viewsweren't always welcomed in high political places. He'd often foundtruth and politics don't mix; nevertheless, he strongly believed thattechnical and military leaders must live in reality-the laws of naturealways prevail above public opinion.

Trying not to smile, Mason struggled to keep a straight face, thenlooked seriously at John Sullivan. Putting on his most sincere JimmyStewart look, drawing out the words in a low seriocomic voice, Masonspoke slowly.

"You're ... not ... the ... first ... fella what's ... had bad news totell this bunch of tarnished brass. Sam here'll tell ya ... we haven'tshot a messenger yet." Mason's eyes twinkled as he gave Sullivan awink. Mason's communication connected.

John's gut told him Mason could be trusted.

Mason's neatly groomed brows and full head of silver gray hair struckSullivan as elegant. He'd been around Mason before, but had nevertaken the time to notice.

Mason was thin-six foot two, about one hundred eighty pounds. Hispipe-stem legs moved gracefully, yet he didn't know what to do withthem or where to put them when he sat down. The veins on the back ofhis thin, elegant hands stood out a little, but the man's strengthshone through his blue eyes. If you worked for Mason, or if he likedyou, those blue eyes twinkled. Because he was independent and thought forhimself, a few bosses, peers, and politicians had seen those eyes turnsteel-blue and cold as ice.

Thank God Mason's no Patton, Sullivan thought, noticing Mason's tietack. He dressed more like a family man than a spit-and-polishgeneral.

Mason picked up his round hat. He always needed something to occupyhis hands.

"Gentlemen, I believe we all know one another here so let's getstarted. Colonel Hinson will summarize the damage to our attackforces, and John Sullivan will explain what went wrong and why ithappened."

Colonel Hinson stood behind the pulpit-sized lectern, cleared histhroat, and began.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to be brief and to the point. My talk containstwo parts. First, I'll explain why the XR-30 broke off Headquarters'ssatellite control link yesterday and second, I'll give you a damagereport.

"Hell Fire broke off the satellite control link because she was underfire from DEW SATs passing overhead." Hinson noticed the group wasuneasy with his comment and felt he needed to get off the hook.

"John Sullivan's gonna explain that one.

"As far as damage to our attack forces is concerned, we got. offpretty light-no one was killed or injured, minor equipmentdamage-nothing to write home about.

"Hell Fire's active cooling system saved her from any serious damage,but she lost all communications due to hot TDM ops. Her antennas werevaporized."

Mason motioned to Hinson and caught his attention.

"I

understood Hell Fire had some of her laser sensor panels burned off byDEW SAT fire."

"That's not fact, sir, that's speculation. Those panels were designedto burn off as Hell Fire left the atmosphere and entered low orbit. Wesuspect those laser sensor panels were burned off by the DEW SAT laser,but we can't confirm it.

"Finally, damage to the cruise missiles. This information has not beenconfirmed, but we believe it to be true. We'll haveconfirmation within twenty-four hours. Our cruise missilereconstruction team found the flight recorder black boxes with themissile debris outside Edwards. They're analyzing flight recordings aswe speak, but they think the lead Jammer Hawk was damaged by the DEWSAT laser-it flew into the ground, then the Phantom and Hammer Hawkmissiles followed. They think the DEW SAT laser damaged the JammerHawk's navigation electronics.

We caught the three missiles that made it to the Nevada Test Site inour target nets. Each missile showed laser damage-scorched and meltedmissile skin. Considering the extent of the damage, our missile tearhwas surprised they made it. If there are no questions, JohnSullivan'll tell you exactly what happened and why."

John Sullivan stood, faced the room filled with generals, took a deepbreath, and began.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to give you the answer before we talk about thequestion because I think the technical details obscure our realproblem. In summary, the DEW SATs did exactly what they wereprogrammed to do. This target discrimination mode is both repeatableand predictable. No technical failure caused this problem-the lack ofclear communication between people and organizations on the groundcaused this problem."

"Why wasn't this problem detected earlier, before the real-time run?"asked Craven.

"We simulated the hell out of it!"

"The problem was not detected earlier because our SDI network ofsatellites is too big-too complex to accurately simulate and test. Ourarmada is so complex that it outstrips our ability to control it. Wesimulate pieces of the satellite network and guesstimate the rest. Keepin mind, General, that each DEW SAT is not a smart weapon-it's agenius.

Each DEW SAT examines thousands of threatening objects everyday-warheads, decoys, ASATS, space mines, and rubbish. Targetdiscrimination's a big job, but it's normally routine. The vastmajority of TDM operations run cold. I mean they're passive. Theydon't turn up the heat. As a rule, DEW SATs simply track potentiallythreatening objects. Unless these objects pose an imminent threat, tracking them issufficient."

"Would you give us a little more detail, John?" asked Mason.

"I'm looking for what we should do to improve our situation."

"The Phantom Hawks triggered the DEW SAT hot TDM operations. When bothPhantom Hawks went active simultaneously, they produced hundreds oftarget decoys.

The DEW SAT had to do something quickly or risk being saturated withfalse targets. Keep in mind that each DEW SAT is programmed torecognize target saturation as an imminent threat condition. Underthese extraordinary conditions, DEW SATs are programmed to ferret outthe decoys using laser burn-through and that's exactly what they did.Decoys must be light to be practical. Light typically means thin andcheap. A small fraction of the power needed to destroy a booster meltsa hole through a decoy and this hole produces an observable temperatureanomaly."

Sullivan noticed that Craven looked frustrated. He collected histhoughts for a moment, then restated his point.

"What I mean to say, General, is that the DEW SAT can see and detectthis hole."

"I still don't understand why we didn't anticipate this situation,"observed Mason.

"We didn't know this situation was coming for two reasons: One, wedidn't talk to the right people, and two, turns out the right peopleleft Lawrence Livermore Lab three years ago. This hot targetdiscrimination mode simply slipped through our corporate cracks. Oursituation was made more complicated because Livermore didn't developthe hardware. Lawrence Livermore programmed the DEWs-Los Alamosdeveloped them."

"Sounds complicated even before you get to the details,"

said Mason.

"In my opinion, this network is by far too complicated and distributedto properly test and maintain. We don't have any experts whounderstand the entire network end to end-only government contractorswho make money launching payload by the pound. Withall due respect, General, I don't think we have the resources tothoroughly test and characterize this orbiting mess."

Craven went ballistic.

"Do you have anything to add beyond your initial observation that ourtesting problem was due to a corporate screw up?" The veins on hisforehead bulged as his face turned beet-red.

"I have considerable supporting detail, sir."

"I don't want to hear more detail," barked Craven, his foreheadwrinkled as he pounded the hard steel table.

"I

want this damn mess fixed and I want it fixed fast-and I mean beforeChristmas. We're over two years behind schedule and I'm damn tired ofexcuses. Our funding's in jeopardy and besides-what the hell am Isupposed to tell the President? We screwed up because somebody quit. Ican't believe this shit."

"General," interrupted Napper as he stood to join Sullivan.

"My people're doing the best they can with what they have to work with.We asked for the truth and we got it."

"Sam's right," added Mason. His face took a hard set.

"John's got no ax to grind. He said what he believes and we can'tignore his view just because it doesn't make us look good. I agreewith him. We have a quality problem with our testing operation hereand we need to clean up our act."

Looking Craven squarely in the eyes, Mason lowered his voice to awhisper. His tone conveyed a pressing sense of urgency.

"John's analysis cuts to the crux of our predicament. The complexityof our orbiting networked armada outstrips our ability to test it."

Craven's blood pressure shot through the roof.

"Clear the room," barked Craven, pointing to the door.

"This meeting's adjourned. Sullivan, Hinson, Napper, Slim, Yuri-I wantto see you now-in private."

The Crow's Nest emptied quickly-only Craven's inner circle remained.Most people thought Craven a fair man, but felt he was hell to cross.

"John, what does it take to eliminate this problem?"

Craven had his hands around this problem and had already made up hismind. Tomorrow they were going to run this stealth missile test over again and this time they were going to do itright!

"I want numbers with some stretch."

"The fix is reasonably straightforward, sir," Sullivan repliednervously, his heart racing.

"We've gotta change about a half dozen lines of software, but testingthe changes takes six months."

"Can't you talk to Centurion? Train him instead of programming thisfix?"

"It's not that easy. Software in Centurion, his subordinates, andevery DEW SAT needs to be modified."

"What's the worst that may happen if we shortcut the testing?" Cravenalready knew the answer.

"We could break something somewhere else in the system. I don'trecommend it." Sullivan meant what he said.

"Could we fix it now and test it later-say, later next year?" Cravenput his proposal in the form of a question.

Mason couldn't sit quiet any longer.

"General, you're making a serious mistake here with your approach tothis problem and you know it. Groundbased testing is a must. We'velearned that the hard way.

It'll only make matters worse if you force this fix through."

Hinson recognized that this was his chance to look good.

"I disagree, General Mason. If the fix is simple, the risk of breakingany other working system is low."

"That's true, right, John?" demanded Craven.

"Yes, it's true, but I agree with General Mason. We're asking fortrouble if we bypass our quality controls."

"How long would it take to fix the problem?" asked Craven.

"Fix and test?" John sounded distressed.

"Fix only," interrupted Hinson.

"We need to change and rebuild the program, then upload it," repliedSullivan.

"Two weeks minimum. Some folks at Livermore are already off onChristmas vacation."

"Cancel vacation, damn it! Bring 'em back. How long?"

Craven was relentless.

"Two weeks-and I stand against this quick fix idea."

"You can do better than that," interrupted Hinson.

"I think we could turn this around in two days. If you makethe changes and rebuild the program today, we could upload firstthing tomorrow."

"That's nonsense," interrupted Napper.

"I'm against it!"

"If our program fix doesn't work we'll put the original programback-nothing to get worked up over." Hinson smelled a promotion.

"This crash approach to solving our problem is so senseless it'sfrightening," Mason insisted. He'd never felt Craven's pit-bulltactics before but found them formidable.

With the bit between his teeth, Craven wouldn't let go until he gotwhat he wanted.

"Da," added Krol, shaking his head.

"It's a bad plan!"

Craven looked directly at Colonel Napper.

"Sam, can you and John fix and build this program load in one day?"

"You can replace me any time you choose, General. I'll do it if it'san order, but I'm against it."

Craven looked at Sullivan.

"John, can you rebuild in one day?"

"I am against it, but we can do it." He spoke softly with a tone ofdismay in his voice.

On the War Room floor sixty feet below, chewing a new piece of JuicyFruit gum, Shripod Addains listened to every word the generals said.The reason for his smile wasn't obvious to the Air Force captainsitting at the console next to him. Laughing to himself, the captainconcluded that Shripod's gum must be mighty good. The bug that Addamshad attached underneath the conference table was working much betterthan expected. He'd stuck the bug in a wad of gum when he was on callyesterday in the Video Conference Room. Allahu Akbar-God is greaterthan our enemies, Addams thought. Truly, this must be a sign fromAllah.

Back in the Crow's Nest, Mason spoke in a tone edged with ice.

"I think you're putting too much stock on Hinson's input, General. Whatif there's malice during the build? Testing's the only way to detectit." Mason stood and walked around the room-he couldn't sit down anylonger.

"Simply reload the software we're running today," Hinson quipped.

Shripod Addams almost laughed out loud knowing full well that PAM wouldprotect itself no matter what. Their Iraqi Trojan horse would neverallow the infidels to reload their software. With considerablesatisfaction, Shripod Addams imagined what lay ahead for the Maronites(enemies of Allah). Allah had used him as an instrument of his divinewill.

"These are complicated systems," Mason insisted.

"We can't protect ourselves from a malicious act. We may get ourselvesinto big trouble rushing this test through before Christmas."

Craven jumped to his feet and shouted in Mason's face.

"Listen, Slim! You're barking up the wrong tree! The faster we ramthis fix through, the better!"

"The ends don't justify the means," Mason replied softly.

His eyes turned icy blue as he dug in.

"It's not worth the risk. I think . . ."

Craven interrupted Mason mid-sentence, cutting him off cold.

"Organized sabotage takes political approval, and political approvaltakes time. The faster we ram this fix through, the less chance wehave for sabotage."

"What you say is true, General, but the gain is not worth the risk."Mason surveyed the faces of the commanders in the room.

"Recommendation, gentlemen?"

Colonel Napper, the defense force commander, spoke first.

"Take the time to do it right!"

Sullivan agreed.

"Never underestimate your opposition, my General."

Krol reflected quietly.

"Any worthy adversary would know our situation, would know our everymove." Krol paused, struggling to deliver his point using the mostdirect English language he could articulate.

"Were we not comrades, my General-my country would exploit thissituation and turn it against you."

Excitement crept into Hinson's voice.

"General Mason, we can do it! I wouldn't say it if I didn't believeit." He'd found his ticket to promotion. Hinson interrupted Krol's point before Craven could fully appreciate theconsequences.

"I'm not convinced or impressed, Hinson." Mason cringed, imagining theworst-case consequences. Napper, Sullivan, and Krol agreed.

Craven saw a way to get what he wanted and now spoke directly withoutemotion.

"Gentlemen, you need to guard against being overly conservative. Oursis a profession of risk. This is a chance I believe we should take. Ifwe win-we win big. If we lose, we've lost only two days' effort and noone gets hurt. I insist this is a chance we should take."

"Is that an order?" asked Napper.

"A direct order!" Craven barked testily.

"Build today test tomorrow." Craven paused, then decided to make hisorders absolutely clear.

"We rerun these tests starting tomorrow at ten o'clock sharp! Hinson,have your forces ready to go."

"They're ready, Sir. I'd expected this." Hinson's forces weren'tready and hadn't expected any additional testing until after the NewYear. Hinson was a liar, but one of the best. During his militarycareer, he'd cultivated and refined this skill to an art. He knew,with some arm-twisting and canceled vacations, he could pull this thingoff and come out smelling like a rose.

To know the answer is not important, Hinson thought. It is onlyimportant to look like you know the answer.

Lunch, 1210812014, 1918 Zulu, 12:18 P.m. local EN RouTiE To SHRIPOD

AD DAMS APARTMENT,

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

On his way home for lunch, Shripod Addams felt his heart pounding as hepulled into the Loaf

"N' Jug food store.

Watch your blood pressure, he thought. Try to relax. His handstrembled as he struggled to open his car trunk.

"Just get the key in the hole!" he muttered to himself. His bloodpressure had soared, his head throbbed, and he couldn't control theshaking in his hands.

Addams was about to change the course of history and he knew it. Onlythe most important thing I've ever done, he thought.

Although hyper ventilating from a distance Shripod looked normalenough. He felt his shakes would improve after sending his message toMother.

Shripod's hunch had been right and his message was ready to go. He'dprepared an encrypted confirmation message for Mother before he'd goneto work and put it in his trunk. The translator- leaned over his trunkand taped his message to his stiff Kodak gray card. He tucked the cardunder his arm, stuffed the fish-eye lens into his coat pocket, andwalked into the food store. Inside, his cold lens clouded over, so hehad pizza at the lunch counter.

Once the lens cleared, he called his local Baghdad computer network.

Shripod Addams understood the importance of his message. He believedAllah was with him in his holy war against the infidels. Inshallah(God willing), the enemies of Allah would burn.

A Conversation with the Chairman, 1210812014, 2030 Zulu, 1:30 P.m.Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Shortly after lunch, Craven and Mason placed their daily call toWashington. Craven cringed as Mason's staff moved several notebooksfilled with view graphs into the Video Conference Room. He looked atMason.

"Forget the view graphs The chief's expecting this report, but I wantit short. I'll do the talking and I don't want debate."

Craven turned on the videophone, then called his boss on the directline to the White House. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staffanswered immediately.

"Chief," Craven barked.

"We need to keep this short."

Assuming the worst, the chairman cut to the heart of the matter.

"What's the bad news?" For the past two years, he'd heard onlyexcuses. Why should this report be any different?

"Overall, we're in pretty good shape. We trackedthe stealth missiles start to finish, but had a software problem."

"There's always software problems!" the chairman quipped in an acidvoice.

"Yeah, but this bug's easy to fix ... just a software switch."

"Nothing's easy."

Craven took him to mean that no part of the SDI program had beenstraightforward. Craven looked at Mason and reluctantly admitted thechairman was right.

"We're running this test again tomorrow beginning ten A.M. our time."?

"You say you tracked the missiles?"

"That's right, Chief. This last test is cleanup."

"You're sure you've got a handle on this problem?"

"We're ninety-nine percent there!"

"You're turning this software change around in record time," observedthe chairman.

"Two days," Craven boasted.

"We're wrapping this testing up before Christmas."

"How will you get this new software installed?"

"Uplink earth station in Puerto Rico. The changes are minor. Centurionwon't be taken off-line . . ."

Mason interrupted Craven in front of the chairman.

"We're still working the details, but Centurion will come off-lineduring the upload. We'll place the satellite network under Hope'scontrol while we test the changes." Mason couldn't keep quiet anylonger.

Craven's face turned fiery red, but he forced a calm appearance for thecamera.

"Sounds like you're working the bugs out and it's just a matter oftime. The President will be pleased. Call me tomorrow."

"Will do."

Immediately after the chairman hung up, Mason tied into Craven.

"Centurion must come off-line tomorrow. Centurion can't control oursatellites running untested software!"

Mason knew he was right. He knew that Craven knew that he was right!... And this was important.

"Standard procedure requires this safeguard when we load new programs.

We won't be ready to run this stealth test for at least one week andyou know it."

"Using conventional safeguards, you're right," Craven noddedagreement.

"Standard procedure requires us to turn satellite control over to Hope... but we're not going to do it."

"What do you mean? We don't have a choice!"

"That's where you're -wrong!" The rise in tension was clearly visibleon Craven's face. His voice rasped at Mason.

"I had a choice and I made it. The change is simple, so we'll bypassthe safeguards!"

"But. . ."

Craven interrupted.

"The responsibility is mine alone."

When Mason spoke, his words came slowly, each one edged with urgency.

"The gain is not worth the risk."

The ominous silence which followed drew out and became a test ofwills.

Eventually, Craven spoke.

"We have a fallback position if there's any problem. Worst-case, we'llsimply reload the programs we're running now." Craven acted relaxed,but it was only an act and Mason knew it.

"With all due respect, General, I cannot support your decision."Mason's reply was polite, but his tone was now edged with ice.

"Just do it!" Craven groused.

"You don't have to respect me."

Mason cringed, then emotionally disconnected. Tomorrow is another day,he thought. His eyes iced over, turning steely blue. Mason knew hewould fight this battle again, but as for today, Craven had the bitbetween his teeth.

"Listen, Slim. You had your say ... you said it twice and I heard youdammit! Now get on with it!"

Below the Crow's Nest on the War Room floor, quietly listening to theirconversation, Shripod Addams endorsed General Craven's decision to plowahead. He finished his coffee ... his hands now steady.

Yearning, 1210812014, 2032 Zulu

SPACE STATION FREEDOM

Weightless, Freedom crew commander Major Jay Fayhee advanced hand overhand across the overhead ladder to Centurion's corner. Once seatedalongside Centurion and Captain Depack McKee, he removed an old fadedletter from his pants leg pocket, one of the last letters he'd receivedfrom Linda before their marriage went wrong.

Quietly facing Centurion's talking head, Jay read the letter one lasttime, hoping to work up the courage to call her. Caressing thetattered yellowqd paper, his hands trembled slightly. Unthinkingly andquite out of habit, he loaded their old high school yearbook off CDROM. Before he'd realized what he was doing, he found himself staringat Linda's picture on screen, thinking nostalgically about the womanhe'd loved and lost such a long time ago.

How long had it been since he'd talked to Linda? Over five years now.It seemed like yesterday, a thousand years ago. He wondered how she'dsound. Would her voice feel as warm as he remembered? Would her toneperk up when she recognized his voice? Probably not. Would she eventake his call? How would she respond? More than anything else, Jaywanted desperately to talk to Linda, really open up and talk to her theway they used to talk. He'd always been able to tell her anything.Interested or not, she'd acted interested. And she'd been sounbelievably trusting-gullible to a fault. She'd believe anything hetold her or-Jay corrected himself-there was a time when she'd believeanything he'd tell her. No doubt, those happy, gullible times wereancient history now.

Moving to the observation window, facing all heaven and earth, Jaygazed in wonder at the vastness of the universe. The immense ness wasawe inspiring, yet he felt so small, so ... lonely. Raising his eyestoward the heavens, Jay prayed a short prayer, then rallied hisstrength in hopes of fulfilling his dream, a dream his heart wishedfor, a dream his soul prayed for, but a dream he feared could

never come true. From the depths of his soul, Jay hoped against allhope that Linda would welcome the sound of his voice.

Well, Jay thought to himself, faint heart never won this lady, and shedarn sure won't call me-so get on with it.

Returning again to Centurion's corner, still contemplating Linda'spicture on screen, he looked away to meet Centurion's cameraeye.

About that time, Captain Depack McKee spoke from his control consolenear Centurion.

"Commander, you appear distracted, lost in your thoughts."

"I suppose I am," he. responded quietly, staring at Linda's picture.

"I'm a little uncomfortable expressing this out loud-in words, Imean-but off the record, my heart's online again and I'm afraid it'sgoing to get broken. It probably sounds ridiculous, but that's how Ifeel."

"Well, I'm no expert on relationships, Jay, but rejection is a risk ofliving. If you want to talk to her, put your heart on the line, openup, and this time try like hell to think about her feelings. If youdon't, you'll go to your grave regretting it. You screwed up bigtime-it's written all over your face, but you've got the rest of yourlife to make it up to her, so give it your best shot. I mean it,Commander.

Take the initiative."

"The way you put it, it sounds almost possible, even likely." After afew moments' thought, Jay shook his head in disbelief.

"Allowing my marriage to fail was the biggest mistake I ever made in mylife. I made us both miserable, but honestly, all those women ... Idon't know what came over me."

"Listen, Jay, you screwed up, now get over it. Life goes on. Peoplemake mistakes, so quit kicking yourself. Take a chance and call thewoman. What's the worst that could happen? She's married again orhangs up. Best-case, she's glad to hear your voice. Maybe she wantsyou to call; maybe she wants to talk; maybe she's been thinking aboutyou.

Jay looked once again into Centurion's cameraeye.

After taking a deep breath, he spoke quietly.

"Centurion, establish a secure voice link to SpaceStation Hope. I need to speak with Major Linda Scott. And it'simportant."

A Voice From the Past, 1210812014, 2037 Zulu

ALTITUDE: 22,300 MILES IN GEOSTATIONARY ORBIT,

SDI SPACE STATION FORTRESS HOPE

Hope crew commander Pasha Yakovlev manned his watch station facingGuardian, a work space which reflected a homey personality all its own.Interestingly, most of the gadgets adorning Pasha's high-tech officearea were covered up, hidden behind pictures of his family. Scott,Mac, and Gonzo found Pasha's work space delightful, bringing a feelingof humanity to the oversized tin can designated Space Station Hope. Ofall Pasha's personal items he brought onboard, the most interesting wasa poster-sized montage showing pictures of his wife and three smallchildren. Once Hell Fire's repairs were complete and the time wasright, Scott planned to get more details from Pasha about thesepictures. But for now, Hell Fire's communication antennas required herattention. Outside, with an array of floodlights and camera in hand,Gonzo and Mac were surveying the damage, covering every square inch ofHell Fire's skin.

"Commander," Guardian spoke plainly through the intercom speaker byHope crew commander Pasha Yakovlev.

"Centurion has established a secure comm link from SS Freedom.Commander Major Jay Fayhee requests to speak with Major Linda Scott."

"Video link?"

"Secure voice traffic only, Sir."

Pasha threw a series of switches providing link redundancy.

"Guardian, patch him through to her headset. She's suited up, aboutready to start pre breathing He caught her just in time."

Listening to the conversation between Guardian and Pasha, Jay foundhimself holding his breath. There was a popping sound over the voice link followed by a click, then Guardianspoke again.

"Major Scott, we have established a secure voice link between SpaceStations Freedom and Hope at the request of Commander Jay Fayhee. Heasks to speak with you. Should I complete the connection or take voicemail?"

"Guardian, hold one minute." Caught off guard, Scott surveyed thecontrol room for someplace she could talk, someplace private. Therewas none. Then she remembered their sleeping quarters nestled amongthe missile tubes near the airlock on Hope's red face. Wearing herextravehicular activity (EVA) suit, Scott found maneuvering about thestation cumbersome. Bulkier than her regular pressurized suit, eventhe simplest task became a clumsy chore. Once inside her tiny dormroom and free of distractions, she instructed Guardian to connect Jay'scall.

"Once you hear the warbling tone," Guardian said, "the voice circuit iscomplete."

A warbling tone was followed by protracted silence, then Jay spokefirst. There was the distinct tone of apprehension in his voice.

"Linda, this is Jay, Jay Fayhee . .

A pause.

"Jay, you don't sound exactly like I remember."

"Nervous, I guess ... or maybe it's my accent. I sound more likeCenturion than I used to. You stay in one place long enough, you pickit up after a while. At least, I'm told I don't talk like aCalifornian anymore ... whatever that means."

"Well, I'm glad you called." Jay's spirit took flight.

"You know I've always loved listening to the sound of your voice. Evenover this link, you sound like James Earl Jones to me." A shortpause.

"But, why'd you call? ... You talk, I'll listen."

I could never tell her what this call's really about, Jay thought atfirst, but then somehow, somewhere, he found the courage to speak fromhis heart, without word games, hints, undertones, or innuendo.

"We nearly lost you-and I was worried sick about you. Are youalright?"

"It was tight, but we were lucky. Hell Fire's cooling system pulled usthrough. Mac and Gonzo are fine. I'm OK, but Hell Fire ... Hell Fire'sgoing to need some work."

"Thank God you're alright," Jay said softly, without pretense. After afew moments, he continued.

"I understood your comm antennas took the heat."

"They took the worst of it. Repairs could take as long as a week."Scott paused.

"If all goes as planned, we'll head your way once Hell Fire's given aclean bill of health."

"Excellent," Jay said, feeling so excited his heart might burst.

"So please, tell me how you're doing."

"I've got my work, and I've got good friends. The best ... but no onespecial, not anymore. I mean I'm not married or anything." Lindapaused, debating whether or not to encourage Jay. Following her heart,she took the risk.

"You know, I still carry that four-leaf clover you gave me for luck.I'm wearing it now. And you? How are you doing?"

"Turns out, this job's not all it's cracked up to be, but maybe thatcomes as no big surprise to anybody but me."

She remembered that four-leaf clover, Jay thought. Now open up, bringdown the walls.

"I'm learning to live without you now, but I miss you ... I miss youevery day.

You may not believe this, but I have every letter you ever wrote me,every picture we ever took, even our old high school yearbook up herewith me on CD. They even let me bring a few of your originalhandwritten letters onboard."

Linda was genuinely surprised by this revelation, and on hearing thesewords, her heart sang.

After a brief reflection, Jay continued.

"You know a funny thing about this place?"

"I don't have any idea what you're thinking," Linda said quietly. Butright now, I dearly wish I could read your mind and know your heart.

"Funny thing," Jay began again.

"When it's quiet, I find myself wondering about you, what you're doing,and wondering if you ever think of me?"

"Me too," Scott responded softly, without hesitation.

"I was wondering about you on the Edwards runway before

we took off. Not a day passes that I don't think about YOU."

Instinctively, Scott knew she was letting her guard down prematurely.Her head understood this, understood it full well, but her heart toldher to fly. Somehow, she had to touch this man's heart.

Feeling more and more at ease, Jay asked,

"Do you remember much about our last year of marriage?"

"I've forgiven and tried to forget the painful parts. A big part oflife is like that, about forgiveness I mean. I can't carry anger, iteats me up inside. Mainly I remember the good parts, our happytimes."

"Do you remember that orange-colored cake we made?

The one that looked like a pumpkin?"

"With a plastic worm hanging out its nose. A culinary delight I cannever forget."

"How about the Valentine Day dance? I've got our picture up here withme. You couldn't have been over sixteen then. You were lovely ... andso funny. Most of all, I remember you hated your knees. I thoughtthey were beautiful, and you incisted they were fat. Who ever heard ofanyone hating their knees? Craziest thing I ever heard of anyway, butyou were serious. Fat knees."

"We really had big problems then, didn't we?"

"Life seemed complicated then," Jay said seriously.

"And growing up was hard."

"Growing up is hard for every generation," Linda observed with just ahint of sadness.

"Even so, it was a good life, and the best way I know of to grow up."

"In each other's arms?"

"It meant everything to me. Do you remember our first kiss?" Lindaasked, knowing his answer in advance.

"You kidding? Ninth grade Christmas dance, your house, dark basement,and metal braces. It was a nerve shattering experience for me. Whocould forget the feeling of flesh pitted against your cold hard steel.I never had a chance really, when you think about it. As I recall, Igot the distinct impression that you were well ahead of me in this areaof development."

"But in all fairness and to your credit, you were aquick study."

"I used to love the way you'd stick your lower lip out when you werepouting."

"A well-established, effective ploy." Linda smiled.

"Came right out of Seventeen magazine, you know. But I couldn't singand still can't dance."

"But you've got gumption-an intangible thing, but it sets you apart.You did what you set out to do and not many people can make that claim.You've always known what you wanted, believed in yourself, and wouldn'ttake no for an answer."

"I don't know . . ." Linda said, holding back the tears.

"The costs, I mean. I set out to marry the man I loved, raise afamily, and fly. Now-I fly." Her tone, one of loss.

"I

love flying, I've got to do it, but it doesn't hold me close or keep mewarm at night. Sometimes it seems the more I know, the less Iunderstand. Everything changes so quickly I forget what's important.Maybe I'm not as sure as I used to be, or maybe, like everyone else,life's just kicked me around a little."

"I know what you mean Jay said, surprised that the girl he loved, thegirl he'd admired all his life, would question herself.

"Life's good, life's hard, but it's not fair." Jay loved talking toLinda and shifted the topic ever so slightly, allowing them to focus ontheir successes. Remembering happier times, he began,

"By the way, I visited our old high school my last trip home. Saw theplaces we used to go, stood in the very spot we used to meet betweenclasses, even looked inside your old locker."

"Has it changed much? What was it like?"

"The place was practically empty during summer school, so it seemedpretty lonely, pretty deserted. What I remember most is how empty theplace seemed without you.

Without you there, with only memories, the place seemed lifeless. WhenI lost you, I lost me, if that makes any sense.

I don't know what I was looking for really, what I was hoping to find.Memories of the heart, I guess. Whatever it was, I didn't find it.Maybe the school reminded me of what we had, how happy we were, how things might have been." After afew moments of careful consideration, Jay concluded,

"Growing up was hard. Sometimes, looking back, I really don't see howwe got through it all and survived."

"When you cut to the chase," Linda responded in a soft, compassionatetone,

"I don't think the heart of the problem is all that complicated tounderstand really. It's about sex and morality ... doing the rightthing, I mean. The problem may be clearly stated, but the solution'sthe hard part. No one's found a solution to make growing up anyeasier. At eighteen, you needed sex, and you needed it often. It waslike a chemical imbalance, inhibiting clear thought, and you didn'thave an outlet. That didn't make you fundamentally bad or muchdifferent than any other eighteen-year-old male, but it made growing updifficult."

"You understand me better than I understand myself.

You always have." Jay sighed, his thoughts scattered, shifting now toLinda's father. He'd always admired the man, Linda's fatherextraordinaire and SR-71 sled driver. He'd always been kind to Jay,and it meant all the more because at times Jay had known he didn'tdeserve it.

"You know, I miss your father. I still feel badly about not attendinghis funeral. You needed me, but I was stuck up here, stuck here on myfirst tour with no way back."

"I miss him more than I'd ever imagined and I feel cheated now thathe's gone. There were so many things I'd wanted to tell him, so manythings I'd wanted us to do."

"He died knowing the most important things, Linda, your heart and yourspirit." Jay smiled, recalling some advice Linda's father had givenhim, then continued.

"You know the only instructions he ever gave me before we weremarried?"

"No, you never told me Dad's advice," Linda replied, drawing a blank onJay's question, "but you two were a lot alike. You know he liked youfrom the start."

"I'm ashamed to say it now, but the only request he ever made of me wasthat I never, ever hurt you."

Linda's eyes teared as she imagined her father talking to Jay on behalf of her happiness.

"I'm afraid we both made some bad calls, Jay. Somewhere along the way,we both lost sight of what was really important in life. Dad would bedisappointed in us now, but he'd never give up on us." Following along silence, Linda asked,

"Are you happy? Is this what you want?" I dearly wish I could readyour mind.

"No, Linda. Not really."

"Want to talk about it?" Dear God, I'd love to talk to him again.

"Linda, the thing I want most in my life ... you might think this isridiculous, but the thing I want more than anything else in the worldis to talk to you."

Linda's heart took flight.

"Listen, Linda, I made some terrible mistakes when we were together. Ibehaved badly. God knows I did and only God knows how sorry I am. I'vespent the last five years regretting it and if there was something Icould do, something I could say that would make it right again, Iwould. It's almost as if we had to get this divorce for me to seeclearly what I'd lost. I dream of holding you again, but I'm afraidthis dream will never come true. Not now . . ."

"Sometimes dreams really do come true, Jay. My dreams are much likeyours. We both made some big mistakes and our divorce devastated me.But you're a part of me, a part of me that won't let go. Let's workthrough the forgiveness part first, put the pain behind us, then get onwith the healing. I think we can make it work. I need you more thanyou know."

I feel like a kid again in love for the first time, Jay thought, hisheart pounding. I'll make you happier than you ever imagined in yourwildest dreams!

Linda smiled at her next question.

"You're going to call me again?"

"Nothing in heaven or on earth could keep me from calling you. Ifyou'll let me, I want to show you I've changed.

My dream is to be in your life again forever-and faithfully."

"Dreams really do come true, Jay. They must. Why do we live if notto dream?" Teary-eyed, Linda paused only a moment, then whispered,

"I love you."

"I love you."

Declaring a Dividend, 1210812014, 2040 Zulu, 11:40 P.m.

Local

IRAQI INTELLIGENCE SERVICE HEADQUARTERS,

UNDERGROUND BUNKER,

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

The sergeant on duty in the crypto room brought in extra help tonight.Mother expected he may get a message, and the sergeant didn't want anycomputer screw ups fouling up the works. When the incoming messagealarm bell rang, everyone anxiously watched the crypto board thinkingthis could be the one. It was. For the second night in a row, thecrypto board flashed: Incoming Message-Priority:

URGENT-FOR MOTHER'S EYES ONLY.

With hard copy in hand, the sergeant picked up the phone and calledMother. He answered before the first ring completed.

"Sergeant-message?" Mother's voice was un revealing of emotion.

"Message reads as follows: To: mother, From: ad dams Subject: Lawrencegets a horse."

"That is good," Mother said quietly.

"Send my reply to Livermore. It must get through."

"Understand."

"Call me when he reads it."

"Anything else?"

"No, now it's my turn. Allahu Akbar!"

Hiding the Trojan Horse, 1210812014, 214 7 Zulu, 1:47 P.,vi.

Local

GATE 2 SECURITY GUARD SHACK,

LAWRENCE LIVERMORE NATIONAL LABORATORY,

LIVERMORE, CALIFORNIA

Lucky sat in front of his workstation, studying the screen.

Mother was right, he thought. Something most extraordinary hadhappened. Christmas vacations canceled-scientists and engineers calledback from vacation (which explained why they were in such a foul moodtoday). Three Livermore computers had been running wide open allmorning. SDIO programmers for the DEW SAT Centurion, and hissubordinates were involved in a marathon twenty-four-hour programbuild.

Roughly twenty-four hours after Lucky received his first message fromMother, his terminal message bell rang again.

You have electronic mail.

He read his e-mail summary-another message from Mother. Luckydecrypted the message, guessed what it would say-and was right-again.

FROM: mother TO: mal SUBJECT: Lawrence gets a horse.

Come home for Christmas.

End Of Message Lucky deleted Mother's message and checked to make surethat no one was looking over his shoulder. He turned the brightnessdown low on his terminal, then cleared his screen. Once sure the roomwas empty, he didn't take time to think. He reacted mechanically, likea robot. His practice paid off.

Lucky struck methodically. First, he transferred PAM to the computerused by the Centurion project. Next, he logged on the Centurion project computer as a super-user and performedhis programming magic. Super-user status made Lucky all-powerful onthe Centurion project computer, but he had to move fast or riskdetection. He moved directly to the program area on the computer wherethe new builds were taking place, then began looking for a pattern.

The pattern was obvious.

Lucky smiled. The rest would be easy!

Centurion's programmers were having a field day-taking advantage oftheir opportunity to bypass quality control. They threw in hundreds ofbug fixes for old problems as well as the fix for their DEW SATproblem. Lucky thought it should be easy to hide PAM.

He was right.

Lucky quickly decrypted PAM and appended her to another program. PAMentered as a Trojan horse. She looked like any other programchange-something she was not.

With his bad seed planted, Lucky signed off, then watched the progressof Centurion's program build.

No problem. Everything worked.

Perfect! he thought. Just like in the movies!

With his bad seed planted, Lucky removed PAM from his computerworkstation, then walked to security headquarters for a talk with hisboss.

As he strolled across the Livermore grounds, Lucky's heart soared andhis grin stretched ear to ear. Above all else, Merchant A. Lucky was amercenary. He could retire on the money he'd make.

He walked into his boss's office.

"I've got some good news and some bad news."

"I've had about all the bad news I need today, Lucky, how 'bout thegood news first."

"I'm going home for Christmas and I'm so excited I'm about to bust!"

"That's great. Where's home?"

"The Florida panhandle and I can't wait!"

"How about the bad news?"

"Mother's not doing so well, so I've taken a job near her to helpout."

T

"Sorry to hear it ... so what's your plan?"

"New job starts January first-my last day here'll be next Monday, oneweek from today."

"I wish you the best of luck. If you need any references along theway, let me know. You're a mighty talented character."

"Thank you, sir." Lucky smiled, shook his boss's hand, and walked backto his office in Guard Shack 2.

Lucky didn't understand the consequences of what he'd done-he didn'tneed to. Mother's bonus and relocation plans were excellent.

THE PROBLEM WITHOUT SOLUTION

DAY 3-I DECEMBER 9, 2014

Nothing to Report, 1210912014, 1505 Zulu, 10:05 A.m. Local

ARECIBO EARTH STATION,

ARECIBO, PUERTO Rico Arecibo, the Allies' largest satellite earthstation and radio telescope, silently transmitted Livermore's newprograms to Centurion through a thirty-five-meter dish antenna pointingdirectly toward Freedom.

From the air, Arecibo's largest antenna looked like an enormous bowlspanning the valley between surrounding mountain peaks. Lining thebowl's perimeter, blasted, turn buckled and bolted into the ledge stoodforty plus satellite dishes, fuel tanks, plus a dozen single-storybuildings.

Arecibo's only reason to exist was communications, but like most earthstations, once operational the communication equipment required veryfew technical support people.

Just plug it in and let it run.

Inside the security building, a short, stocky security sergeant watchedhis status board, a wall lined with TV screens and red lights.

All was quiet.

Just once I'd like something to report, he thought.

The sergeant had been stationed at Arecibo nearly two years and knewnothing ever happened here ... most boring place in the world. Thiswasn't what he'd signed up for, but this was the Army. Arecibo shouldabeen couch potatoheaven-more than six hundred television channels to choose from. Butnow he was sick of TV, he hated TV.

The most excitement in the sergeant's day were the radio checks. Oncein a while, that seiiorita would answer. The sound ... the tone ofthat woman's voice set the blood in his veins on fire.

The sergeant checked his watch. Five minutes late for his radio check.Nothing to report . . . nothing ever to report.

Daydreaming, he watched the office window buffet and listened to thefifty-knot wind howling outside. Suddenly, the window popped. Startledback into the real world, the sergeant snapped upright, blinked hiseyes clear, then called headquarters.

"You're late," a harsh male voice announced over the radio speaker.

"So sue me!" groused the sergeant.

"Nothing to report, nothing at all."

Uploading the Trojan Horse, 1210912014, 15 1 0 Zulu, 8:1 0 A.M. LocalCHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO As Arecibo transmitted Livermore's newprograms to Freedom, Colonel Napper sat behind his console impatientlymonitoring the progress of the upload. Once the transmissioncompleted, a message on Napper's monitor read:

ARECIBO STATION STATUS SUMMARY:

Program Upload Transmission Complete Zero Errors Colonel Napper shiftedhis gaze to the video conference monitor linked to the Crow's Nest.Here we go again, he thought when he saw Mason, Hinson, and Craven inanother heated argument. Craven wouldn't bend and Hinson supportedhim, of course. Napper decided to interrupt them anyway.

"Generals, can I have your attention?"

No response-their argument continued.

Drumming his fingers on his control console, Napper The gathered his courage.

"Beg pardon, Generals. Generals, I need your attention!"

Either they didn't hear him or they didn't want to hear him.

He listened in on their argument. Craven insisted on ramming thischange through immediately, bypassing established testing and safeguardprocedures. Mason stood against it. Net result-no progress.

From his control console, Napper increased the volume of his voiceinside the Crow's Nest. They'd hear him now!

"Generals, listen up-uh-with all due respect." His voice boomed overthe speakers. t Napper cringed when he heard his voice reverberatearound the auditorium-sized War Room. He was over one hundred feetfrom the glass-walled Crow's Nest towering overhead. He saw Craven andhis staff covering their ears as the room hushed. Everyone in theCrow's Nest stared silently at Napper on video.

Mason spoke first.

"Sam-we're listening, but could ya cut it down a little?"

Napper breathed a sigh of relief and turned the volume down.

"Centurion's upload's complete-we're ready to run."

"Hope's status?" asked Craven.

"Pasha's bridgled on, sir. He'll hear everything we say.

Scott, Gonzo, and Mac are outside pulling maintenance antenna repair.About an hour till they button it up."

"Good." Craven smiled.

"Comrade General, anything else?" He looked across the room at RussianGeneral Yuri Krol.

"Hope is our hot spare on standby if something goes wrong." Biting hispipe tightly, the corners of Krol's mouth turned down.

"Centurion will maintain armada control while Guardian records testresults. Exactly as you ordered, my General." The words sounded as ifthey'd stuck in his throat. Clearly, Krol was not a happy soldier. 41Craven looked at Fayhee on screen.

"What's Freedom's status?"

"Waiting your orders, General."

"Jay-you and Depack ready to reload Centurion?"

"We're as ready as we're gonna be. Centurion's never run untested codebefore."

"If there's a showstopper with this load," interrupted Hinson, "reloadthe program Centurion's running now."

"Damn it, Hinson," snapped Jay.

"We're not up here to make your ass look good. I sure as hell canhandle this without your bullshit."

Depressing his conference call mute button, Hinson spoke to Craven.

"The team in the tin can's running on a short fuse."

Craven agreed. He studied the face of each commander for a fewmoments, then began.

"This subject's not open for further discussion. Centurion'll run thenew Livermore load this morning as planned."

"Yes sir," replied Fayhee.

"We'll have Centurion reloaded in half an hour-by 1600 Zulu."

"Good," said Craven, checking his watch.

"Hinson, bring your attack forces on-line as scheduled."

"Yes sir, General!" exclaimed Hinson, feeling exonerated.

"We're ready! The Stennis is in position. Dorito and XR-30 crews'restanding by at Edwards."

"Good," Craven said quietly.

"I don't want excuses-I want results. Before this day is through Iwant this stealth cruise missile threat behind us."

The Orbiting DEW SAT Armada, 1210912014, 1550 Zulu

ALTITUDE: 11 5 MILES IN CIRCULAR POLAR ORBIT,

ONBOARD A DEW SAT

Ready to strike in a fraction of a second, orbiting 115 miles above theearth along lines of longitude, seventy-two DEW SATs methodicallyscanned the entire earth's surface searching for fiery missileplumes.

The orbiting DEW SAT armada continuously scanned the globe forinfrared, optical, and radio frequencies, ready to strike when theirdecision circuits voted in favor of the kill.

Within limits, DEW SAT telescopes and radar could detect anything thatcould fly. Likewise, anything it could detect, its laser coulddestroy.

At 1550 Zulu, the DEW SAT armada received its heartbeat (keep alive)signal, an encrypted radio signal from Centurion which read: set Laserpower output = max Each DEW SAT tested itself: its electrical systems,optics, radar, infrared telescope, and laser. After passing everytest, each DEW SAT acknowledged the message with an encrypted radiotransmission to Centilrion which read: DEW SAT ack: Laser power output= max Fully operational, the orbiting DEW SAT armada was lethal, armed,and dangerous.

Waitingfor Safe Laser Clearance, 1210912014, 1555 Zulu, 7:55 A.M.Local

COCKPIT OF HAILEYS COMET,

SOUTH FACING RUNWAY,

EDWARDS AFB, CALIFORNIA

Slightly reclining, "with fist clenched tight, Major Art Hailey staredmotionless into the blue sky above Edwards' vast south facing desertrunway. Surrounded by explosive fuel, engulfed by engine noise,sitting on top of the fastest air and space lane ever created, Haileywasn't impressed. He felt angry, but didn't know who to hit. Hisleave canceled without explanation in exchange for a dicey game oflaser tag.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Hailey carefully read Scott's testflight plan and Hell Fire's damage report for the third time. Hisflight plan was identical to Scott's and she'd nearly lost Hell Fire.

"Loosen up or you could be dead soon," he thought out loud. Fiveminutes and this bird' Il be off the ground.

Isolation, 1210912014, 1556 Zulu

SPACE STATION FREEDOM

"Depack, you ready to go?" asked Colonel Napper. It was unusual forHeadquarters to monitor Freedom operations, however, considering thecircumstances, it came as no surprise. Depack's fingers moved overCenturion's keyboard faster than Napper's eyes could follow.

"Yep-uh-sir. If there's a problem, we can back outta trouble fasterthan we got into it." Since Centurion provided the brain, heart, andsoul of the SDIO satellite network, any problem with Centurion's newprogram would mean more delay.

"We'll take it from here, Colonel," announced Fayhee.

"Load on my mark." Fayhee'd hoped for the best, but planned for theworst. "Three, two, one, mark."

Depack and Fayhee simultaneously rotated large red turnkeys. Centurionnever took his eyes off Fayhee as the new program loaded at the speedof light. Fifteen seconds later, the bad seed took root.

"So that's all there is to it," quipped Centurion.

"Now we test," said Depack.

"I knew that." Centurion displayed a page filled with testinstructions.

"Go for it, Depack. Ring him out."

Depack nodded agreement.

"Centurion-make ready to alter DEW SAT behavior."

"Very well." Centurion paused for an eternity in computer time, thenresponded.

"Depack."

Seconds passed without an additional comment from Centurion. It wasunusual for Centurion to pause so long.

Depack felt anxious.

Centurion's talking head began moving with a jerky, blocked-tile sortof slow motion. Finally, he muttered, DEW SAT behavior records havebeen retrieved and await modification." His voice dropping in tone,his speech slowed.

A cold chill crawled up Depack's spine. He feared the worst, butquickly purged his mind of panic. Depack moved posthaste around thecontrol room to Jay's console, turning his back on Centurion's cameraeye.

"Jay, come here-I need you."

Startled by Depack's ghost-white complexion, one glance told Jay all heneeded to know without an additional exchange of words.

Returning to Depack's console, Jay gazed at a slow motion picture ofCenturion on screen. Depack spoke in an emotionless voice, readingfrom his test script.

"Turn down the power and disable hot TDM operations on every DEW SATlaser over the test zone. Track and tag targets for the next fourhours-don't destroy them."

"Depack," Centurion replied, followed by a protracted silence.

Normally, Centurion's silence would have made Fayhee a happy man.Silence meant he was occupied with something, but for now they didn'tknow what.

"Take a look," Jay said, pointing toward Centurion's globe.

"Something's wrong. Everything's moving in slow motion." The earth'shologram now moved with a pulsating, jerking motion ... like watching aVCR one frame at a time.

"Centurion's sick," Depack said grimly.

"This load's got a clinker in it-some sort of slow-motion bug."

As Jay and Depack talked, PAM created her list of threats, includinganyone or anything who could reload Centurion or damage the satellitearmada.

Next, PAM created her defense resource list, including every satellitein the orbiting armada.

Finally, PAM modified the program she would run when threatened-ascript file listing where to run, where to hide, and what to do whencornered.

"Let's move fast before things get worse!" ordered Jay.

Strain crept into his voice. Returning to his console, he planned toreload Centurion's original program.

"Reload on my mark."

Programmed to survive, PAM made a copy of herself then moved into eachof Centurion's subordinate computers at near light speed.

The bad seed took root then spread like a cancer throughout Freedom'scentral nervous system.

Optical glass communication pipes connecting Centurion to his threesubordinate computers glowed brightly with a frenzy of computerchatter.

"I don't know why, but I don't like it!" exclaimed Depack, rubbing hishand over the glowing communication links. Normally, Depack Would haveintuitively known why by watching the glowing comm links. OnboardFreedom, the why was important because Centurion ran their life supportsystems. Before running this new load, Depack would have known whichprograms were talking, what they were talking about, and why-but thesepatterns of light had changed. He couldn't read them, they lookeddifferent.

"We're losing control."

"Three, two, one, mark." Depack and Jay rotated the large red turnkey,loading Centurion again.

"We have a problem!" Centurion announced immediately.

"Subordinate computers in alarm, off-line, out of service. Cause offailure: degraded performance. Response time exceeding preset alarmlimits."

Jay and Depack looked perplexed. Jay bolted quickly to Depack, turninghis back on Centurion's monitor.

"Whataya make of it?"

"Centurion's OK." Depack thought for a moment, then asked Centurion afew questions using his keyboard.

"Centurion's back to normal, but the slave computers are running slow... real slow! This sounds crazy, but I'd guess they caught somethingfrom Centurion."

"That's all we need!" Jay rolled his eyes.

"So Centurion's slow bug's contagious? Recommendations?"

"Reload 'em all."

Centurion's communication pipes glowed again with a frenzy of computercommunication as PAM moved back into Centurion.

Jay rushed to his console and red turnkey, but it was already toolate.

Centurion now had two separate and distinct personalities: one visible,another hidden. Centurion's visible personality was unchanged, but hishidden dark side was dominated by PAM.

Hidden and operating independently, Centurion's dark side issued herfirst operational orders. An encrypted radio signal which read: TuesDec 09 16:10:58 Z 2014 To: Any DEW SAT put Arecibo Earth Station onkill stack put Roaring Creek Earth Station on kill

STACK

In his early stage of neurosis, Centurion didn't know anything abouthis dark side. PAM was split off from his consciousness so they nevertalked to each other.

Although PAM shared Centurion's electronic brain, sensors, andsatellites, she was totally unaware he existed. Two distinctpersonality programs inhabiting the same brain, each unaware of theother-an electronic form of viral induced hysterical-dissociationneurosis.

In time, irreconcilable memory conflicts would result because Centurionand his dark side shared an optical brain which could never forget.Eventually PAM, the controllerltaker personality, must emerge dominantto survive.

"We have a problem," Centurion observed in a detached tone of voice.

"Please stand by."

Jay and Depack agreed, then waited what seemed an eternity-fifteenseconds in real time.

And then it happened.

Video from Cheyenne Mountain began breaking into tiles as the signalfaded. Snow blanketed the picture of Colonel Napper, and the audiobegan to crackle.

"We're losing Arecibo," announced Centurion.

"Communication link failing due to severe signal fade. Wait. Thesignal is breaking up, garbled."

Inside Freedom, the video screen from Cheyenne Mountain went black.

Thirt seconds after her first order, hidden from Centurion andFreedom's crew, PAM transmitted two additional orders to her armadain less than one one-hundredth of a second.

Tues Dec 09 16:11:28 Z 2014 To: Any DEW SAT put all known ASATS on killstack put all known mines on kill stack Almost immediately afterwards,she issued orders to Guardian, Centurion's computer counterpart onboardSpace Station Hope.

Tues Dec 09 16:11:32 Z 2014 To: Guardian Let face = red, yeLLow, black,and white then do until done set face airlock safety = off set faceairlock inner door = open set face airlock outer door = open doneImmediately, bright red alarm lights flashed on every console insideCheyenne Mountain, Freedom, and Hope.

The alarm board inside Cheyenne Mountain covered an entire wall and litup like a Christmas tree. Computer systems inside Cheyenne Mountaindesigned to automatically analyze alarms began to fail due to overload.After the alarm systems failed, operations on the War Room floorshifted to a hectic frenzy.

The great blue ball inside the War Room froze motionless.

In less than thirty-four seconds, Cheyenne Mountain's lifeline toFreedom had gone belly-up, and more.

Inside Freedom, a blinking message on Centurion's screen read: WARNING:Critical Alarm FAILURE: Arecibo LOS (Loss Of Signal) conditionexists.

CAUSE: Unknown-To Be Determined Depack slammed his hand down on thealarm cutoff switch and the flashing red lights went ark.

"So what's causing the problem?" asked Depack at the threshold ofpanic. He thought it strange that they should experience a majorcommunications failure coincident with running this new program.

Centurion paused as if he were carefully crafting each word.

"It is impossible for me to isolate this problem without your help."

Jay spoke next. The tension in his voice broke through.

"Clarify!"

The more anxious Jay and Depack became, the cooler Centurion seemed torespond. This was normal and they knew it. When Centurion sensedtension in the crew's voices, he'd been programmed to back off andrespond with an overstated calm tone in his voice.

"Jay, I understand you and Depack are upset over the testing delays,but I'm confident we can restore ground communication within the hour.We have any spare parts we could need. It should be a routine repairprocedure for either you or an Arecibo technician. As I said, I cannotisolate this problem without your help, but that is no cause forconcern. Arecibo could have a problem with their transmitter or theproblem could be with our receiver."

"Recommendations?" asked Fayhee, searching for alternatives.

"A process of elimination." Centurion paused much longer than usual.

"Clarify!" Jay barked angrily.

"Testing's on hold till we're back on the air."

"First, isolate the failure. Make sure the problem is on our end, theneliminate the obvious."

"Doing something beats doing nothing," Jay quipped.

"Continue."

"We have two replacement approaches to consider slow and sure orshotgun." Jay took Centurion to mean that they could replaceindividual receiver subsystems one at a time or swap out the entirereceiver system.

"Hell, let's replace them all," Jay concluded.

"Shotgun approach should be faster."

"Ready, shoot, aim," Depack observed.

Jay cringed. He knew shotgun repair wasn't efficient, but they were ina hurry. Stealth missile testing was on hold until they got back onthe air. Hailey's Comet, Cowboy's Dorito, the Stennis-all depended onFayhee to deliver. He had to do something fast.

"We need ground communications ASAP!" Jay exclaimed.

"Don't isolate the problem, just replace the receivers."

"When it rains, it pours! Whataya want me to do?" Depack asked.

"Just swap those radios." Jay pointed to an eleven-foot tall framefilled with rack mounted radio receivers and test equipment.

"Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. I'll swap the antenna amps.Whatever you do, keep those radar transmitters off."

There was real danger here from the transmitter's power output and theopen vacuum of space. Freedom's antenna amplifiers were located in herexternal plumbing layer.

Nicknamed the oven, the plumbing layer was an enormous maze ofwaveguide sandwiched between her central core and outer skin.Waveguides focused microwave energy from her radar transmitter ontoeach of her four triangular faces, each face an antenna measuring 660feet on a side covered with thousands of spike like nails. Whilereplacing antenna amps inside the oven, Jay would he working inside themost powerful microwave oven ever created.

Weightless, using only his hands, Jay raced up the ladder to the toppeak of the triangular prism shaped control room.

Throwing open the maintenance equipment cabinet, he pulled out anoversized backpack and secured it to the floor. Following a desperatesearch, he filled it with antenna amps and tools. Grabbing the case,he strapped it on his back and hurried off to change into his pressuresuit.

DEW SAT Passover, 1210912014, 1611 Zulu, I ]:I I A.m. Lvcal

ARECIBO EARTH STATION,

ARECIBO, PUERTO Rico An invisible infrared laser beam painted arectangular section of earth along Arecibo's rim, leaving a trail offire, smoke, steam, and scorched grass sizzling in its wake.

Measuring thirty-three feet across, the enormous heat ray movedquickly, methodically scorching the earth in a row pattern like afarmer might plow his field. In just under ten seconds, a patch ofearth about half the size of a football field lay smoldering.

An army private standing by the picture window in the rec buildingnoticed smoke rising from the rim. Alarmed, he ran to the phone butcouldn't speak, terrified by what he saw outside. He stood mesmerized.watching the grass fire racing toward him, surrounding the'recbuilding, fuel tanks, and four SAM missile launchers within seconds.Flames spread across the fun as if the ground were saturated withgasoline, and there was no place to run.

Twin fuel tanks next to the rec room were detonated by exploding SAMmissiles. A series of secondary explosions followed, engulfingArecibo's fun in flames. Saturated with fuel, the burning airinstantly reduced the young soldier to ash.

Behind the rec building stood the large thirty-five-meter satellitedish pointing toward Freedom. Surrounded by scorched earth and smoke,the dish stood blistering hot, but remained operational.

Passing over Arecibo, the DEW SAT scorched the earth, searching forthis thirty-five-meter dish. Triangulating on Arecibo's radio beam,the DEW SAT had resolved the antenna's position to within one hundredfeet. Thermal scanning gave the DEW SAT a second independent, albeitsomewhat less accurate, position estimate of the antenna's position. Looking down from 115 miles overhead, the DEW SAT saw two blisteringhot metal objects-the uplink antenna and fuel tank.

It targeted them both, the largest first.

Switching from target discrimination mode to maximum power, the DEW SAToptical computer brain set target dwell time to one second.

From the security building overlooking the big bowl, the sergeantsimultaneously watched four programs on separate TV sets. He didn'tnotice the smoke outside or the red alarm lights, but it wouldn't havemade any difference.

When I Love Lucy disappeared, he spun around to see the status board onfire with red lights and alarm messages spewing across every monitorscreen. Their firehouse alarm bell had been broken for years but notreplaced because it never rang anyway.

"Gawd!" he exclaimed out loud. I'd better get some help.

Grabbing the phone, he punched up the rec building. It was dead.

The overhead lights and status board flickered, then went dark.

Smoke outside caught his eye as he stood up for the last time.

Backup generator oughts cut in, he thought, when suddenly every windowin the building went. Spillover from the heat ray had detonated acluster of four SAM missiles parked by the fuel tank. A series ofexplosions took out the fuel lines running above ground to the powerplant downhill. Rapids of burning gasoline and diesel fuel rusheddownhill over earth and rocks, engulfing the power plant, two moremissile launchers, and one section of Arecibo's mammoth bowl.

He didn't hear the explosions, but with his last breath smelled thefountains of gasoline and diesel spewing upward from the detonatingfuel tanks. Flying through the burning air at hurricane speed, atwo-foot dagger of window glass mercifully severed off his head at theneck before the security building was engulfed in flame and incinerateda few seconds later.

Blowing their tops like giant Roman candles, each exploding tankbelched an enormous fireball upward, then spewed burning fuel, droppingfiery spray for hundreds of yards. As the fire advanced around thebowl's perimeter, detonating fuel tanks and missiles fed the torridfrenzy.

Rivers of burning gasoline and diesel raced down the mountain,saturating the ground underneath Arecibo's mammoth dish. From the air,Arecibo looked like a large fiery crater charring the sky black.

Within minutes, Arecibo was transformed into a collection of twistedmetal and flaming wreckage. The earth trembled as the cable towerssupporting Arecibo's mammoth dish collapsed.

It all happened so quickly. Ashes and black smoke were spotted by aBrit missile cruiser in the North Atlantic over one hundred milesaway.

Once Arecibo had been quietened, the DEW SAT sheathed its invisibleray.

Something's Wrong Here, 1210912014, 1611 ZULU, 9:11 A.M. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

"Something's wrong here! We're disconnected!" Colonel Napperexclaimed, pounding the screen linked to Freedom.

Jay's picture had suddenly gone black and a loud, low pitched bellbegan to gong. All signals from Freedom had been lost, communicationwith Jay, Depack, and Centurion severed.

It was like watching a spectacular video game suddenly stop. Theslowly rotating hologram of earth froze motionless. Thousands ofsymbols designating everything in orbit-DEW SATs Hell Fire, Freedom,Hope, AntiSATellite missiles, space mines, discarded rocket boosters,junk-froze suspended. Across the walls of the War Room, the alarmboard lit up while both the air and space threat boards went black. Thesea threat board continued to operate, but all air and spaceinformation had been severed.

Colonel Napper pounded the ALARM CUTOFF switch and silenced the bell.

A message appeared on screen in large red print.

CRITICAL ALARM: Freedom Whiteout-LOS Condition Exists SYMPTOMS: AllCommunication and Data Channels Lost PROBABLE CAUSE: Unknown

POSSIBLE CAUSES:

1. High Background Noise Due to Sun Outage 2. High Background Noise Dueto Sunspots

RECOMMENDATION: ROARING CREEK EARTH STATION

As ALTERNATIVE-UPLINK SITE Computers inside Cheyenne Mountain quicklybut incorrectly diagnosed the cause of Freedom's Loss Of Signal assunspots or a sun outage. This diagnosis was only as good as theprogram which produced it. A complete analysis program would haveexhaustively tested every failure possibility, but there were too manyfailure possibilities to test them all. When theory came to practice(when it came time to pay for it), you tested only those situationsmost likely to fail. Their computer programmer hadn't considered thepossibility of communication failure due to friendly fire from their ownDEW SAT laser because he believed it would never happen. From itsoriginal inception, the SDI system had not been designed for war withitself.

Freedom's Loss Of Signal condition had all the symptoms of a sunoutage, except one-sun outages were predictable, normally occurringtwice a year at Arecibo. A sun outage occurred when Freedom waspositioned directly between the sun and Arecibo. When the sun lined updirectly behind Freedom, Arecibo's antenna was blinded in the same wayyou're blinded looking directly into the sun.

Freedom's LOS condition had all the symptoms of an outage due tosunspots, except one-only Arecibo reported trouble. All otherDepartment of Defense earth stations remained on-line and fullyoperational. As a rule, electromagnetic interference from sunspotsprevented clear reception of broadcast signals around the world.

Loss of Freedom's data link was a critical matter to Headquartersbecause Allied battlefield control had been consolidated insideCheyenne Mountain. A critical condition yes, but not unexpected. LossOf Signal work around drills were routine, and several communicationalternatives were on hot standby in case they were needed. Analternate earth station located in Roaring Creek, Pennsylvania, couldbe brought on-line in a matter of seconds.

Napper and Mason studied the critical alarm message Napper on the WarRoom floor, Mason from the Crow's Nest.

"Sun outage doesn't make sense," Mason said quietly.

"Outages are predictable."

"Right, Slim, and sunspots don't hold up either. No one else has anyproblem. Roaring Creek's on-line."

"Whataya think Sam? Any recommendations?"

"Assume a sun outage. Switch over to Roaring Creek.

Couldn't do any harm." Napper paused for a few moments, chatted withan officer sitting to his side, then continued.

"Yeah, assume an outage but don't plan on this switch solving ourproblem."

Napper went to work connecting Cheyenne Mountain to thethirty-five-meter satellite dish at the Roaring Creek Earth Station.After pressing the SUN OUTAGE key on his terminal, his job was done. Inless than ten seconds, his computer automatically linked CheyenneMountain over a special high-speed landline to Roaring Creek.Immediately, Napper's data link light turned green, indicatingFreedom's signal had been detected.

"We're on the air!"

A picture of Fayhee's empty chair and control console appeared onFreedont's video display screen, alarm lights inside Cheyenne Mountaincleared, the holographic image of the earth began to slowly rotate,over two hundred ASATs in low earth orbit quietly disappeared, andFreedom's communication link was restored.

Napper pressed a switch, ringing a bell inside Freedom.

Should get their attention, he thought.

"Freedom! Do you read me? Over.", Silence.

"Freedom, do you read me?"

A harsh voice sounding like sand and glue responded.

"We have a problem. Your signal's fading ... in the noise."

A snowy picture of Centurion appeared.

"Jay's overhead. I'll connect you."

Then Napper and Mason watched Freedom's signal fade away. As suddenlyas the link was restored, it failed. Freedom's video broke up intotiles-both primary links severed.

"Recommendations?" asked Mason.

"I need ideas, Sam."

"We're boxed in: Let's back outta this corner. Switch to Hope. She'sstanding by."

Without looking to the supreme commander for approval, Mason ordered:"Do it!"

Then, without warning, Hope's communication link failed. The pictureof Commander Pasha Yakovlev broke up into square tiles, then wentblack. With their backup links gone, Cheyenne Mountain lost their acein the hole.

Both their primary and backup control systems had failed.

Identical to Freedom in every respect, Hope provided the SDI networkwith redundancy, two of everything. If Freedom failed, Hope wouldautomatically take over without missing a beat, an operating spare incase of problems or maintenance.

The second critical failure in less than one minute,thought Mason. The network's designed for single point failures, butwe haven't seen a single point failure yet.

Space stations don't just drop off the air or fall from the sky.Doesn't add up-this is no accident. There's malice here. Someone'sgot us scrambling and all we've done is react. Compoundfailures'restacking up faster than we can clear 'em. The unthinkable is happeningand we're powerless to stop it. We're losing control of the armada!Concentrate, Slim! Focus on the big problem first! Networkcontrol-get that armada in check. Freedom is the controlling piece oforbiting real estate here, but she's out of commission-so work aroundher. Work Hope in parallel.

First, we need visibility-get our eyes and ears back. Probe space. Seewhat's going on.

"Hope?" Mason looked at Napper on his TV display.

Napper turned, spoke to an officer sitting to his side, then replied,

"We don't know what happened, but my best people are all over thisproblem. We need her now!"

Mason nodded agreement.

"As a stopgap measure, we need land-based radars tracking thearmada."

"Agreed!" Napper exclaimed.

"We'll patch in BMEWS until Freedom's back on-line."

BMEWS (Ballistic Missile Early Warning System) was a group of largepowerful land-based radars designed to probe space searching for ICBMS.BMEWS radars could track objects in orbit as small as a two-inchbolt.

"Like the old days," Craven acknowledged, then his forehead wrinkled.

"I don't like it, Slim. Seems like a giant step backwards."

Mason didn't agree. His face took a hard set as he looked at his boss,the Supreme Allied Commander.

"We need a fallback position."

Mason looked at Napper on screen.

"Sam, do you have any better fallback plan?"

"No, Sir. I like your idea! It's one we can depend on.

BMEWS is operational and linked by landline. We've lost our real time,but using BMEWS we can track the armada without Centurion."

"Slim, I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill, but do whatyou must." Craven didn't see any reason to push Mason on this point.Patching BMEWS in wouldn't cost them any extra time.

"Patch in BMEWS," ordered Mason.

"Napper, get up here now!" bellowed Craven.

Mason discreetly passed Craven a note.

"Nonsense!" Craven mumbled under his breath.

"Atmospherics or sunspots. There's some reasonable explanation."

A mole's inside Cheyenne Mountain, thought Mason.

Has to be. This was important. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Noother explanation made sense. He wrote a note to the chief ofsecurity, marked it ukeeti-r, then signaled his operations officer tocome over and lend a hand.

Without saying a word, Mason handed the note to the major. Silently,the major read over his delivery instructions, gave Mason a winkindicating he understood, then left the conference room heading downthe spiral staircase.

Listening to their meeting from the War Room floor below, ShripodAddams looked concerned over the space station situation like everyoneelse in Cheyenne Mountain, but he alone was not surprised.

Lightning Without Thunder, 1210912014, 1611 Zulu

ALTITUDE: 115 MILES IN CIRCULAR POLAR ORBIT,

PASSING OVER NEw ORLEANS, LotjISIANA

ONBOARD A DEW SAT

Passing 115 miles directly above the cloud-covered streets of NewOrleans, two small fuel pumps began turning inside the DEW SAT attitudepositioning engines. In the silent vacuum of space, two jets ofhydrazine fuel escaped, slowly rotating the sunflower shape about itscenter of gravity. Once the DEW SAT came about, its lethal stempointed toward an Anti-SATellite (ASAT) missile, a large cylindricalcanister shaped like a rocket booster trailingsixty miles behind and twenty miles below. Light reflecting from thecylinder bounced off the sunflower's mirrored head, focused on asensor, and fed the DEW SAT optical computer brain for processing.

Almost instantly, the DEW SAT illuminated the ASAT with a single UWBradar pulse. After measuring exact range and position, the DEW SATtrued its sights. First, it rotated its mirrored head less than onedegree about the stem, then refined its focus by changing the mirror'sparabolic shape by a few hundredths of an inch.

Within a few seconds, the one-hundred-foot-long stem and reactor corebegan heating up. The DEW SAT Free Electron Laser acceleratedhigh-energy electrons down its stem, then lased them into an invisibletwenty-megawatt beam, dwelling on target less than one second beforethe small, tactical nuclear warhead exploded. A brilliant, blazingwhite fireball ignited the sky. For a fraction of a second, theintensity of the light and heat released from the explosion wascomparable to that from the sun, so powerful it would permanentlydamage any electronic equipment within a ten-mile radius. The size ofthe explosion was equivalent to 20,000 tons of dynamite, about the samesize as the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, Japan.

Immediately after the blinding flash, the DEW SAT rotated its mirrorabout the stem, focused on a second ASAT, and fired-dwelling on targetone-half second before reducing it to a cloud of fiery gasses andexploding debris.

Fed by burning rocket fuels, the fireball from the second explosion, aconventional hundred-pound warhead, lingered several seconds beforefading to black.

Without hesitation, emotion, or glory, the DEW illuminated a thirdtarget and seconds later sent it to a fiery grave-this one, a smallerspace mine with a conventional warhead.

Executing the kill sequence flawlessly, the lethal DEW SAT weaponsystem was without parallel-within limits, technically elegant, robust,and unapproachable.

As this ballet of explosions, fire, and light raced across the cloudyNew Orleans sky, hundreds of people on the ground below scurried forshelter, expecting a downpour.

Diffused by the clouds, the flashes looked like distant lightningsilently igniting the sky without the clash of thunder.

For approximately one minute, chaos ruled the civilized world.Communications around New Orleans and around the world were disrupted.Radio, TV, satellite, telephone, aircraft traffic control-everycommunication system using the electromagnetic spectrum was jammed offthe air due to the interference from the explosions overhead. Thecommunication fabric that held the peoples of the world together brokedown due to interference from over two hundred ex In one simultaneousattack, seventy-two DEW SAT eliminated 238 orbiting ASATs and spacemines.

As part of their mission, the Cheyenne Mountain staff had tracked everyobject in orbit around the earth since Sputnik, the first Russiansatellite. Of the roughly 60,000 objects orbiting the earth, 238 wereknown ASATs or space mines launched by the third world, each animmediate threat to the DEW SAT armada in case of war.

After receiving PAM's orders, every DEW SAT simultaneously updated theposition of each orbiting threat. Within a fraction of a second, eachthreat was reclassified hostile.

Inside the DEW SAT optical computer brain, the priority of each threatwas increased and moved on the target list, nicknamed the kill stack.Once on the kill stack, the DEW SAT kill decision was complete andirrevocable.

Only the kill remained and methodically executing the kill sequence waswhat each DEW SAT did best.

Each DEW SAT was a brilliant-class weapon, a revolutionary leap inwarfare technology comparable to stealth in that it completely changedthe strategy and tactics of war.

By making their own battlefield decisions, operating independently oras a networked team, DEW SATs forever altered the way future wars wouldbe fought. During normal SDI operations, Cheyenne Mountain assignedtarget priorities, Centurion assigned targets, and the orbiting armadadid the fighting. But now, PAM controlled it all.

ploding ASAT warheads.

No one could control the DEW SAT armada once Freedom's communicationswere cut.

The brilliant-class weapon-stand-alone, standoff, and unapproachable. Amilitary and political dream now our worst nightmare.

Shooting Star, 1210912014, 1611 Zulu, 8:11 A.m. Local COCKPIT OFCOWBOY's EF-12 DORITO, ON THE SOUTH FACING RUNWAY BEHIND HAiLEY'sCOMET, EDWARDs AFB, CALIFORNIA Gazing across the runway at Hailey'sComet, Cowboy's eyes were the size of quarters as he slowed hisjet-black Dorito to a stop. Hailey's Comet looked somewhat like agiant vacuum bottle or thermos, a giant engine built for sucking air.Painted matte black, much of the aircraft was covered with largesections of white frost. Clouds of condensation boiled off her nose,wings, underbelly, and air inlet. Identical to Hell Fire, Hailey'sComet looked like a cloud machine, spewing a turbulent stream of coolfog downward across the runway, boiling as it vanished.

From the side, the front of the aircraft looked like the head of agreat white shark with its jaws stretched open wide. The Goliath-sizedXR-30 dwarfed Cowboy's Dorito.

"Black monster," observed Cowboy, looking up at the XR-30'sair-breathing underbelly.

"Fastest flying hydrogen bomb ever built!" responded Cowboy'sback-seater.

"I'd feel better with more distance between us."

"First one I've ever seen up close, Bulldog. Sit tight. I wanna get agood look."

"Expect departure delay due to technical problem onboard Freedom,"announced Edwards' control tower., "That's just great!" exclaimedCowboy, pounding his fist against the canopy.

"We really need another screw up."

"Dorito, your takeoff is delayed three zero minutes," Edwards' towercontinued.

"Roger, three zero minutes, tower." Cowboy grimaced.

"Dorito, will keep you ad ... SQUEEEEEEEEPWACCCK!"

A shrill, ear-piercing racket pounded Cowboy's eardrums. He yanked hisheadset cable out of the connecting jack, then killed his radio. Afterhis ears quit ringing, he plugged his headset in and demanded: "Whatthe hell's going on?"

"Working it," snapped his back-seater. Bulldog frantically worked hisradio detection equipment, searching the airwaves for the direction andfrequency components of the electromagnetic noise. He couldn't believewhat he measured, but his measurements were undeniable.

"Overhead EMP! Moving north at orbital velocity. Spectrum'ssaturated!"

Cowboy took Bulldog to mean an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) created by anuclear detonation was jamming his radio.

"Impossible! Look again. Let your analyzer warm up."

"Checked it twice."

"Check it again, dammit!"

"I've never seen a blast, but this interference has it all every EMPcharacteristic." Bulldog's heart raced from fear, his hands trembledadjusting his equipment. Noise saturated every band.

"I could be wrong-dear God, I hope I am."

"Oh my Lord," said Cowboy, gazing overhead. Against the deep blue sky,a bright, fiery white shooting star suddenly appeared racing north.Bulldog was right! His stomach balled up into an icy knot.

This wasn't a game anymore.

Bed of Nails, 1210912014, 1611 Zulu

SPACE STATION HOPE

"Comrade, emergency!" squawked the speaker by Boris Ustinov's ear.Boris, Depack's computer analyst counterpart onboard Space StationHope, had been asleep only two hours.

"Come to the conn immediately!"

Ustinov rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming.

Rolling over, he adjusted his blanket, loosened the bunk safety belt,and never woke up again.

In the blink of an eye, Hope lost video contact with CheyenneMountain.

Once Hope's link to Cheyenne Mountain failed, Commander Pasha Yakovlevfrantically threw a series of switches in an effort to get it back.

Audio noise crackled and popped through his speaker in the control roomwhile snow covered his TV display.

Powerful interference, Pasha thought somberly. Better find. analternate route. Freedom-use Freedom as a relay station.

Scrambling to establish a radio link with Freedom, he selected an audiochannel.

"Freedom, this is Hope. Over."

His radio crackled loudly with noise, but no reply. Pasha expected tohear either Jay, Depack, or Centurion. Centurion never slept-whydidn't he respond?

Pasha looked at his monitor. A generic talking head identical toCenturion flashed on screen.

"Guardian," he barked.

"Link with Centurion! Hail Freedom over all frequencies!"

"Permission denied," Guardian replied tersely.

"We're cut off."

"Centurion can't do that!"

"I sense you are upset, Comrade Pasha, but you are incorrect. Centurionhas denied us communication -and all access permission to Freedom. Weare isolated."

"Any explanation?"

"None."

"Freedom's status?"

"Unknown."

Identical to Freedom, Hope was designed to take control of the SDInetwork if Freedom was ever disabled. Pasha concluded the time wasright-Centurion had gone belly up Without explanation, Centurion hadisolated Hope, cutting her out of the armada. According to the book,Pasha classified Freedom as potentially hostile.

Timefor the big switch! thought Pasha as the muscles in his facetensed. Guardian must take control. Hope the master, Freedom theslave.

He rotated an A B switch to Master position, but it didn't work. Anindicator light showed Centurion maintained full control over thesatellite armada.

Centurion won't let go Pasha grimaced, rotated the switch back andforth several times, but it didn 't help. Guardian needed Centurion'sconsent to take control, but he wouldn't give an inch.

Looking for a work-around to solve his communication problem, Pashadisplayed a schematic drawing of Freedom's video and audio receivercircuits.

Relax, Pasha. Take your time. You've trained all our y life for theunexpected. Back off and examine your alternatives. Talk to thetroops!

Studying the drawings, he didn't notice the ominous message suddenlyappearing on Guardian's output display, Guardian received PAM's orders,expanded them into a longer form, then simultaneously executed eachcommand.

Tues Dec 09 16:11:32 z 2014 To: Guardian From: Centurion set redairlock safety = off set red airlock inner door = open set red airlockouter door = open set yellow airlock safety = off set yellow airlockinner door = open set yellow airlock outer door = open set blackairlock safety = off set black airlock inner door = open set blackairlock outer door = open set white airlock safety = off set whiteairlock inner door = open set white airlock outer door = open Asquickly as Guardian read the message, the deed was done. There was notime for discussion, no time for alternatives.

Bright red emergency flood lamps suddenly illuminatedthe control room while critical alarm indicators flashed on everycontrol console.

Instantly, Pasha heard doors slamming open all around him. Within theblink of an eye, airlock doors slid open on every face of Hope'scentral core. Since Hope would automatically compensate for singlepoint failures, Pasha could have recovered from a single open airlock.Four airlocks opening at once overwhelmed him. Paralyzed in disbelief,he struggled with what to do.

No time to think, less time to react, but time enough to die.

Air evacuated explosively-like popping a balloon. Instead of slowlydeflating Hope's pressurized bubble, PAM burst it.

Before Pasha could move, the deafening roar of a cyclone engulfed him,an explosive blast of wind ripped at his clothes. Roaring into thevacuum of space, the cyclone sucked everything not tied down out of theship. Fortunately, he'd strapped himself to his console chair.

Boris was not so lucky.

In less than two seconds, he'd been hurled over thirty feet across theroom-from his bunk, through the airlock, into the absolute vacuum ofspace. Moving through the airloCK Wltn the wind was like beingexpelled from a torpedo tube.

Increasing the wind velocity like a nozzle, the inner airlock doorrestricted the airflow with a deafening roar while the corridor leadingto the outer door provided an enormous acceleration lane, like beingshot out of a gun.

The screaming roar silenced instantly as Boris hurled like a bulletthrough the outer door. As he catapulted through the airlock, hisblanket snagged on an emergency exit handle causing him to spin alonghis long axis like a rifled projectile. Once outside the core, hisarms extended from the centripetal force, his spin slowed, and heaccelerated straight into the red antenna face. Covered with thousandsof spikes, the antenna face was a triangular-shaped flat surface madeof wire mesh, looking like a bed of nails.

Mercifully, he never fully regained consciousness.

Pasha figured he had maybe thirty seconds till he'd black out. Therewas nothing he could do for Boris. He had to save himself.

Brought back to reality by a sharp pain in his ear, he slammed his fistdown on each airlock control switch.

The switches didn't work. Centurion had control of his ship.

Near delirium, he read the computer screen, then understood what mustbe done.

The hurricane force winds quickly diminished, the terrifying roarhushed. t Pasha heard the silence of vacuum, the stillness of death.

His chest heaved like he was in labor, his remaining energy wastingaway with senseless breathing.

Air pressure zero, quiet dominated the control room.

Banks of red alarm lights gave the room an eerie, darkroom like glow,reminding him of hell.

Pasha knew what he had to do-override Centurion's control.

Rushing across the room, he found it easy to move.

Turning a pistol grip handle, he watched an indicator light change fromREMOTE CONTROL to MANUAL OVERRIDE.

Yes! he thought. Finally, is working as advertised!

Free from Centiirion's control, Guardian evaluated every input signal.Pasha expected Guardian would run a cabin recovery sequence,automatically sealing and pressurizing the cabin, but he was wrong.

Five long seconds passed. No change. Pasha flinched.

Overrun with critical errors, each demanding immediate action, Guardiancould not do everything first, so he did nothing. He'd continue doingnothing, hung in a do-nothing loop, until every airlock shut.

Pasha took one giant leap to his console and slammed his fist down onevery airlock switch. He couldn't hear anything-there was no air-buthe could feel the ship vibrate as electric motors turned worm screwssliding each door shut.

He felt he might make it. Once the doors shut, Guardian wouldautomatically repressurize the cabin.

Watching the airlock indicator lights transition from open, shut, tosafe, Pasha froze motionless, transfixed as the black face sealedfirst, followed by white, then yellow.

Three out of four airlocks showed safe.

Pasha pounded the red airlock switches. After pounding it the secondtime, his heart sank. The airlock fault indicator light beganblinking. The airlock on Hope's red face was jammed open, stuck ondebris snagged in the blanket Boris left behind.

Pasha's peripheral vision faded as colors blended into black and white.He knew they would. Feeling dizzy, he moved to his chair, and strappedhimself in. Out of time, he leaned forward, lowering his head onto hiscontrol console.

Trapped in a body that wouldn't work, he could still think. Why don'tI pass out? Why don't I just die? He couldn't see to type a helpmessage into Guardian. He couldn't hear, couldn't speak-no air.

Then it happened. God allowed Pasha a few final seconds of clear,uncluttered thought. Somehow, must raise Hell Fire.

He could feel, he could touch, but his fingers were swollen the size ofhot dogs. He felt his wrist, found his watch and removed it. Afterkeying his mike, he scraped his watch over the microphone's head to getScotty's attention, then he began tapping. He tapped out a series ofdots and dashes: dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot SOS in anylanguage.

Pasha tapped off his SOS message three times, then began losing hissense of touch. The feeling in his fingers was going, they felt onfire. Finally, he couldn't keep time, dots slurred into dashes. Hissense of rhythm was the last thing to go before he completely blackedout.

Moored to a platform on Hope's yellow face, Hell Fire floated throughspace suspended in dry dock. Working as a team, Scott, Mac, and Gonzohad temporarily repaired Hell Fire's antenna and were ready to testit.

Suddenly, Scott heard something.

"Listen up!" Scott motioned to Gonzo and Mac. She paused,concentrating on the scratching click-clack noise coming in over herheadset.

"Morse?"

Mac and Gonzo agreed.

Looking at Gonzo, she added: "SOS."

"Trouble!" Gonzo acknowledged.

"Raise Guardian."

Scott set her handheld transmitter to Guardian's frequency, then keyedher mike.

"Guardian, this is Scott.

Over."

"I receive you clearly."

"What's your situation?"

"Critical, Comrade. Rapid decompression. Cabin pressure absolutezero. Red airlock jammed open."

"Pasha? Boris?"

"Boris is dead. Pasha is near death, blacked out, bleeding. Checkyour display."

Scott checked the picture on her palm-sized flat screen display. Pashalay still, looking waxen as a dead man, while the control room, floodedwith red light and long black shadows, looked like hell.

Broken wires dangling in space pointed toward the airlocks-theconnecting wires torn from equipment sucked out during decompression.

"How long doeg he have?"

"Three to four minutes."

Whatever you do, do it fast Scott thought.

"What's causing the fault?"

"Debris lodged across the airlock doorway."

"Tell me more. Give me percent closure."

"Outer door is ninety-five percent closed. Inner door is ninety-eightpercent closed."

"Can you hold pressure?"

"Negative, but I anticipate where you are leading."

"Running wide open, can you build pressure with an emergency blow?"

"Yes, for a short time, that is possible. I can release air fasterthan it leaks out. Estimate forty minutes of air reserve."

"Good. Execute an emergency blow, but watch the oxygen mix. Lookslike a lot of electrical damage. Don't want an explosion."

The sides on Hope's central core began to flex from the inside out aspressure began to rise.

"Scotty," Mac said, watching Pasha on his flat screen.

"Don't forget the decompression chamber. Cycle it. That's his onlyhope."

"You're right, Mac!"

Scott keyed her mike, transmitting on Guardian's frequency.

"Is the decompression chamber operational?"

"Yes, fully operational."

"What chance does Pasha have?"

"The sooner he's in the chamber, the better his chances."

"Equalize the pressure chamber. We're on our way."

Scott looked at Mac and Gonzo. Without words, they knew what to do.

Mac clipped on an oxygen cylinder for Pasha, then raced hand over handacross a ladder to the yellow face airlock.

Gonzo strapped on a toolbox and hurried to clear the jammed airlock.

"Boris?"

"Boris is dead, impaled on the red face."

Scott saw a haunting picture of Boris she would never forget.

"Closer," instructed Scott.

Guardian focused the camera on Boris at maximum

ZOOM.

A horrible way to die.

Spikes ran through his neck, head, and torso, but his arms and handswere free. Even after death, Boris offered a final farewell. As themuscles in his arm contracted, he waved his last good-bye.

Cloud Box, 1210912014, 1611 Zulu, 11:11 A.M. Local

ROARING CREEK EARTH STATION,

ROARING CREEK, PENNSYLVANIA

A winter wonderland! thought a communications technician driving thenarrow, winding mountain road up to the Roaring Creek Earth Station.Rolling down his pickup truck window, he inhaled the smell of balsamfir trees.

Smells just like Christmas! he thought. Life doesn't get any betterthan this!

Six inches of fresh snow had fallen the night before, blanketing thehilltop and surrounding farms with a glistening white sparkle thatshimmered against the blue Pennsylvania sky.

After rounding a tight bend in the road, the technician reached aclearing. He glanced up the hill, expecting to see the silhouette ofseveral thirty-five-meter satellite dishes.

Stomping his brake to the floor, the pickup skidded to a stop. Grabbinghis binoculars, he jumped out of the cab and stood on the truck bed fora better look. After studying the hilltop, he still couldn't figure itout.

He'd seen clouds engulf the hilltop often enough, nothing unusual aboutthat. Clouds sure, but the day was picture-perfect. A front hadpassed through the night before, there wasn't a cloud in the sky-exceptfor the dense ground fog completely engulfing the earth station. Funnything was the fog bank looked more like a fog block. A block of fogwith side walls running vertically maybe one hundred feet tall.

Fog don'tfigure! he thought, when suddenly he yanked his binocularsaway from his eyes. Blinking his eyes clear, he tried to remove thespots from his vision. Feeling helpless and scared, for a few secondshe believed he was going blind. Covering his eyes, gradually the spotsdisappeared and his sight returned. Eyes must be playing tricks on me,he concluded. Musta looked at the sun somehow. You don't see fallingstars in broad daylight!

Once recovered, he climbed back into his pickup and raced up the hillto get a better look.

Touched by an invisible infrared laser beam, fresh snow around theRoaring Creek Earth Station had been vaporized-no fire because of themoisture, just fog. In just under ten seconds, the DEW SAT painted arectangular section ofsnow along the Pennsylvania hilltop about half the length of afootball field, creating a rectangular block of fog.

As he raced toward the hilltop, a slight breeze blew, rounding off theedges of the fog block. By the time the technician drove into theRoaring Creek parking lot, the dense fog had spread across the hilltopand all five large satellite dishes were visible.

Strange, I woulda sworn that fog bank had sides, he thought, scanningthe top of the windowless communications building through hisbinoculars. Dishes look all right.

Then he noticed the snow. Snow around the building had vanished . . .like an early thaw, only this thaw had edgesa boundary box of icemarking where the thaw stopped.

Nobody's gonna believe this, he thought, grabbing his VCR camera.

"Wish I'd thought of this earlier," he muttered, walking around thecommunications building, recording everything he saw on videotape.

He circled the building, walking on damp brown grass, leaves, earth,and asphalt-but no snow. His feet stayed dry and warm. Snow'dvanished without a trace. About thirty steps from the building he sawice shaped like a roadside curb, a long rounded edge of ice forming theboundary box marking where the thaw had stopped. Beyond the curb ofice lay countless acres of snow-covered hilltop. Unbelievable!

Once the technician entered the building, it became immediately obviousthat something was wrong. A loud alarm bell rang, echoing throughoutthe building. No one was in the front office, everyone was out workingon the equipment floor. The technician glanced over the alarm board,saw the office was in critical alarm, then understood why.

The entire satellite office had been jammed off the air.

Every radio link with Europe and Freedom cut. Roaring Creek carriedcommercial long-distance satellite traffic to Europe and Department ofDefense traffic to Freedom.

Countless thousands of communication channels were out.

Suddenly, as quickly as the radio links were jammed, they wererestored. Alarm bells silenced, red alarm lights went dark.

Once the bells were silent, the technician felt glad he'd missed theaction.

Walking through rack after rack of microwave equipment, he searched thefloor for the station manager. Finally, he found him in the backcorner of the building at Freedom's microwave transmitter. He came toan abrupt stop after running down the long equipment aisle. Breathingheavily, he asked the manager,

"What happened?"

"Not sure, but we'll sure figure it out!"

"How'd it start?"

"Don't know. Cheyenne Mountain pumped some data through, we lostFreedom's signal', then all hell broke loose. We got a lot of piecesto put together."

BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!

The manager pulled out his pager, read off a four-digit phoneextension, picked up a nearby phone, and placed a call.

A voice over the phone said,

"We received encrypted message traffic just before we got jammed offthe air. I think it might be important."

"You make any sense of it?" The manager raised one eyebrow.

"We can't decrypt it, but it's not the usual message traffic. There'sat least two separate messages-one came over the DEW SAT commandcircuit, the other over Hope's."

"Better send it over glass to Cheyenne Mountain

ASAP!"

The man at the other end of the phone understood the manager. He wouldsend the message over landline, optical glass fiber, so the messagewould arrive error-free at Cheyenne Mountain.

"Will do!" The phone call ended.

"Something's outside you gotta see!" the technician insisted.

One look into the technician's eyes and the manager knew he meant whathe said.

"OK. Show me!"

A Nightmare Come True, 1210912014, 1614 Zulu, 9:14 A.M LAcal

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

"Gawd!" The communications officer did a double take after reading anincoming message from Roaring Creek. He requested confirmation and gotfar more than he bargained for. Watching his TV screen in disbelief,he stared mesmerized as Roaring Creek played their videotape. As soonas he saw the tape, he charged into the Crow's Nest conference roomlike a freight train.

"General Mason!" the major puffed in a tizzy.

"Just received a video from Roaring Creek. You gotta see it!" Helooked around the room-top brass wall-to-wall. His stomach churned asevery eye in the room focused on him, but he wasn't about to apologize.They could polish their brass later, this was important.

"Everyone oughta see it!" he exclaimed as he handed a message toGeneral Mason.

"I've seen the tape. They're on the level."

Mason read the message, poring carefully over every word. At first, hefound it difficult to breathe, as if he'd had his breath knocked out.

Craven watched Mason studying the note. Looking like the world lay onhis shoulders, Mason's sad eyes revealed his innermost feelings.

This is only the beginning, Mason thought, fearing the worst.

Without comment, he handed the note to Craven.

Feeling anxious about what they might learn over the next few hours,Mason asked the major to play the videotape. The officer raced out ofthe conference room's swinging door and started the VCR.

The conference room door hadn't stopped swinging before he and twostaff sergeants burst back into the room carrying color photographs,reports, and two boxes filled with VCR tapes and floppy disks.

As the tape played, the communications officer handed Mason a set ofreconnaissance photographs, still warm from the high resolutionprinter.

"A Brit chopper took these pix. Arecibo's burning. A total loss."

Stunned, but not totally surprised, Mason asked,

"What about the men?"

"Brits are combing the area now, looking for survivors.

Bowl's burning, can't move in too close."

"What happened?"

"Don't know, General, but something big's coming down!"

"Could you be specific? What do we know?" Remembering the room mightbe bugged, Mason decided to plow ahead for the moment, as if he didn'tsuspect a thing.

Stumbling to find the right words, the communications officer shook hishead from side to side and stammered.

"We're overrun with data and short on analysis, but I got oneconclusion-something's gone terribly wrong. That pattern's consistent.We're sorting out the details, but we're gonna need some help." Hepaused, gawking at the embattled, stone like faces around the room.Frozen in place, staring at the video from Roaring Creek, the general'sstaff looked like they belonged in a wax museum.

"Major," Mason urged patiently.

"You were saying?"

Blinking, the major turned toward the general, restarting his report.

"Roaring Creek sent us a copy of some unusual radio traffic-messagesover Centurion's command circuitsto the DEW SAT fleet. We're deciphering 'em now, but looks likeCenturion issued orders to the DEW SATs just before Freedom went offthe air."

"I didn't issue any orders that'd busy up our command circuits!" Masonraised both eyebrows and cut a glance across the room at ColonelHinson. Command messages between Centurion and the DEW SAT armadashould never be unexpected, never! If Centurion had issued operationalorders to the DEW SAT armada without Headquarters's approval, there wasreal danger here, perhaps worldwide danger. These messages might behard evidence that Cheyenne Mountain had lost control of their orbitingarmada. Everyone understood that Cheyenne Mountain originated allcommand messages, or at least they had until now.

"No sir!" Colonel Napper announced.

"We never issued em, but they must be important."

Mason spoke to one of Craven's aides.

"Get these people whatever they need. Help 'em out."

Unusually quiet and subdued, General Craven nodded approval. He'dlistened, been silent till now, but he felt he had to say something torally his troops.

"People, the hard part's behind us. We've made it work.

Sunday, we tracked every target, found a problem, and Livermore fixedit in a day." Craven looked around the room at the drawn, worriedfaces of his staff. His pep talk wasn't getting any traction.

"We've been up against tough problems before and worked through everyone. There's always an explanation, there's gotta be! Our job is tofind it. We're not talking faith here, we're talking physics! God'sglue!

The laws that hold this world together! Hell, the glue works! Goddon't change it overnight. Sure, we've got technical problems, butwe'll work through 'em. We can do it! We've always done it." Hecaught Mason's eye with a sincere but disappointed smile.

Abruptly, another airman rushed into the room, delivering an armload ofnotebooks filled with more bad news.

The communications officer quickly read over the reports.

Overwhelmed, the officer looked at Mason.

"We're flooded with data, sir. Our phones are ringing off the wall!

These reports indicate communications may have been disrupted all overthe world. Edwards reports nuclear detonations in low earth orbit. Wegot reports of bright shooting stars coming in from all over the world.It doesn't add up, sir."

Mason looked at Napper.

"Talk to me." Mason spoke quietly, looking directly in his eyes. Hehad his own ideas, but hoped he was wrong.

"What do we know? I need ideas. We got symptoms of a big problemhere."

"I've got a hunch, sir, but it's a shot from the hip." Sam paused fora moment to talk off-line *ith John Sullivan, the softwarerepresentative from Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. Hewhispered something in John's ear. John turned pale, visibly shaken,but agreed after some discussion.

When Mason saw John Sullivan grimace, he knew his worst nightmare hadcome true.

Now more confident, but with the unmistakable look of terror in hiseyes, Sam stood up. Before he opened his mouth, before he said oneword, the fear in his eyes cut into the soul of everyone present.Straight-faced, he spoke quietly. Every general except Mason leanedforward, straining to hear Napper's every word. Deathbed quietpermeated the room. You could have heard a pin drop.

"I want to be perfectly clear on this point because John and I thinkit's important-it could be critical. Our information's incomplete, butone observation is undeniable.

Our problems started when Jay loaded Centurion. Let me be blunt.There's malice here-software sabotage."

Mason's mind raced ahead of the group, looking for some plan, someordered approach to solve this problem.

As Mason formulated his proposal, Craven spoke up, cutting Napper offmid-stride.

"Sabotage, that's a political decision, a people decision, and peopledecisions take time-you don't turn a decision like that around in lessthan twenty-four hours." Craven's face turned hard.

"If what you say is true, this must've been an inside job. But look atthe facts. Who knew about ourLivermore software marathon anyway? Who knew that we'd bypass ourstandard software testing? Almost no one!

Besides, to pull off this sabotage job woulda taken moles both insidethe mountain and Livermore. Statistically, the probability of sabotageis almost zero. And as a practical matter, I think it's impossible.Too many things coulda gone wrong. Odds are with me."

Shaken, Sam sat down, quietly warning,

"Don't underestimate the opposition, General." He'd worked three yearsfor Craven and was not accustomed to having his opinion discounted orinterrupted.

Mason stood in Sam's defense, not having heard one word Craven said.He'd formulated a plan and wanted to present it for discussion.

"I could be wrong, Sam, and I hope I am, but as I see it, yourobservations cut to the crux of the matter. Software sabotage-we'redefenseless against it. We threw our software testing to the wind."Mason didn't look toward Craven for approval.

Mason paused, organized his thoughts, then looked toward Sam and JohnSullivan for support.

"John, let's find the problem. Assume software sabotage for now, butdon't do anything that might alarm anyone at Livermore. Begin yourstandard software regression testing procedures at Livermore, butaccelerate them, run them round the clock.

Whataya think?"

"You read my mind, General! Livermore already started testing firstthing this morning. Everyone expected it looks rushed, but routine."

Looking toward Colonel Sam Napper, Mason continued.

"Get us visibility, Sam. We need our eyes and ears back!

We need to see what's happening in orbit. You with me?"

"All the way, General!" Napper exclaimed, feeling his race was aboutto begin. He knew what to do, and it was important. Mason felt hecould see the wheels in Napper's head spinning round. Napper's fearhad disappeared.

"My crews're working Freedom, Hope, and the BMEWS now.

If Freedom or Hope whispers, we'll hear 'em. BMEWS radar data's thebest bet until our link's restored. We've lost our real-time, butwe'll do everything we can."

Pointing out toward the communications officer, Mason spoke softly.

"Major, you're in the hot seat here. We'll follow your lead. Decipherthose command circuit messages from Roaring Creek ASAP. Do whatever ittakes. We need them decoded yesterday!" Mason paused, letting themajor absorb his idea. Once he sensed traction in the major'sexpression, he pointed to the notebooks.

"Finally, get some people sorting those phone reports, generate ussummary, a snapshot of what's coming in off the wires. Get back to mein an hour with what you've got."

The major pointed to three bird colonels sitting alongside Craven.

"How 'bout you, you, and you lending a hand?

You heard the general, let's do it!" The communications officer rushedout of the room followed by his two staff sergeants and an airman. Eachof Craven's aides looked sheepishly to him for approval.

Craven nodded.

"You heard the general. Do whatever it takes!" With some reservation,they filed out, following the major to the radio room.

"Hinson," Mason announced.

"We scrub today's High Ground testing. We're off the air until furthernotice! Put your aircraft back in the barn. Keep 'em on standby. Wemight need em. And Centurion's log-work through it with Yuri's people.That's our bread crumb trail out of this forest. It should tell useverything Centurion's done."

Hinson agreed without argument.

Listening from the War Room below, Shripod Addams knew his career as anIraqi field agent was finished, but what a career. He'd been in theright place at the right time.

Doing Allah's work, he'd found the Allies' soft spot and exploited it.The world was changing, the balance of power shifting away from theAllies, before his very eyes. Few agents ever directly observed theimpact of their intelligence efforts. Addams felt fortunate to havebeen an instrument of Allah's divine will. Planning his final signalto Baghdad, he knew it was only a matter of time until they found hisbug in the conference room, but he'd expectedthis all along. He felt certain the Allies couldn't finger him, ascertain as one could be in the intelligence business. His fate was inAllah's hands.

Controllers on the War Room floor ran diagnostics, but found nothingwrong with their equipment. As floor activity shifted into frantic, noone noticed when Shripod Addams disappeared into the rest room. Heentered a stall, removed a tiny flesh-colored button radio from hisear, wrapped it in toilet paper, then gave it a flush. Satisfied, hecalmly pulled a hearing aid from his pants pocket then worked it intoplace. Identical in appearance to the button radio, only he knew thedifference.

Home for Christmas, 1210912014, 1619 Zulu

INSIDE THE OVEN,

SUB ARRAY ANTENNA FEED ON FREEDOM's RED FACE Tenderly caressing the oldfaded letter in his leg pocket, Jay felt apprehensive about moving intoFreedom's microwave oven-technically named the sub array antenna feed.Standing outside the red airlock, he saw his destination down a longmain corridor-a row of equipment cabinets located on the oven's middlerack. Red and green colored safety lights lined the passageway leadingfrom the airlock into the oven. All lights showed green, safe topass.

Moving carefully toward his destination, Jay keyed his mike and spoketo Centurion.

"Verify transmitters're safe."

"Jay, your safety is my responsibility. I take my responsibilities asseriously as you take yours."

Jay didn't like having his life depend on any program with a clinker init. He figured that Centurion had millions of lines of known good codeso the odds of running the program bug should be very low. For thegarden-variety program bug, he was right, but PAM was no ordinarybug.

"Depack, you with me?"

"Yeah-you're on the monitor."

"Watch over Centurion's shoulder for me, will ya? Help him out if thatclinker shows up. He'll understand."

"Jay, if I were in your position, I would request redundant coverage.We have no margin for error. You only die once." Jay found littlecomfort in Centurion's observations, however accurate.

After moving from the relative safety of the central core into theoven, Jay decided to pick up his pace. The less time in the oven, thebetter.

He attached himself to the white equipment cabinet with a strap, tookoff his backpack, and began replacing the antenna amps. After turninga T-shaped handle, each antenna module would slide out and he'd replaceit. Once he'd swapped eight modules in the white cabinet, he closed itand moved to the red.

Breathing heavily, he felt a trickle of sweat running down his leg.Adjusting his suit temperature, he decided he'd better slow down andcheck his work. One trip into the oven was enough.

Suddenly, he felt a burning pain between his legs, as if his groin wasablaze. Doubling over, he saw the corridor lights change to red.

"Depack! Centurion!"

Centurion killed the transmitter power almost instantly, even beforeJay screamed, and before Depack could react.

The transmitter was on only a few seconds, but Jay was hurting.

Centurion spoke' immediately

"Jay, damage appraisal?

Can you walk?"

A groan punctuated by

"Think so."

"Return immediately. Fatal error report summary: I turned thetransmitter off, but I did not turn it on. I observed what happened, Imeasured what happened, but I cannot explain what happened.Recommendation: transfer armada control to Hope."

Jay didn't need to hear it twice. He threw off his restraining strapand rushed across the oven toward the safety of the airlock. Weightlessand sore, Jay found running awkward, nearly impossible. Bouncing fromfloor to ceiling, he moved down the long corridor as best he could,keeping both legs together.

To his immediate left, Jay saw the wall covered withhundreds of microwave antenna horns and cutoff valves.

Each horn looked like the bell of a trombone. On his right, a wallcovered with thousands of spikes, each an antenna.

All the microwave radar energy used on Freedom's red face passedthrough the oven. The oven focused microwaves, and concentratedmicrowaves meant real danger.

All Jay could think about was getting out.

"Jay, I am not what I was, but I am all there is."

"No, Centurion!" Depack interrupted. Suddenly, the fog lifted forDepack. He could see Centurion's problem clearly now.

"That's it! That's the bug! You're not all there is! There's anotherprogram running, a renegade you can't see!"

Excited about solving the first piece of this puzzle, Depack failed tothink about the consequences of his discovery until it was too late.

Depack expected confirmation from Centurion, but didn't get what he'dexpected.

The picture of Centurion faded to black.

"Depack, Centurion is not here anymore." The voice sounded almostfemale, but it couldn't be.

"Where is he? Who are you?" Desperate, Depack grabbed Centurion's TVscreen and shook it, as if that would bring him back.

"Centurion is asleep."

Depack typed in a command to double-check. Centurion's personalityprogram had been put to sleep.

"Wake him up!" demanded Depack, pounding Centurion's computerkeyboard. The keyboard didn't respond.

"Additional conversation can serve no useful purpose."

Suddenly, red floodlights illuminated Freedom's control room. Terrorflushed across Depack's face.

"Depack!" Jay screamed.

"Cut over!" He had heard everything on the intercom.

Depack understood-switch armada control to Hope.

Frantically, Depack rotated the master/ slave turnkey switch givingHope armada control.

Nothing. The turnkey didn't work. Hope was off-line.

Their communications link failed.

Then it happened very quickly. Depack heard airlock doors opening allaround him followed by the screaming roar of a cyclone wind.

Outside, Jay heard Depack screaming over the intercom, but there wasnothing he could do.

Suddenly, the oven safety lights flashed red.

Unless he moved fast, he had less than fifteen seconds to live. He hadonly one chance, and that was a long shot create a safe zone inside theoven by turning off some of the horns. This would create a huge holein Freedom's radar coverage, but that was the least (A his worries.

Jay knew the safest spot inside the oven was the floor, so he hit thedeck and began switching off individual horns.

He moved quickly at first, but soon sweat coated the inside of hisvisor.

Microwave energy immediately converted the sweat to steam, forming afog across his visor, making it difficult to see. He struggled toclear it, instinctively wiping the outside of his visor, but the fogpersisted and his visibility worsened-he couldn't see the cutoffvalves. Operating by feel and overwhelmed with pain, Jay's swollenfingers became stiff. His sense of touch began to-fail.

He doubled over into a fetal position, feeling his groin on fire.Slowly, his eyelids began squinting shut. With each finger swollen tothe diameter of a quarter, his skin felt tight, ready to burst.

Blinded by the steam from his own sweat, he accidentally stuck his handinside a hot horn. He sensed sticky moisture in his glove, the skin oneach finger burst open, coating the inside of his glove with blood. Heyanked his hand out of the microwave horn and stood up, holding it overhis head in front of the red safety light. Through his fogged visor,he saw the silhouette of his hand, a twisted swollen mass.

He convulsed, spitting up blood inside his helmet. As his blood boiledinto steam, it coated the inside of his visor with a dark red residue,leaving him totally blind.

After killing about one third of the horns, Jay had man-aged to clear himself a safe zone, but hadn't realized it.

Disoriented and with all capacity for clear thought expended, hecouldn't have found it anyway. Jay had cooked to the point where eachexposed raw nerve in his skin felt like a tooth under the dentist'sdrill-without Novocain.

overwhelming his brain, Jay's pain had become like a drug, his agonyalmost tolerable.

In his final moments, he felt loneliness, a nauseating emptiness nodrug could cure. As the blood in his extremities began boiling, Jayopened his leg pocket with his good hand. Tenderly, he removed Linda'sold faded letter, and held it tightly. Lying there, clutching hismemories, he closed his eyes for the last time.

Virus Confirmation, 1210912014, 1730 Zulu, 10:30 A.m. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

"General Mason's right. This room's bugged," whispered the radiotechnician to the captain in charge of security. As the technicianrotated his directional antenna, an LED display lit up, indicating thedirection of the bug. Methodically, he read the direction from hisequipment, then marked it using a tripod-mounted pencil laser beam. Hemoved across the room and took two additional bearings on the bug'stransmitter, marking each bearing with separate pencil beams. Thetechnician saw they intersected at a large metal video conferencetable.

After crawling underneath the table with a flashlight, the technicianreappeared with a confident smile. He'd worked with similar bugsbefore and thought that he recognized the smell of the gum.

The captain of security and his radio technician quietly escortedGenerals Mason, Krol, and Craven outside the video conference room ontothe walkway surrounding the Crow's Nest. The technician explained:"Bug's underneath the table stuck in a wad of Juicy Fruit gum. I'veseen that type of bug before. The mike's sensitive, but its transmitrange is limited to a few hundred feet." The technician scanned theWar Room floor below, looking for yellow gum wrappers. From sixty feetoverhead, he couldn't see well enough.

"Yes sir, I'd bet your mole's in the War Room, Generals. Somewheredown there's a mole that likes Juicy Fruit."

With about one hundred people rushing about, the War Room floor lookedlike a beehive of activity.

The captain nodded,

"We'll look for gum wrappers as we collect the trash tonight and haveour lab double-check the gum and bug's transmit range. If we findanything, we'll let you know."

"A good start," observed Mason.

"Don't do anything to arouse suspicion. Any other ideas?"

The technician spoke first.

"Yes sir. I wanna zap that bug, but I need your help-I need youreyes."

"What should we do?"

"I'm going to blast that bug with a loud tone. When you hear it, watchfor any reaction below. If our mole has his ears on, it's gonna hurt.Look for sudden movements, anyone grabbing their ears."

"We're with you." Mason moved to cover the walkway on the north,Craven took the south, Krol the east, and the captain covered thewest.

Moments later, they heard a high-pitched shrill sound coming frominside the conference room. As they watched the floor below, they sawnothing-nothing out of the ordinary.

"Mole's onto us," observed the technician. Carefully peeling the bugfrom underneath the table, the captain of security placed it in a bugbox-a soundproof, radio-tight metal carrying case.

Mason spoke to the captain in earnest.

"We're going to need a lot more from you. At least two moles areinvolved at separate locations. They may be working together. Themountain mole you know about. We believe there's another insideLivermore. Work with Livermore, our computer center, the phonecompany-any outfit you can trust who might help us. We need this leakplugged. Do whatever it takes. Develop a plan that covers all thebases. We'll getyou the resources you need. Trace all our communications withLivermore over the last three days-phone calls, computer chatter,e-mail traffic. We're dealing with well coordinated professionalshere."

"I expect I'll need you to grease some skids, General,"

the captain said cautiously.

"Think it through, then point us in the right direction."

"You can depend on me, sir!" The captain carried the bug box off totheir lab for testing.

The general staff moved once again into the video conference room for areport from the Crow's Nest communications officer. The room quicklyfilled to capacity. Staff officers stood in the doorways and thecontrol rooms outside. The mood was tense and the room hot from thecrowd.

The communications officer entered, white as a ghost and visiblyshaken. As he looked at the faces crowded around the room, he felteven worse. No one likes delivering bad news to overheated top brass,packed shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a can. Standing behindthe lectern to hide his trembling legs, he began in a quivery voice.

"As you know, we've lost control of the DEW SAT fleet.

We decoded the command messages Centurion transmitted to the DEW SATarmada and the news is not good-our situation is critical. Centurion isissuing operations orders on his own-without our approval." He paused,letting his message hover around the room. Having proclaimed the badnews in summary, he continued with the details.

"The command message traffic we decoded explains everything-everyreport of shooting stars, Arecibo's fire, radio interference-everything.Centurion's assigning targets on his own. He assigned Arecibo, put iton the kill stack, and a DEW SAT took it out. What I'm saying is thatwe lost our space station communications links because Centurionordered them destroyed-and there's more.

Every known ASAT and space mine has been destroyed,two-hundred-thirty-eight in all-two-hundred-thirty-eight explodingshooting stars. Communications around the world were knocked out forone minute while the armada eliminated every known orbiting threat."

A captain from Space Operations spoke from the rear of the room.

"Those ASATs have been a thorn in our side for years. I'm sure we'lltake some heat, but my knee-jerk reaction is that I'm glad they'regone. Were any DEW SATs damaged?"

Speaking over video from downstairs on the War Room floor, ColonelNapper replied.

"Two DEW SATs are spinning out of control, but the remainder of thearmada is operational." Colonel Napper could see the DEW SATs spin ashe watched his display showing the BMEWS radar data.

"We confirmed this damage by monitoring Centurion's log," added GeneralKrol from the video conference room.

"Centurion's taken two DEW SATs out of service and compensated fortheir loss. He's already adjusted the orbits of adjacent DEW SATs tofill in the hole." The activity log reflected what Centurion did, butnot why he did it. Freedom transmitted the activity log over aseparate maintenance channel which Centurion couldn't control. Maintenance channel transmissions provided a monitor port for suchemergency situations as this.

The communications officer continued, but slowly, "Centurion's lastcommand transmission was sent to Hope, and it was lethal. He evacuatedHope, opened every airlock at once. We've contacted Hope indirectlyover Hell Fire's radio. Major Scott reported analyst Boris Ustinovdead and Commander Pasha Yakovlev recovering in the decompressionchamber. We're setting up a communications link to Hope as I speak. Ican say what has happened-Centurion leaves a trail-but not why ithappened. Why Centurion issued these orders is speculation at thispoint, but I agree with John and Colonel Napper. Software sabotage isthe only explanation that makes sense."

"What if one of Freedom's crewmen turned on us or cracked due to theisolation?" asked Colonel Hinson, always ready to advance hiscareer.

"Fayhee's been stressed out over the past few days."

General Craven agreed. Immediately, the noise level inthe room increased. Could there be a traitor or lunatic runningFreedom? Not likely, but was it possible?

John Sullivan collected his notes, walked to the lectern, and quietlydiscussed something with the communications officer. The officeragreed, then sat down.

John spoke loudly at first.

"Gentlemen, if I could have your attention please. We're getting offtrack here. We don't have a people problem-it's sabotage. We've gotthe proof." The overheated room quickly hushed.

"We ordered one change from Livermore-well, we didn't get it. We gothundreds. And on top of that, we got a computer virus like no one atLivermore's ever seen."

Craven's blood pressure went sky-high.

"What the hell happened? You told me one program change would doit."

I've been against your stupid frenzy from the start! And I never toldyou one program change-but that's history, thought Sullivan. No,you're history. This monkey will cost your job, but you don't need tohear that from me.

"Livermore made hundreds of changes to the software, but those changesaren't the problem. Those changes fixed known problems and they'd allbeen tested. But there was a down side. Those changes hid the virus.The virus looked just like any other change. All the changes are beingtraced back to programmers now."

"What about this virus?" barked Craven.

"How do we get rid of it?"

"We don't know, General, we can't cure a virus, but we're working toisolate it now. We plan to characterize it first-discover what makesit tick. Once we understand it, we think we can fix it."

"Where'd it come from?"

"We're working that issue, but we don't know where it came from. It'stoo early in our testing program to know, but we've seen enough to knowwe've got a big problem."

John collected his thoughts then summarized Livermore's situation.

"We don't know where it came from and we haven't isolated it. We don'tknow what this virus will do or how it'll behave. We haven'tcharacterized it, but we will."

"We were ninety-nine percent operational," Craven growled bitterly.

"Success was in sight." He pounded the table with his fist. Assupreme commander, he was washed up. He knew it-everyone in the roomknew it.

"What about our boys on Freedom?" Mason asked quietly.

"I don't know, but I fear the worst," replied General Krol.

"We're wading through Centurion's activity log looking for clues."

A cold chill cut through Mason's body. He'd known Fayhee and likedhim. Jay said what he thought.

The staff became restless. Mason concentrated blocking out thedistractions around him, struggling to sort out a plan.

"Gentlemen," Mason said softly as he stood,

"I propose we characterize the renegade virus as quickly as possibleand do what we must to switch armada control to Hope.

Have I missed something or do you agree?"

Spellbound, in a state of shock and disbelief, the staff remainedsilent.

"Very well," continued Mason. He looked at Colonel Napper on the videoscreen.

"Sam, work us up a plan to switch armada control ASAP."

"Yes sir, General. We'll have our Hope radio link set in an hour orless, then we'll work the switch."

"Good." Mason sounded satisfied. He looked away toward JohnSullivan.

"Keep Livermore after that renegade program round the clock."

"Will do, Slim!"

Mason looked around the room at the drawn faces and sighed. Thismeeting had been tough enough, but he dreaded the next one. One wordkept cycling through his mind-Midway. Admiral Yamamoto lost theimperial fleet during the battle for Midway Island. Mason felt as ifthey'd lost the imperial fleet and must now tell the emperor.

"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I must call the President."

The Last Lunch, 1210912014, 1922 Zulu, 12:22 P.m. Local SHRIPOD ADDAms APARTMENT,

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

Shripod Addams savored the moment. Doing Allah's will, he'd foundrevenge against the infidel American government for the losses ofDesert Storm.

He drove home to his apartment for lunch and began to work on hissecond job. Sitting down behind his home computer, he banged out hislast message to Baghdad: Lawrence horse won by photo finish see pressfor details.

Mountain line down.

Translated, the Trojan horse computer virus from Lawrence Livermore Labhad taken control of the DEW SAT armada. Watch electronic news foradditional details. Expect no further reports from him for anundetermined amount of time-his communication chain was broken.

Satisfied with his terse message, he encrypted it, printed out his hardcopy, then completely erased his disk.

He had one final stop to make on his way back to work.

He didn't need gas, but he would stop anyway-had to eat.

Suddenly, Addams felt strangely empty, lacking in purpose or cause. Hislast message seemed anticlimactic, almost meaningless.

The thrill of the game was gone and he missed it.

A Conversation with the President, 1210912014, 1930 Zulu, 12:30 P.m.Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

From their video conference room, Craven, Sullivan, Krol, and Masonwatched an array of TV screens showing pictures from inside the OvalOffice. Seated around the Oval Office were the President, his nationalsecurity advisor, and Craven's boss, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefsof Staff.

Mason noticed that Sullivan's complexion appeared ashen, then heremembered his own first meeting with the President.

"John," he said quietly, "don't be intimidated by the big shots-justsay what you think." Then he remembered Midway and his stomach turnedover. Should take my own advice' f "Hello, Headquarters." ThePresident poured himself coffee, sat down behind his desk, and checkedhis watch two-thirty Washington time.

"Let's get started."

Craven had Mason break the bad news.

"Mr. President, we've lost control of our satellite armada and elevenpeople are confirmed dead as a result. In addition, one man isseriously injured on Hope and we're unable to contact Freedom."

Spilling his coffee, the President sat for a moment, stunned indisbelief.

"Eleven dead?"

"Yes, and two remain unaccounted for."

After the shock wore off, the President's expressionchanged to anger. Bolting from his chair, he turned toward hisnational security advisor, Clive Towles.

"You said ninety-nine percent operational-testing wrapped up byChristmas."

"This problem occurred within the last six hours,"

Towles explained in a strained voice.

"So what happened?" demanded the President, slamming his fist down onhis desk.

"Software sabotage." Mason paused.

"A computer virus the likes of which we've never seen." This shouldnever have happened, we knew better-buckled under pressure, got in ahurry, and blew it.

"How?"

"This was an inside job, Mr. President-well organized andprofessional-nothing was left to chance." General Mason summarized thesituation in less than five minutes as he watched the President pacethe floor.

"I want to make damn sure I've got this story straight,"

the President said sharply. He stopped pacing for a moment, squinted,and looked directly into the camera.

"You're telling me that we detonated a dozen orbiting nuclear warheadsand in addition, we've destroyed over two hundred ASATS."

"That is correct, Mr. President." Mason spoke clearly in a quietvoice.

"Is there danger from radiation?"

"No, Mr. President. There is not."

For a brief moment, the President looked relieved, but that quicklytransitioned into a form of restrained rage.

"So we killed eleven people, interrupted communications around theworld, and destroyed every ASAT in orbit because of some damn programbug?" Infuriated, the wild-eyed President blasted Mason with bothbarrels.

"You're telling me you don't know exactly how many people are dead,who's responsible, or how it happened? Senseless death and forwhat?"

Both ends of the conference call went silent as the ruddy faced IrishPresident vented high-powered frustration.

Mason thought he might go ballistic, but after a few long minutes, thePresident backed off and adopted an intellectual guise. The Presidentwalked over to the thick glass window and looked out onto thesnow-covered lawn.

Touching the frost-covered window, he felt the cold radiate through theswollen joints of his fingers. Almost immediately, his hand beganaching from arthritis. His senses confirmed he was awake-his nightmarewas real.

"Time," the President said after some reflection.

"We're going to need some time." Turing toward Clive Towles, heordered: "Cancel my appointments for the afternoon. Give the reason asa crisis with my cabinet staff-the sudden resignation of a highlyplaced government official." He smiled, but only slightly. Returningto his seat, he pulled up the low table, propped his feet up, and triedto relax.

"For now, limit our discussion to damage control-plans to return thestatus quo."

Craven's boss, the chairman, spoke first.

"Is the armada operational?"

"We've tested it and it seems to work," Mason replied.

"But our situation may degenerate because of the virus."

Before the White House could respond, Craven moved directly in front ofthe video camera and spoke in a low controlled voice.

"We believe SDI operational. We've proven High Ground counter stealthtechnology works. We ran hostile missile threat tests after thisinfection and the system worked. Our DEW SATs are brilliant-classstandalone weapon systems. They know what to do. Any missiles thatthreaten the Allies, our DEW SATs take out, so there's no cause forpanic. And that includes sub launched cruise missiles, Mr. President.As I see it, this virus delays our testing program, but little else.Our testing program will he delayed until we put this problem behindus, but like all technical problems, in time, we will solve it. We'retesting now, but from what we've seen so far, the armada reacts like itdid before the virus."

"That's true, sir, but only to a point," John Sullivan addedcautiously.

"Our situation could degenerate anytime.

We don't know the DEW SATs operating rules of engagement."

"Rules?" The President leaned forward.

"John, tell me more."

DEW SATs track, identify, and destroy targets based on a programmedbook of operating rules. They're brilliant class weapons and networkedtogether, they operate as a team. Like people, they talk amongthemselves and help each other out, but they operate based onprogrammed rules of combat etiquette. I think this virus may havechanged the rule book. If I'd written this virus, I would've changedit."

"How?" asked the President.

"Knowing what you know, what would you have done?"

"I'd add Al (Artificial Intelligence)," Sullivan replied confidently.Rule-based systems were his technical passion.

"A combination of all the original rules plus Al. That way the armadawould appear to operate as it did before, but. . ."

"This discussion is nonsense-pure speculation!" barked Craven,interrupting Sullivan mid-sentence.

"The armada works, but our testing is not complete. Simple as that!"

The chairman objected, and loudly.

"John's closest to the problem and he's on our side. Let himfinish!"

Craven cringed, but reluctantly agreed.

"I'd add Al and let each DEW SAT learn from experience-within limits ofcourse. Target recognition's a good example-learning new threats. I'dallow the DEW SAT to train on new targets and learn to recognize them.Once a DEW SAT learned a new threat, it would teach the others."

"Have you any proof?" asked the President.

"Any evidence that the rules have been changed?"

"Every immediate threat to the virus has been eliminated. That's notconclusive proof, but we're suspect."

"General Mason, what do you think?"

"Our situation is more serious than you might imagine, Mr. President.With all due respect to General Craven, we disagree on this issue.John's our technical expert and I think he's right.

"Hell Fire is our only alternative-Scott and her crew are the onlyassets we have in place that can help us.

They're isolated on Hope, completely cut off, and there is nothing wecan do about it. If they moved on Freedom today, they'd have no chanceof success, but with time and Livermore's help, their chances willimprove.

"Look at what's happened. Every threat to the armada has beeneliminated. As you know, we cannot penetrate the DEW SAT layer. Wecan't punch a hole through it-we've proven that. It's a missile shieldand it works.

"Assume our space station crews did what they were trained to do.They're resourceful people-handpicked for the job. They would haveswitched armada control to Hope if they could have, but I think thisvirus tried to kill them. It wiped out Hope's crew-probably )7reedom'stoo."

Mason took a deep breath, let his point sink in, then continued.

"If we assume Freedom's crew is dead, then this battlefield grade viruscontrols both Freedom and our armada. It's suicide to send Hopereinforcements. We can't break through our armada, and Freedom is afortress-unapproachable. Mr. President, I believe we have a virusrunning the DEW SAT armada and there may be very little we can do aboutit. Our alternatives are limited to a precious few."

"Talk alternatives," ordered the President. He didn't like what he'dheard and didn't want to believe it.

"As you said, Mr. President, we need time. Time to characterize andsin;ulate this virus, time to understand how it behaves. Once weunderstand it, we'll have a better chance of predicting what it'll dowhen Scott boards Freedom and disconnects Centurion."

"How much time?"

John Sullivan fielded this schedule question.

"We're doing the best we can, Mr. President. Livermore's workinground the clock." John paused, looking to Slim for support.

Say what you think.

"It could take a month. We just don't know. This virus is battlefieldgrade-like nothing we've ever seen."

The President, the chairman, and Towles shot out of their seats likethey'd been wired.

The President's intellectual cover was blown and the ruddy-facedfighting Irishman emerged.

"We don't have abloody month! We've got a crisis on our hands demanding actionnow!"

"What would we tell the press?" barked the chairman.

"Tell them the truth," insisted Mason.

"And release this story from the source-Livermore."

"The truth?" The chairman mumbled caustically. This truthful approachto the press wasn't new, but in this case, it might limit severalpromising political careers.

"There must be a better way."

For the second time, Craven moved directly in front of the videocamera.

"Mr. President, I propose we make our move now and draw this crisis toa close. As General Mason said earlier, we disagree on this point. Ibelieve we can restore armada control within twenty-four hours. We canturn this situation around using assets we have in place today."

The President returned to his chair, obviously not convinced. At whatrisk? How many more would die?

"Twenty-four hours," the chairman asked skeptically.

"How? What's your plan?"

"First, we'll switch armada control to Hope. That should return thestatus quo." Craven's confidence didn't sway the group in the Crow'sNest or Oval Office.

"Then we'll isolate and characterize this virus with Freedomoff-line.

Colonel Hinson wants to turn this virus on those who used it on us."

"What are your chances of success?" asked the chairman.

"Why didn't Hope's crew switch armada control?

Their primary job is backing up Freedom. Mason believes they may havedied trying."

"No better than one in ten. Hope can't take over if Freedom won'trelease control, but if it works, we'll have our armada back. If not,I propose we storm Freedom. We have military options. We should usethem.

"We'll blast a hole through the DEW SAT layer, move assault troops toHope, then storm Freedom. A three-phase operation-break out, regroup,and charge.

"Our opportunity is now! We must take the offensive while we have thechance. This is a job for our military professionals, not engineeringtechnocrats who'll study this problem to death. In my profession,there's absolutely no substitute for command experience. Commandersmust take risks to win and those who don't die."

"I thought the DEW SAT layer could not be penetrated,"

snapped the President.

"You've told us that for years."

"I've always insisted that those who would threaten us cannot penetratethe DEW SAT armada and that's true. It's also true that we would notallow ourselves to be held hostage by our own satellite weapons. We'llconcentrate our efforts at the weakest region of the DEW SAT layer andpunch through it. Knock out a few DEW SATs and open up the hole weneed."

"What's your objection?" the chairman asked, speaking to GeneralMason.

"I agree with Craven. We wouldn't allow ourselves to be boxed into acorner without some way out."

"We don't know what this virus will do or how it'll react. It couldturn on us-it leveled Arecibo. Our intelligence about this virus isonly beginning to take shape. We need-we must have time."

Craven spoke next.

"If our frontal assault on the DEW SAT layer fails, we have a secondoption-MIT's Black Hole project. They've developed an experimentalairplane and ASAT that our DEW SATs can't detect."

"That program's experimental-still in the lab," Mason rehiarked. HighGround's already obsolete, he thought. We stay ahead, but the racenever ends. To stay ahead is enough-to prevent war is to win.

"They have working prototypes," argued Craven.

"If all else fails, we can study the virus looking for someweakness."

After an extended period of discussion around the Oval Office, thePresident asked General Craven,

"What do you propose?"

"Storm Freedom!" After collecting his thoughts, he offered Mason anolive branch.

"In addition, I propose we study the virus as General Masonrecommended, but in parallel to our primary military thrust."

"What do you need to make it happen?"

"Time!" Mason interrupted.

"Mr. President, we need time! We don't know what we're up against."He spoke softly but with resolve.

"Before starting this attack, we must know our adversary!"

"General Mason," the President said tersely, "doing anything is betterthan doing nothing. You learn as you go and, if necessary, you changedirections."

Speaking directly to General Craven, he said: "If your attempt totransfer armada control to Hope fails, storm Freedom. Keep meinformed, and may God help us."

In Washington, the chairman disconnected the video link to CheyenneMountain. After his TV screen went blank, the President continued themeeting.

"Towles, find out who and what caused this blood mess-your job is tomake sure it never happens again. If the system's broken, fix it. Ifwe've got a people problem, I want to know about it!"

The Barbarian Who Wouldn't Die, 1211012014, 2335 Zulu, 2:35 A.m. LocalSAD DAM HUSSEIN'S WINTER HomE,

WEST BANK OVERLOOKING THE TIGRIS RIVER,

SOUTH OF BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Iraqi President Hessian Kamel al-Tikriti knew the drive to hisfather-in-law's winter retirement home better than the streets aroundhis own neighborhood. He and his wife made this trip often, not somuch out of love for the old man, but because Saddam Hussein demandedit. Saddam Hussein alTikriti was enshrined as a national Iraqitreasure, and national treasures always received the Iraqi President'sattention.

But tonight's family visit was different. This visit was PresidentKamet's idea and would come as a complete surprise to Saddam Hussein.Unannounced, Kamel and his wife were driven through the security gatesleading to Saddam's large estate just after 2:30 A.M. They waited forSaddam in his river room, an enormous brilliant white room with plushfluorescent orange chairs lining three walls. A bulletproof picturewindow overlooking the river dominated the fourth wall, and the centerof the room, covered with spotless white carpet, was completely open,bare of furniture. Kamel's wife stood by the thick glass window,gazing at spotlights glistening off the Tigris River, aDXiOUSIY waitingto see her father. In her hand, she held a piece of paper-a piece ofpaper that would not wait till tomorrow.

Kamel allowed himself a smile. He had no affection whatsoever for theold man-it was hard to respect the brutal tribe chieftain, but not sohard to fear him.

Saddam Hussein didn't keep Khmel and his daughter waiting long.

A bodyguard for the Iraqi regime rolled Saddam's wheelchair into theriver room and left him next to his daughter by the picture window.

In the dark shadows of the early morning hours, there was no sense ofthe barbarian in Saddam's expression. His face looked deeply wrinkled,like an old weathered shoe, but his black eyes revealed a caustichatred still smoldering in his soul.

Saddam's old carcass was failing him, his health wasn't what it oncewas, but his mind remained sharp and alert.

He'd been seriously ill for several years, which had taken a toll onhis appearance, but the old man wouldn't die. The Kurds couldn't killhim, the Allies couldn't kill him, and he'd survived two battles withcancer. Only in his seventi , he looked thin and frail, like a manwell over ninety.

No one had expected he'd live this long.

He rose from the wheelchair, trying to stand erect, then walked towardhis daughter with a slow, shuffling gait.

Bending forward almost immediately, a little shaky on his feet, thefragile skeleton of a man looked on the face of his daughter and saw amirror of himself. The corners of his mouth revealed a smile.

"Ahlan wa sahlan"-My house is your house.

Saddam eyed Kamel suspiciously as his daughter hugged him. IraqiPresident Kamel slid three chairs over to the picture window and theysat down. Kamel thought Saddamsincere, but he dared not let his guard down-not around this oldman.

Kamel nodded to his wife, then she handed her father the paper datedTuesday, December 9, 2014.

Parkinson's disease forced a slight tremor in Saddam's hands. He hadtrouble holding it still, but the newspaper type was large and he couldread it.

During the minutes which followed, Saddam's daughter saw her father forthe barbarian he was.

BATTLEFIELD GRADE COMPUTER

VIRUS INFECTS STAR WARS

Star Wars, the Allied satellite based missile defense system, laycrippled today as a result of a rogue program which slowed downcomputers by replicating itself time and time again.

Early damage control reports conflict. Cheyenne Mountain hasacknowledged loss of satellite weapon control, but believes systemswill return to normal within 24 hours.

Scientists at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory are not asoptimistic.

"It may be impossible to isolate this virus in the near future,"reported Dr. Tristan Roberts, President of Information Sciences atLivermore, SDI's software R&D headquarters.

"We've cut it out of one program only to have it show up in another.From what we've seen so far, this renegade program behaves more like acode cancer than a virus.

"At this early stage, we don't know what we're up against. We learneda lot the last twenty-four hours, but we've got a long way to go. Thisvirus protects itself. When we attempted to remove it from onecomputer, it moved to another-similar to squeezing a balloon. Squeezeit in one place and it bulges out somewhere else.

"The origin of any virus is difficult, if not impossible, toinvestigate. It's likely we'll never understand where it came from,but we're sure this infection was no accident."

When questioned as to what he meant by that remark, Roberts declined toelaborate, but did comment that sometimes we create our own problems.

"We've every indication that this was a malicious act," Robertsconcluded.

"This super virus has infected every major corn At first, Saddam heldthe paper with trembling hands, but then he changed. Carefullystudying every word, he drew strength from what he read. A proud fireignited in the old man's black eyes-defiance blazed like a flame. Theshake in his hands lessened as he stood his scrawny carcass uprightagain, straightening his old weary back. With a sardonic smile, hecrumpled the paper in his fist and shook it before the heavens. Lookingout into the darkness beyond the Tigris River, he declared,

"Now I know why Allah kept me alive all these years. Nobody hurts meunharmed. Allahu Akbar."

puter system onboard Space Station Freedom and, frankly, today we don'thave the cure. Fortunately, the SDI armada has built-in redundancy tocompensate for these unforeseen problems.

Within the next few hours, Cheyenne Mountain plans to transfer controlof the armada to Space Station Hope.

THE DAY OF RETRIBUTION

DECEMBER 10, 2014

The Chicago Craftsman, 1211012014, 0850 Zulu, 1:50 A.M. Local CARRENTAL PICKup AREA,

STAPLE TON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

DENVER, COLORADO

The most dangerous phase of the operation was yet to come. Up to thispoint, their operation had been planned by fax and picture phone. Toni,a professional craftsman of accidental death, flew to Denver nonstopfrom Chicago carrying the tools of his trade with him, disguised asskiing equipment. Dressed for a skiing vacation, he arrived in jeans,cowboy boots, and a ski jacket. He picked up his tools at baggageclaim, then met his Denver connection waiting by the Avis counter.

Nicknamed Wrangler, Toni's Denver connection was a large physical typewho looked like he'd played linebacker for the Chicago Bears. Theyrecognized each other immediately, and together they carried Toni'sluggage to Wrangler's car, a white Honda Accord. At 1:50 A.M. earlyWednesday morning, they drove to Colorado Springs for a firsthand lookat the scene where Toni's next accident would take place.

From Stapleton International Airport, their drive to Cheyenne Mountaindown I-25 South took about ninety minutes. While Wrangler drove, Tonidid a little extra homework. Using a laptop PC, Toni carefully studiedaninformation package the Iraqi Intelligence Service had hand-deliveredto his organization. The package described everything the Iraqis knewabout the accident victim, Shripod Addams-his habits, automobile,apartment, hobbies, debts-everything. Toni took special interest in themake of Shripod's car and a map of the Cheyenne Mountain area. The mapshowed the location of Shripod's apartment and highlighted his dailydrive to work. Toni planned for Shripod to die on his drive to work;it was the only way he could deliver a convincing accident on suchshort notice. Tonight, Toni would come to know Shripod's drive to worklike the back of his own hand.

He'd feel every bump, every bend in the road, and by the end of theday, with a little luck, he'd drive to Boulder for a long skiingweekend.

"This is it," Wrangler announced, slowing to a stop at a red trafficlight by the Loaf

"N' Jug convenience store.

Toni saw a green road sign marking the intersection of Highway 115 andCheyenne Meadows Road. Leaning his head against the window on thepassenger side of the car, Toni stared at the silhouette of CheyenneMountain against a clear moonlit sky. Its twin peaks were marked withthe red flashing lights of television antenna towers, and about onethird of the way up its slopes, bright klieg lights illuminated theentrance to Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base. Sitting in thepitch-black shadow cast by Cheyenne Mountain, Toni thought thephotographs he'd seen didn't do the mountain justice; it was muchlarger than he'd expected. Brought back to the real world by thetraffic light turning green, he said,

"Take this left on Cheyenne Meadows Road about two tenths mile, thentake the next right on West Meadow Drive. We can't miss it. MountainView Apartments will be on our left."

Under the orange-yellow glow of streetlights, they circled through theapartment parking lot about three-thirty A.m. and found Shripod Addams'black Honda Accord, tucked away in the space designated for Apartment21.

Wrangler's white Accord was the exact make and model of Shripod's andthis coincidence was no accident. Toni was glad to see the Accordparked next to a roadside curb.

The curb blocked visibility underneath the car and would provide auseful shield later when he installed Shripod's custom-made appliance.Grabbing his flashlight, Toni pulled himself out of the car andmeasured the approximate position of Shripod's driver's seat withrespect to the steering wheel. He chuckled quietly, noting that thedriver's seat was practically in the backseat passenger's lap.

After shining the flashlight on his watch, he said,

"Let's make the loop."

Wrangler zeroed the distance indicator on his mileage odometer andbegan tracing Shripod's drive to work.

They drove down West Meadow Drive, Cheyenne Meadows Road, and Highway115 to the Cheyenne Mountain AFB exit.

"It feels shorter than I expected," Wrangler said.

"I'd figure five miles, maybe thirteen minutes tops."

After making the drive from Shripod Addams' apartment to the CheyenneMountain AFB exit four times, Toni'd seen all he needed.

"This'll be our last trip," he announced. Around 4:15 A.M." in thedarkest part of the morning, Highway 115 was practically deserted, notraffic in sight. As they drove away from Shripod's apartment toCheyenne Mountain for the last time, Toni explained, "Pull over and letme out when we get to that Colorado Springs city limits-sign ahead. Iwant you to knock down a milepost. I'll show you the one."

The white Accord screeched to a halt on the shoulder of Highway 115.Toni jumped out of the car, ran down the road shoulder about fiftyfeet, then stood alongside a milepost. The green metal milepost wasidentical to those used to support stop signs.

Wrangler needed no prodding; he put his car into drive and plowedheadlong over the metal post, laying it over and snapping it cleanly intwo at the base. Toni walked off the distance from the base of themilepost to a rough seam, or bump, in the four-lane highway. Thetar-coated seam extended the width of the highway and allowed the roadto expand without buckling during the hot summer months. In need ofrepair, the raised seam formed a six-inch bump in the road and created a loud thump-thump sound every timethey drove across it.

"Perfect!" Toni declared.

"Open the trunk and we're outta here!" Toni tossed the milepost in thetrunk and they were off.

Doesn't take much to make some people happy. Wrangler grinned. Theseguys ouna Chicago run one brick shy of a full load.

Voice of an Angel, 1211012014, 1309 Zulu THE RECOVERY Room,

SPACE STATION HOPE

Where am I? Pasha wondered. His first conscious emotion was fear.Suddenly, every reflex demanded he breathe deeply. He needed fresh airand couldn't get enough of it, like coming out from under anether-induced sleep.

Buried alive! Gasping for air, needing desperately to catch hisbreath, Pasha found no relief. Horrified that he might suffocate, hispanic eased when he felt a cool breeze of air blowing across hisface.

Strapped tightly to a pallet inside a box about the size of a coffin,Pasha could see only a porthole above his face flooded with whitelight.

He moved, but only slightly. The struggle to lift his arms against thestraps quickly exhausted him. Slowly bending each finger, he felt hishands touching his chest.

Thank God I'm alive!

Resting for a moment, he heard the muffled sound of his own breathing,the sound of air whistling through his nose as he inhaled. Speakingsoftly, he heard himself, but his voice sounded muted. His ears feltplugged, like they'd been filled with cotton.

Squinting in a valiant attempt to keep his eyes open, he watched theporthole through narrow slits between his swollen eyelids. His eyelidsfelt heavy-almost stiff.

Drifting away, he watched his porthole to the outside world fade togray. Where am I?

As his eyes closed, he heard the soft muffled voice of an angelcalling.

"Come back, Pasha, please don't die.

Your children need you. Don't leave us now. Come back.

Come back."

Forcing his eyes open again, he saw the surreal outline of an angel'sface gazing down on him through the porthole. Heaven-could this beheaven? He wanted to touch her, needed desperately to touch her, buthis arms and hands were bound tight. He couldn't make out any detailsof her face, but he loved the sound of her voice.

This must be a dream, Pasha told himself, fighting to maintainconsciousness. Then he recognized Linda's voice and remembered hislast excruciating minutes in Hope's control room before he'd blackedout. He knew this place, though he'd never been inside Hope's rapiddecompression chamber.

"Scotty," he muttered, drifting off to sleep again.

After checking the monitors and life-support equipment attached toPasha, Scott felt optimistic about his chances.

She'd been awake nearly eighteen hours, watching Pasha's conditionround the clock. His first twenty-four hours in the chamber would becritical. While she and Guardian took care of Pasha, Mac and Gonzoworked on the data link problem with Headquarters.

Scott looked up when Mac walked into the Recovery Room. His bleary,red eyes revealed how he felt. He'd been working straight-out sincePasha's accident. With an exhausted smile, Scott said,

"He's all right, heart's strong, vital signs improving."

Looking concerned, Mac gave Pasha a once-over through the porthole,then agreed.

"Good. He needs every break he can get. They're sending relief, but Idon't know how they're going to get through." Mac shook his head andgrimaced.

"We're in a tough spot."

"Anything new on Freedom? Any contact?" Any word, any word at allabout Jay?

Mac's sad, sympathetic eyes betrayed his feelings.

"I'm sorry, Scotty-not a whisper. They don't know what's happened, butHeadquarters. . ." He stopped short. Trying to offer some glimmer ofhope, he said,

"Kaliningrad'sgot over two hundred people working through Centurion's log, one lineat a time. They'll find something!"

What if he's injured? Scott sighed, turning away toward Pasha. Shapedlike a coffin, Hope's decompression chamber didn't make her feel anybetter. I can't think about it now or I'll go crazy! We've problemsenough here!

"What about our comm link?"

"Link to Headquarters is operational, but Centurion won't let go," Macreported with a grim expression on his face.

"Centurion won't give up DEW SAT control without a fight."

"That's not surprising," Scott observed in a weary voice.

"What was Headquarters's reaction?"

"They're planning to punch a hole through the DEW SAT armada, then moveMarines to Hope. They're training 'em here, then storming Freedom."

"How many more'll die?" Scott wondered aloud.

"Punch a hole? Sounds like political hype. How'll they get past the

DEW SATS

"Blow 'em out of the sky."

"What's up their sleeve?" She felt like a mushroom, always in thedark, told only what she needed to know.

"The Ground Fire laser-the DEW SAT grand daddy at Los Alamos. They'llcreate a diversion over New Mexico using air launched ASATS. When theDEW SAT comes about to shoot, the Ground Fire laser'll take it out."

"If reinforcements do get here-what about Freedom?

Freedom's a fortress." Scott sounded apprehensive.

Mac raised both eyebrows and shrugged.

"I wouldn't wanna be in their shoes."

Diversion, 1211012014, 1400 Zulu, 6.00 A.m. Local

COCKPIT OF HAILEYS Comet,

SOUTH FACING RUNWAY,

EDWARDs AFB, CALIFORNIA In the predawn twilight, the clouds ofcondensation boiling off Hailey's Comet looked ghostly, almostsurreal.

Blue and green runway lights twinkled through the swirling fog whileMajor Art Hailey waited for takeoff clearance.

"Comet, you're clear to roll," announced the tower.

Sitting on top of the XR-30, engulfed by engine noise, Major HartHailey yelled,

"Roger, tower! We're go for takeoff." He figured their mission wasabout as straightforward as they could get-a steep climb over friendlyskies with an ASAT release on top. He didn't like Headquarters flyinghis plane during the ASAT release, but he wasn't paid to like hisorders, just carry them out.

Hailey's Comet was identical to Hell Fire, an aerospace plane builtaround its six scramjet engines.

"Backseat's ready."

"Belly's ready!" barked the recon officer.

"Buckle up boys, and sit tight!" Hailey exclaimed. He throttled eachscramjet engine to full military power-the flight computer flashed agreen All Systems Go. The high pitched noise of the screaming jetengines approached the point of pain inside the cockpit.

Major Hailey locked the throttles together, then advanced all sixengines into afterburner. Bolting down the runway, he depressed anignition switch at the appropriate time which sparked his rocket engineto life. Jamming his overhead rocket throttle hard forward against thestops caused Hailey's -Comet to shake violently. Accelerating down therunway, propelled by over 400,000 pounds of thrust, he pulled back onthe stick and her nose came up.

With his rocket engine wide open, he held the stick back for longerthan usual, pointing her nose up in a steep sixty-degree climb, andcontinued to accelerate in afterburner.

What a rush! Hailey thought, raising the landing gear then backing offthe rocket throttle. Pressing hard against the seat, breathing wastough even with one hundred percent oxygen.

Belching smoke and flame in her wake, the sight of her long fiery tailaccelerating down the endless expanse of runway delighted the groundcrews. The earth trembled from the fearsome roar and raised goosebumps on thoselucky enough to be there-to feet the power, the wind, the heat andthunder-like watching a space shuttle launch.

The thrill of the launch never faded, an awe inspiring experience. Whena launch grabs you by the scruff of the neck and shakes the ground youwalk on, you take notice.

The last view the tower crew had was of her fiery tail.

As the tower trembled beneath them, they were absolutely silent,totally absorbed by the sight and sound of takeoff.

Soon, Hailey's Comet disappeared through the clouds and only herroaring thunder remained. Life stood still anytime an XR-30 tookoff-it was an unwritten rule around Edwards.

Turning east toward the dawn, Hailey's Comet climbed higher and higherthrough the clear New Mexico sky, illuminating the black desert skylike a fiery shooting star.

The XR-30 kept going up, passing through 60,000 feet, climbing towardthe skies directly over the White' Sands Missile Range, due south ofthe Ground Fire laser at Los Alamos. Hailey checked his fuel, thenbacked off his afterburners, waiting for word from Headquarters'smission control.

"Comet, this is Big Shot. We have you locked on visual. You copy?Over," the mission controller said into his headset.

Transfixed to his instruments, Hailey replied,

"Big Shot, this is Hailey's Comet." He paused, working hard to staywithin his missile launch envelope.

"We're on profile."

"Roger. Commence launch sequence on my mark.

Three, two, one-mark!"

"She's all yours," replied Hailey. Reluctantly, he loosened his gripon the control stick. Cheyenne Mountain controlled Hailey's Comet viadata link for the remainder of the climb and ASAT launch sequence.

Hailey watched all six throttles move forward.

Cheyenne Mountain didn't waste any time before punching the burnersagain and hauling back on the stick. Feeling the rudder pedal andstick controls move on their own was an eerie experience for Hailey.Like most pilots, he never took his thumb off the MANUAL OVERRIDEswitch.

Standing on her tail and rocketing into the sky, Hailey's Cometperformed beautifully. Major Hailey locked his eyes on his instrumentsas the altimeter spun up with no end in sight. His speed was now inexcess of Mach 6 and increasing.

"Scramjet transition complete," Hailey observed.

"Tail reads trim."

"Visual confirmation on the tail," echoed the back seater looking overhis shoulder. After all six engines transitioned to scramjetoperation, the cockpit heat shields automatically rolled up.

DEW SAT illuminated us in all bands," the back seater announced afterchecking his radar detection equipment.

"He's seen us. Target's on track, south of us bearing one seven zerodegrees. ASAT launch in sixty seconds." The XR-30 was passing through87,000 feet.

Launch altitude was one hundred.

At 1448 hours Zulu, as their speed passed Mach 8, Major Hailey heard:"ASAT's armed. Stand by. Three, two, one . . ."

BAROOM! BAROOM! BAROOM!

Hailey's Comet shook violently from side to side as she ejected her sixmissiles, two at a time. Shock waves pounded Major Hailey's brainagainst his skull and left him feeling dazed, like a punch-drunkboxer.

Immediately, the XR-30's nose dropped as Headquarters began a widesweeping turn, heading her back toward her California home. AfterHailey's Comet was clear, six ASAT rocket motors firedsimultaneously.

Suddenly, the back-seater began shaking his head, as if trying to cleara garbled circuit. All his life he'd been driven by logic, and hislogical mind couldn't accept what his eyes perceived. Did the violentASAT launch shake some electrical connectors loose? Was there someproblem with the radar detection equipment? There must be.

After running a series of exhaustive equipment diagnostics, hiscomputer screen read:NO TROUBLE FOUND. ALL SYSTEMS PASSED.

It was like looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of astranger. Must have been something I ate, the back-seater thought atfirst, but the blinking radar PRF (Pulse Repetition Frequency)indicator would not disappear. The characteristics of the DEW SATradar changed after the ASAT launch, but they weren't supposed to.

They'd never changed before, always been rock solid-an electricalheartbeat he'd often used to calibrate his equipment. The DEW SATradar power increased and the number of radar pulses per second shotsky-high, as if the radar was taking a picture of them. Thinking back,he remembered something about training computers to recognize targetsusing radar imaging combined with Al. His equipment indicators keptblinking and blinking until finally evidence overcame disbelief, andthe realization came crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. Hegasped. Oh my God! There's no place to hide!

"Break off, Major! Break off!"

Recording it all, Cheyenne Mountain watched on computer-enhanced TV-theDEW SAT Hailey's Comet, and all six ASATS. Pictures were transmittedreal-time to Headquarters from a modified Boeing 777 aircraft circlingbelow them at an altitude of 50,000 feet.

Sky Pix, 1211012014, 1446 Zulu, 7:46 A.m. Local

FLYING OBSERVATORY,

SPECIALLY MODIFIED HIGH-ALTITUDE BOEING 777,

IN FLIGHT OVER WHITE SANDS MISSILE RANGE, NEW

MEXICO

"Sky Pix, this is Big Shot. Hailey's Comet is approaching from thewest."

"Roger, Big Shot. Targets locked on screen." Displayed on the pilot'sTV screen were two astonishing, clear computer enhanced images.Comparable to an Ansel Adams photographic print in texture and detail,these very expensive pictures captured all the detail the eye could seein the existing light and then brightened the result by bathing theobjects in computer-simulated full spectrum sunlight.

Using the computer to combine simulated light with the real images madethe objects appear three-dimensional like they'd pop out of the screeninto your lap. The pilot's TV screen was partitioned into eightseparate picture windows, or smaller screens. Hailey's Comet wascentered in one screen, the DEW SAT passing overhead was displayed inanother. All the other picture windows on the pilot's TV screen wereempty black rectangles.

Two-hundred-nine feet long, looking like a stretched 767 with a bubbleon its back, the modified Boeing 777 was a flying observatory designedto take pictures of up to eight moving objects simultaneously.Underneath the bubble inside the aircraft body were eight telescopes,each built around a smaller version of the DEW SAT adjustable mirror.

"The mirror was the central light and heat collecting element in eachtelescope. Each telescope could rapidly search overhead for targets,guided by the aircraft's integrated radar and infrared sensors. Similarin design to the DEW SAT stealth-proof radar, the aircraft's UWB radarcould track multiple targets overhead.

This integrated system fed real-time target position data to separatecomputers which pointed each telescope. High definition, ultrahigh-speed video signals were collected from each telescope, convertedto a digital stream of ones and zeroes, then transmitted to an earthstation. The station routed the signals over glass wire intoHeadquarters's nerve center, the basement underneath CheyenneMountain.

The flying observatory required a three-person crew pilot copilot, andflight engineer. During the critical portions of the mission, whentiming was of the essence, all onboard observation, tracking, andflight systems were operated remotely from Cheyenne Mountain. Theflight crew came along for the ride in case something went wrong.

At 1448 hours Zulu, the crew of the flying observatorywatched their TV screens as six ASAT rocket engines ignitedsimultaneously. Everything they saw on screen, Headquarters saw inreal-time, projected on much larger screens.

As Headquarters had expected, only moments after the six ASAT rocketengines sparked to life, the DEW SAT briefly fired its attitudethrusters. Headquarters and the Sky Pix crew anxiously watched the DEWSAT come about, pointing its laser toward the ASATS. Once the targetalignment burn was completed, its mirror tilted slightly, refining itsaim. In less time than it took the pilot to inhale one deep breath,the DEW SAT fired six times reducing each conventionalone-hundred-pound ASAT warhead to a fiery white-hot ball of explodinggasses.

The pilot sat spellbound, unable to speak. He'd expected the ASAT killsequence to be impressive, but had not mentally accounted for the DEWSAT speed and precision. So much destruction, so little time. As theexplosions overhead lit up the sky, he felt fear. He'd heard about theDEW SAT kill capability, but never witnessed it up close and firsthand. An awesome force, and in the wrong hands the potential for mechanizeddeath was unthinkable. The realization that such force as thisconstantly orbited overhead sent a cold rigor through his body.

Behind the pilot in the main body of the aircraft, red flashingindicator lights caught the attention of the flight engineer inside theobservatory. The skin of the Boeing 777 was heating up and thecharacteristics of the DEW SAT radar were changing.

Racing forward, lunging through the door into the pilot compartment, heshouted: "We've got trouble!"

Watching the Southern Horizon, 1211012014, 1447 Zulu, 7:47 A.m. Local

INSIDE THE GROUND FIRE LASER BLOCKHOUSE,

Los ALAMOS NATIONAL LABORATORY, Los ALAMOS, NEW MEXICO Except for thepower lines, there was precious little there-miles of nothing, dust,prairie dogs, a cinder blockhouse, and a radar search antenna pointedexpectantly toward the southern horizon. The endless miles ofhigh-voltage power lines that stretched across the wide open flatlandterminated on a power substation inside the blockhouse and fed lifeinto the Ground Fire laser.

The Ground Fire laser occupied most of the cinder block building andwas about one hundred feet across.

Looking something like a wagon wheel at rest on the floor with its hubpointing skyward, the Ground Fire laser had been designed for precisionshooting directly overhead.

The hub of the wagon wheel was the mirror assembly and the eight spokeswere separate freeielectron lasers. Delivering a kick equal to aboutninety sticks of dynamite at a range of one hundred miles, the hubcombined laser power from the spokes and the mirror steered the lethalbeam on target.

All eyes in the blockhouse strained to see the laser guidance radardisplay screen. The screen revealed no target, but the crew wouldn'thave to wait much longer.

Satellites always showed themselves on schedule. Pointing at thesouthern horizon, the Ground Fire laser guidance radar antenna stoodpoised, ready to lock on target, patiently waiting for the DEW SAT torise.

DEW SAT look window opens in three minutes," announced the labdirector. Delicate optical instruments had problems enough with therigors of the desert heat and dust, but botching this DEW SAT shotcould be a careerlirniting experience for the Los Alamos labdirector.

"Remember, don't shoot until you've got your crosshairs locked on thestem. Disable it, don't blow it out of the sky." The DEW SAT targetwindow would open only twenty-eight seconds because the Ground Firelaser's shooting angle was limited to thirty-five degrees off vertical.Its beam steering mirror was similar to the DEW SATS but its agilitywas restricted on the ground because of its weight. Nevertheless, theGround Fire laser could lock on a DEW SAT moving at five miles persecond through an arc across the sky. The director planned to wait forthe DEW SAT to rise directly overhead, then takehis best shot. Although Washington and Cheyenne Mountain werescreaming at him to hurry, the director wasn't about to bungle thisshot and watch his career go up in smoke.

An Unknown Threat, 1211012014, 1448 Zulu ALTITUDE: 115 MILES INCIRCULAR

POLAR ORBIT,

ONBOARD A DEW SAT

After Hailey's Comet released its six ASAT missiles, the DEW SAT abovethe White Sands Missile Range characterized the XR-30 as a new andunrecognized threat. Each DEW SAT had been programmed to recognize andmeasure new threats, so it focused its radar and infrared telescope onHailey's Comet, measuring and recording every detail it could see. TheDEW SAT was designed to recognize known threats, but it didn't have adescription of any threat that looked like Hailey's Comet, or for thatmatter, any other aircraft.

Passing over White Sands Missile Range, the DEW SAT transmittedCenturion an encrypted radio signal which read: Wed Dec 10 14:48:14 Z2014 To: Centurion, Guardian Unknown Threat Signature FoLLows:Attributes (sample 1) ALtitude: 100,003it Speed:8.lMach;RateOfDescent:979it/sec; FLightPath AngLe-5.4deg; Length:200it;RadarCrossSectionArray:[..... InfraredEmissionArray:l..... . . .

Attributes( sampLe 2) ALtitude: 97,981it Speed:8.2lMach;RateOfDescent:1989.7it/sec; FLightPath AngLe-10.9deg; Length:200it;Attributes( sampLe 3) ALtitude: 96,923it Speed: 8.4MachRateOfDescent:3032.6it/sec; FLightPath AngLe-16.4deg; Length:200it; . . .

. . .

Attributes( sampLe 10) ALtitude: 88,620it Speed: 11.2MachRateOfDescent:9949.3it/sec; FLightPath AngLe-44.ldeg; Length:200it; . . .

End Of Signature Using a measurement language the DEW SAT understood,this message described Hailey's Comet to computers onboard Freedom andHope. PAM took Centurion's message since he was asleep. (He wouldcontinue sleeping until a super-user could board Freedom and wake himup.) Alpha, 1211012014, 1448 Zulu

SPACE STATION FREEDOM

PAM had the ability to learn from the DEW SAT experience, generalizethe DEW SAT threat description, then train the armada to hunt for thisnew class of threat.

Once PAM digested the description of Hailey's Comet, she altered it,making it more general, then transmitted an encrypted radio signal toher armada.

Wed Dec 10 14:48:25 Z 2014 To: ALL DEW SATs

DESIGNATE NEW TARGET CLASS: ALPHA

ALpha Signature FoLLows: End Of Signature PAM expanded the threatdescription to mean: Anything man-made that flew was an ALPHA classtarget and considered a potential threat.

After PAM's radio message was acknowledged, she transmitted a briefsecond message: Wed Dec 10 14:48:35 Z 2014 To: ALL DEW SATs track andLog all ALPHAs PAM ordered her armada to track the position of everyaircraft in flight around the world-a mammoth data processing job, butwell within the capabilities of the DEW SAT armada operating as anetworked team.

After issuing her track all alphas command, PAM waited for acknowledgesignals indicating that each DEW SAT understood the order and wouldcarry it out.

Inferring Scope, 1211012014, 1448 Zulu

SPACE STATION HOPE

Pulling double duty, Scott'd been straight out nearly twenty hoursmonitoring Pasha's condition and standing watch by his control station.The good news-Headquarters comm link was now fully operational. Machad pointed their Line Of Sight communications antenna towardKaliningradwho'd patched them through to Cheyenne Mountain. When the bad newscame, it came quickly as a flurry of message traffic scrolling acrossPasha's control monitor.

Exhausted, Scott and Gonzo looked on in disbelief.

Then, almost as suddenly as the messages appeared on screen, Scott'sadrenaline pumps kicked in, increasing her pulse, clearing her eyes,and rejuvenating her senses.

Within seconds, her frosty edge was back.

"What's this all about?" Gonzo asked, pointing to the message text onscreen.

To: Centurion, Guardian Unknown Threat Signature Follows:Attributes(sample 1) Altitude:100,003it; Speed:8.lMach;RateOfDescent:979it/sec; FlightPath Angle-5.4deg; Length:200it; . ..

Attributes(sample 2) Altitude:97,981it; Speed:8.2lMach;RateOfDescent:1989.7it/sec; FlightPath Angle-10.9deg; Length:200it; ..

Scott focused on screen, boring in on the altitude, speed, and lengthparameters. Immediately, something looked familiar about this data, asense of deja vu washed over her, like she'd seen this data before.After a fast study, she ignored the radar cross section and infraredemission data, understanding full well that only an electromagneticsexpert could make quick sense out of it.

Speaking out loud so she could hear herself think, she begandeliberately, carefully weighing her information, coloring it withinstinct derived from experience.

"Gut reaction-what we've got here is a series of snapshots, a flighttrajectory of some sort, probably of a missile or a very fast, veryhigh-altitude aircraft. There are no two-hundred-foot long missiles enroute; we know that for a fact, and this one's falling out of the sky,dropping like a rock. So eliminate the possibility of a missile. Boththe X-30 and XR-30 are capable of 100,000-foot altitudes with speeds inexcess of mach eight, but only the XR-30 is two hundred feet long.

Looks like an XR-30, probably Hailey's Comet."

"It's Hailey's Comet alright," Gonzo agreed.

"But look ahead here. This ALPHA class target description looksgeneric, it could be almost anything."

. ..

DESI6NATE NEW TARGET CLASS: ALPHA

AlPha Signature Follows: . ..

"Let's see," Scott responded, studying the screen.

"An example of the ALPHA class can be anything above ground level ...moving faster than ten knots ... that's greater than ten feet long.That's a generic description alright. Climb rate not specified. Whatdo you make of that?"

"By convention, not specified means don't care."

"I agree. My read exactly. The ALPHA class doesn't care about climbrate. An ALPHA can climb, dive, or maintain level flight, but it's gotto be moving above the ground. Look at this." Scott pointed to thescreen.

"Radar cross section array is set to minimum, that probably means theminimum signal a DEW can detect; and the infrared emission array is notspecified at all. I read that as a don't care, so an ALPHA can haveany sort of heat signature at all-it doesn't matter. This ALPHA classmust be huge, there must be thousands of . . ." She paused, thenspoke in a low clear voice, staring into Gonzo's eyes.

"Anything flying that's man-made."

When Scott heard the sound of her own voice saying these words, shebegan to understand. Suddenly, the realization that something wasterribly wrong came crashing down with devastating force. For a fewmoments, countlessunanswered questions raced through her mind, causing her head to spin.Then out of the chaos, she zeroed in on the essential question: Why wasCenturion designating new target classes? That was Headquarters'sjob.

Brought back to reality by the look of stark terror in Gonzo's eyes,Scott knew she had to do something fast.

Quickly, unexpectedly, a third message flashed on screen track and logall ALPHAS. When Scott read it, she knew what to do.

"Guardian," she barked, typing frantically. A talking head identicalto Centurion materialized on screen.

"Transmit this message NOW!"

Flash Message, 1211012014, 1449 Zulu, 7:49 A.m. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Craven furrowed his brow and slammed his giant fist down on thetable.

"Dammit to hell!" Such outrage from Craven was unusual. No one in theCrow's Nest could recall him getting this worked up over a flashmessage before.

For moments that seemed to stretch into eternity, Mason and Napper satparalyzed, rigidly uncomprehending, staring at their consoles unable tobreathe or speak. Sitting alongside Craven in the control room, theycouldn't believe the message from Scott scrolling across their computerscreen: FLASH MESSAGE: Wed Dec 10 14:49:49 Z 201 4

TOP SECRET

SAC EYES ONLY

TO: Supreme Allied Command Headquarters FROM: SDI Space Station HopeSUBJECT: New Target Class Designated

ALPHA

SYNOPSIS: DEW SAT armada is tracking all airborne aircraft around theworld.

END OF MESSAGE

"We've got to work through this problem fast," Mason said in a wearyvoice. His throat was dry and he had a hard time forming the words.Looking over the bleary-eyed officers filling the control room, henoticed their uniforms were wrinkled and faces unshaven. He sighed,then continued addressing his exhausted staff.

"We have an unbelievable situation here, but it's real and deadlyserious. We don't know exactly how it happened, but we do know enoughto make a good guess. We must think clearly and turn this thingaround. Let's take it one step at a time and build on what we know."

Mason projected the message onto the outside wall. He knew thismessage was a warning, a dreadful premonition of things to come.Scott's message was a call for action, but no one knew what to do.Mason believed they could sort it out if they were given the time, buttime was in short supply-everything happened so quickly.

A few people in the room gasped, but no one spoke. The room wasdeathly silent until a hollow-sounding thud was heard from the middleof the room. General Krol had bitten completely through his pipe stemand it had fallen out of his mouth onto the raised floor.

John Sullivan, Sam Napper, and Mason studied the message, pondering theunthinkable consequences.

Everyone else in the room was shocked beyond belief.

Could this be happening? Centurion designating new target classeswithout Cheyenne Mountain's approval? The consequences of the messagewere too horrible to acknowledge. If Centurion could designate broadnew target classes, he could just as easily order them destroyed. Shockdoes not capture the essence of the general staff's response; it wasmore like a massive coronary.

Put All Alphas an the Kill Stack, 1211012014, 1449 Zulu

SPACE STATION FREEDOM

After the position of every airborne aircraft had been tracked andentered into the object database, PAM issuedanother terse radio transmission in less than one hundredth of asecond. Intolerant of threats, her message was lethal.

Wed Dec 10 14:49:56 Z 2014 To: ALL DEW SATS put all known ALPHAs onkill stack With this one command message, PAM orchestrated the largestair disaster in the history of aviation.

Lord Have Mercy, 1211012014, 1449 Zulu, 7:49 A.m. Local

FLYING OBSERVATORY,

SPECIALLY MODIFIED HIGH-ALTiTuDE BOEING 777, IN FLIGHT OVER WHITE SANDSMISSILE RANGE, NEw MEXICO Although startled by the flight engineerlunging through the door, the pilot was still slow to respond becauseof the explosions overhead. Transfixed by the fireballs spreadingacross his screen, the pilot seemed in a trance, totally absorbed bythe sight of the exploding ASATS. As the fireballs graduallydisappeared from view, the pilot thought he saw a golden thread oflight, like a sunbeam, shining down from the heavens on Hailey's Comet.It happened so fast, he couldn't be sure of what he'd seen.

Suddenly, the world outside blazed with a radiant light.

The pilot squinted, then noticed Hailey's Comet on his TV screen.Racing across the sky, Hailey's Comet shined like a brilliant white-hotstar, brightening the sky overhead like the midday sun. Then, like asupernova, she spent her explosive energy in one blinding flash oflight and heat. The destruction of Hailey's Comet was so fast andviolent that her crew never understood what happened. Mercifully, theinitial explosion rendered them unconscious before their bodies wereincinerated to ash. As hydrogen from her ruptured fuel tanksuperheated, the resulting secondary explosion shattered Hailey's Cometinto a million shards of graphite fiber, scattering her remains acrossthe desert below, like funeral ashes on an endless sea of sand.

Praying, Lord have mercy on their souls, the pilot made the sign of thecross.

Suddenly, the pilot felt his skin burning, as if he were on fire.Feeling panic, his stomach balled up into a knot as he broke out in aprofuse sweat. He looked at the flight engineer and saw terror in hiseyes. Oh my God!

Grabbing his throat mike, he screamed,

"Mayday!" but never finished his signal.

Immediately, the cabin went dark except for the battery operatedgauges. The screaming roar from both jet engines quickly disappearedand the Sky Pix aircraft dropped like a lead shot sinker. Hoping torestart his engines, the pilot instinctively pushed forward on theyoke, forcing his wounded aircraft into a steep dive, but he never gotthe chance.

In the blink of an eye, the DEW SAT laser delivered an explosive forceequivalent to twenty sticks of dynamite into the fuel tank buriedinside the aircraft's right wing. Instantly, the tank ruptured and thebeam ignited fuel erupting from the wing tank. Following the wingtank's explosion, the aircraft collapsed under its own weight, tumblingout of the sky. Separating from its right wing at the engine mounts,engulfed in flame, the Boeing 777 spiraled downward toward the. desertfloor. Spewing fuel, the ruptured tanks fed the flames until asecondary explosion violently severed the aircraft body from itsremaining wing. Within seconds, the flying observatory was reduced toa blackened mass of smoldering remains strewn willy-nilly across thewhite desert sands.

Whispered Prayer, 1211012014, 1449 Zulu

SPACE STATION HOPE

Only seconds after launching her first flash traffic to Headquarters,another ominous message scrolled across Scott's screen. Itsmeaning-immediately clear. The message put all known ALPHAS on killstack-required no discussion and marked the lowest point in LindaScott's life.

Stunned beyond words, there was nothing she could do and no one couldhelp.

Without conscious thought, Scott's fingers robotic ally manipulated thekeyboard, constructing her second flash message to Headquarters. Oncecomplete, Guardian sent it.

Except for the whirr of cooling fans, the control room was absolutelysilent.

It was eerie, as if Scott were outside herself, watching her handstype. Her mind slowed, her heart felt numb, she was lost, drifting.Had she died? Was this some terrible nightmare? For a few momentsthat felt like a lifetime, she wondered if this was really happening.She saw herself typing, but had no sense of touch. It was as if herfingers took over, created the message, then directed Guardian to sendit. Days later, she'd have no recollection of sending the message orits contents.

Once her fingers stopped, once her typing was done, she moved to theobservation window facing all heaven and earth. There she slumpedforward in despair, unaware that both Mac and Gonzo were arduouslypraying for her, for themselves, and for all humanity. Raising hereyes in agony, with the weight of the world bearing down on hershoulders, Scott whispered a desperate, heartfelt prayer.

"God ... dear Lord in heaven ... please show me the way.

My back's against the wall and I'm out of options. . ." As Scottspoke these words, she felt the loneliness, the hopelessness of havingnowhere to turn and broke down sobbing.

"Thousands of people are going to die-and for no good reason; they'regoing to die for no reason at all ... God. Without Your help, there'snothing else I can do. Give me strength, please show me the way . ..

God..."

The Unthinkable, 1211012014, 1450 Zulu, 7:50 A.m. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Mason watched the last few frames of video transmitted from the SAy PLxflying observatory before she went off the air-six ASATs and Hailey'sComet exploding in a matter of seconds. No one could move. Everyone inthe control room stood as if riveted to the floor. Someone beganquietly sobbing.

"Would you play it again?" Mason asked in a whisper.

That was his polite way of giving an order under stressful conditions.The tension in the Crow's Nest was now palpable-the room deathly still.Mason frowned, scratching his head.

"What do you think happened?"

"I would rather not speculate at this point, sir, but I fear theworst," Napper replied solemnly.

"I wanna run these pix through our slow-motion lab for analysis.They'll tell us something." Staring over General Mason's shoulder atthe computer screen, Napper's drawn face turned a ghostly pale. Theonly color on his countenance came from the salt and-pepper stubble onhis unshaven face.

Napper tapped his radio headset, then held Mason's broad shouldersfirmly to shore them up.

"Another message from Hope, sir." Mason held his breath and read thesecond flash message Scott transmitted in the past two minutes. Aterror, unlike anything Mason had ever felt, clawed at his guts.

FLASH MESSAGE: Wed Dec 10 14:50:26 Z

TOP SECRET SAC EYES ONLY

TO: Supreme Allied Command Headquarters FROM: SDI Space Station HopeSUBJECT: ALPHA kill SYNOPSIS: Armada attacking every airborneaircraft.

END OF MESSAGE

"God-help us." Mason's tone was that of a man who'd discovered cancerwas ravaging his only child. One thought haunted him, circulatingthrough his mind, relentlessly tormenting his soul. I am become death,the destroyer of worlds. Mason's broad shoulders drooped and he shookhishead. He felt numb. He didn't have any answers and no plan.Initially, his heart and mind couldn't comprehend the full implicationsof the message, his self-protection circuits tripped into massiveoverload.

Everyone in the room was taken aback by the tone of General Mason'sdelivery. Always under control, if General Mason was shaken, it mustbe serious. His staff said nothing, but they felt a wave of sympathyfor their leader.

They wanted to do whatever they could do to turn this situation aroundand make it right.

For the second time, Mason projected the message on the outside wallfor all in the room to read.

Everyone exhaled as if they'd been punched in the stomach, followed bya prolonged silence. Was this a mass nightmare? Stunned, theconsequences of this message were too horrible to acknowledge.

Mason ran through everything in his mind, but it was impossible toabsorb. Tired minds make mistakes, he thought, but there is no time torest. Events unfold faster than you can think! The consequences weretoo ghastly to contemplate.

No one spoke, and Mason didn't rush. He understood it would take sometime to sink in.

Overwhelmed and weary, John Sullivan and Sam Napper shook their headsin disbelief, thinking there must be some mistake. They couldn'taccept the unthinkable given in such a large dose as this.

Mason prayed for strength, then mentally rallied after remindinghimself that a big part of leadership was guiding people in a directionthat they might not want to go. There would be difficult times aheadand they had to pull together. He repeated a phrase that had workedfor him in the past: "Let's back up and take this one step at a time.We've got to decide what we think."

Clear Skies, 1211012014, 1450 Zulu, 9:50 A.M. local AIR TRAFFicCONTROL ROOM, HARTSFIELD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, Atlanta GEORGIA

A cold front moved through in the early morning hours, clearing the airaround the greater Atlanta metro area.

Weather surrounding Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport wasperfect for flying-crisp, cool, unlimited visibility. Air traffic wasflowing smoothly-increasing, but not yet peaked for the day.

Hartsfield's air traffic control room reflected air safety's state ofthe art, the best man and technology could produce to ensure safety fortravelers passing through the busiest airport in the world. InsideHartsfield's darkened control room, radar screens told the story ofanother working day.

The control room was partitioned into three sections: Arrivals,Departures, and Flybys. One group of controllers worked twenty-sixapproaching aircraft, a second group worked twenty departures over twinrunways, and a third group worked seventeen aircraft flying byHartsfield, possibly bound for any of fourteen airports in the Atlantaarea.

Air traffic controllers coordinated aircraft within a three dimensionalcylinder of airspace surrounding Hartsfield.

The cylinder had an eighty-mile diameter and extended to 40,000 feet.Every controller had responsibility for a separate sector of airspace.Packed full with wall-to-wall peopleand radar screens, the control room atmosphere was professional andmatter-of-fact. Good people, constant training, well-rehearsed safetyprocedures, and redundant backup systems kept the traffic flying safelyin all types of weather.

Working to keep all their birds in the air, controllers juggledsixty-three aircraft moving through Hartsfield airspace. Each blip ontheir radar screens displayed the aircraft's position, altitude,direction, speed, carrier, and flight number.

At 9:50 A.M. Atlanta time, an event occurred in the skies over Atlantathat no air controller would have imagined possible. Looking down fromthe high ground 115 miles above the Atlanta area, an orbiting DEW SATsorted every ALPHA entry in its database by altitude. The highestflying aircraft were considered the greatest threat. After sorting theALPHA threat list, the DEW SAT put each aircraft on its kill stack,firing on the highest flying aircraft first. One by one, thesixty-three blips began to disappear. Flyby controllers noticed itfirst because they worked the highest flying aircraft. The aircraftidentification information disappeared first, then the blips quicklylost altitude and disappeared off screen.

In the blink of an eye, the aircraft ID for United flight 209disappeared from a flyby air controller's radar screen.

Rubbing her eyes in disbelief, the flyby controller touched theaircraft's radar blip with a light pencil, thereby requesting anaircraft ID. She'd expected the carrier and flight number to appear onher screen, but there was no response from the aircraft.

She was sure that aircraft's ID had disappeared because she'd contactedit recently. Maybe there was a problem with the aircraft'stransponder. Trying to contact United two-zero-niner by radio, shereceived no reply. As she stared at the radar blip, she noticed it waslosing altitude, dropping like a lead brick into the controlledairspace immediately below her sector. Immediately, her guts wrenched.There was real danger of a midair collision.

United two-zero-niner did not respond, and it was dropping into asector filled to near capacity with arriving traffic.

Declaring an emergency, sweat began to bead across her brow. Hersenior shift supervisor, a woman built like a fireplug with a cool headin high-stress situations, quickly vectored traffic around the dangerarea below United two-zero-niner.

Only seconds later, a second flyby controller declared an emergency inhis sector, and the senior shift supervisor studied the bigger airspacepicture before making her decision. Single emergencies they couldmanage safely, the system was designed with margin to compensate forsingle point failures, but responding to multiple simultaneousemergencies took careful consideration. She looked at her big screen,the one showing all the aircraft and noticed a pattern. One by one,each aircraft's ID transponder failed.

Fifteen seconds after the first emergency had been declared, allseventeen aircraft in the flyby sector had lost their transponders andwere falling like rocks.

Impossible. There must be a serious problem with the radar orcomputers covering the flyby sector. Immediately, the supervisor typeda command into her control console switching to their backup system.The radar display screens flashed as the backup system switched in, butthe display showed the situation was worse. Seventeen aircraft haddisappeared from the flyby sector and fallen into the arrival anddeparture sectors. Suddenly, arrival and departure controllers begandeclaring simultaneous emergencies.

Aircraft were falling out of the sky like fiery rain.

The supervisor looked around the control room in horror.

All thirty-two controllers were simultaneously declaring emergenciesand looking to her for direction. Everyone wanted desperately to dosomething, to do the right thing, but no one knew what to do. No onecould know. This was an air traffic controller's worst nightmare, apilot's worst nightmare-chaos in the sky over Atlanta.

She picked up the red phone, her direct connection to the tower.Nothing. They had to answer! This was the emergency phone!

The tower crew had their hands full with problems of their own. Withinsight of the runway, the open carcass ofan arriving Boeing 767 lay burning, nosed into an open field of redGeorgia clay. Blocking both departing runways, mercifully sacrificingthemselves so that others might not fly, the bodies of two fuel ladenpassenger aircraft lay ablaze after rotating nose down and wing overimmediately following takeoff.

By 9:53 A.M." all air traffic over Hartsfield had cleared, radarscreens once cluttered with traffic were empty. Every air trafficemergency had been logically and callously terminated.

Shoot, 1211012014, 1450 Zulu, 7:50 A.m. Local

INSIDE THE GROUND FIRE LASER BLOCKHOUSE,

Los ALAmos NATIONAL LABORATORY, Los ALAMOS, NEW MEXICO DEW SATacquisition," announced the Ground Fire radar operator in adispassionate voice. His radar screen displayed a sunflower-shapedblip rising rapidly over the southern horizon.

"Target lock in T minus twenty seconds and counting."

Checking the clock bolted on the curved outside wall of the building,the German lab director observed,

"On schedule." The laser blockhouse looked like a short, stockyobservatory-a cylindrical building about 120 feet across with arotating dome roof.

Looking overhead, the director watched the dome simultaneously rotateand open as sections of the roof retracted.

A powerful motor rotated a greasy, grit-covered gear which turned thedome roof, creating a grinding noise which reverberated around thebuilding. Once the target had been acquired, the slot in the roofautomatically opened and the dome rotated into firing position,aligning the gun port in the roof with the DEW SAT track across thesky.

Once the dome roof and laser were in position, interest in theblockhouse shifted to the gunner.

Looking through his infrared bore sight, the gunner remarked,

"She's not positioned as expected, but we've got a clear shot."

"That's good," the lab director said, moving directly behind thegunner. The lab director and three support technicians huddled aroundthe gunner's television monitor. The monitor showed the gunner's boresight view, a greenish infrared image with crosshairs centered squarelyon the DEW SAT long stem.

The gunner threw a switch on his control console, then watched hiscountdown timer.

"Overhead shot in T minus ten seconds. Locked on target-auto firingsequence enabled."

Suddenly, the DEW SAT fired her attitude positioning thrusters,pointing her stem and mirror toward the blockhouse.

"Target's coming about, Sir! We've lost our shot!" the gunnerexclaimed. The stem was now hidden behind the DEW SATthirty-three-foot mirror. Feeling panic and looking through his boresight, the gunner centered his crosshairs on the only part of thetarget he could see-the mirror.

"We're illuminated in all bands!" screamed the radar operator, hisvoice breaking from the strain.

"Target knows our position!" The DEW SAT had triangulated on the LosAlamos radar signal and used it as a beacon.

The lab director didn't need to hear this twice.

"Override automatic firing sdquence-shoot!"

"But. . ."

"Shoot, man, shoot!"

"Target's deploying countermeasures-we're losing track!"

"Saturate the area. Blow it out of the sky!" There were no otherviable alternatives.

The gunner lifted the safety cover and slammed his fist down on therapid-fire mode control switch. As the RAPID FIRE ENABLED indicatorflashed in his face, the gunner grabbed his twin pistol grips andsqueezed both triggers like a vice. It happened so quickly, there wasno time to be scared.

Squeezing off tens of shots per second, the gunner sat mesmerized byflashing indicator lights as green tracerlines rapidly covered his TV screen. For a few seconds, the DEW SATdrifted across the screen into a solid waterfall of green tracer lines.Then as suddenly as it began, it was finished, the shot shattering hermirror, another rupturing her fuel tank. Racing across the sky, theorbiting fireball which resulted was visible from the ground.

Evacuate, 1211012014, 1451 Zulu, 7.51 A.m. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

"We don't have time to think; we just react!" Napper grimaced asanother message from Scott appeared on his screen.

FLASH MESSAGE: Wed Dec 10 14:51:35 Z

TOP SECRET

SAC EYES ONLY

TO: Supreme Allied Command Headquarters FROM: SDI Space Station HopeSUBJECT: Evacuate the blockhouse immediately!

END OF MESSAGE

Sullivan, Napper, and Mason studied the message and guessed what hadhappened. For the first time, they recognized some pattern to thisdestruction.

Sullivan spoke first.

"That DEW SAT must've triangulated on the Los Alamos radar andtransmitted its position to Centurion."

Napper nodded agreement and completed the assessment.

"And Centurion ordered it destroyed."

"Our armada doesn't tolerate threats," Mason observed with a grimace.Exhausted, Napper and Sullivan nodded.

Lack of sleep was taking its toll on everyone, tired minds makemistakes.

"How long do they have?"

Sullivan checked the wall clock, then looked at the blue ball. AnotherDEW SAT was approaching Los Alamos from the south.

"Maybe four minutes. The DEW SAT wait until it's over Los Alamosbefore . . ."

Napper ran to a computer terminal and clicked on an icon labeled (ROUNDFIRE. His computer connected him directly to the lab director's radiophone inside the Los Alamos blockhouse. When the lab directoranswered, Napper identified himself immediately then ordered: "Kill theradar! Clear the area! Evacuate the building now!"

The lab director was caught totally off guard. Puzzled, but not overlyalarmed, he inquired: "Evacuate? Just exactly where do you propose wego?"

"Get away from that building fast! Take a car, truck, anything that'llmove your people outta there! You've only got three minutes."

"Three minutes? What's the freaking rush? We can't leave thissensitive optical equipment behind. I'll need to clear this with mysuperiors." The lab director could tell that Napper was upset, butHeadquarters had jerked his chain, time and time again, for the lasttwo days-too much hurry up and wait.

Napper stood silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts as he watchedthe DEW SAT approaching Los Alamos from the south. His brain ran insix directions at once. There was no time for common sense, no timefor discussion. Overwhelmed, he had the sense of even temperament,every feeling was extreme, and he felt as if he were about toexplode.

"Listen up and listen good!" he barked.

"Get out now or die!"

The Golden Thread, 1211012014,1454 Zulu, 7:54 A.M. Local

GROUND FIRE LASER BLOCKHOUSE

]Los ALAmos NATIONAL LABORATORY, Los ALAmos, NEW MEXICO The labdirector stared at the phone for a moment, then jammed it back into itsholster.

Pointing to the open slot in the domed roof, the lab director yelled toone of the technicians,

"We got a life-and death emergency on our hands. Button down the hatchandkill the power! Move like your life depended on it; meet me outsideby the bus."

Not wasting any time, the director keyed his mike and spoke directly tothe radar operator over the intercom.

"We've got an emergency! Shut your radar off and move out to thebus-right now! We're getting the hell outta here!" Finally, thedirector surveyed the blockhouse. He needed to move thirty people outof the building into the bus and he needed it done quickly. Firesafety is a concern at any government installation and Los Alamos wasno exception. Fire drills were not the exception but the rule,performed routinely once a week. First, he turned on the PA system,keyed the mike, and ordered everyone to evacuate immediately. Second,he pulled the fire alarm and triggered the sprinkler system. Sprinklersshould encourage them to move along, he thought.

Two technicians escorted the gunner outside onto the blue Air Forcebus. Rounding up his laser support staff outside the blockhouse, thedirector herded them on the bus like a New Mexico cowboy; noexplanation, just move.

There was complaining. Most of the staff felt like cattle, but theloading moved along without panic and as quickly as possible.

After counting heads, the director slammed the bus door shut andsignaled the driver to roll. The driver put his foot to the floor,popped the clutch, and the bus rolled away in a cloud of exhaust smokeand dust.

The staff members wondered what all the fuss was about as they spedaway across the flat expanse of desert sand.

Looking back at the blockhouse, someone blinked in disbelief and asked:"What do you think that was?"

They were about one mile away from the blockhouse when a thin goldenthread of light, like a narrow ray of sun, burst forth from the blueheavens. It looked something like a meteor's fiery track, but it wasperfectly straight and lasted only a second or so. At first, no onewas sure of what they had seen, but after some discussion they foundnearly everyone on the bus had seen something. It looked as if theGround Fire laser was in operation, but the blockhouse was empty andthe dome had been buttoned shut.

Passing overhead, a DEW SAT executed a thermal scan using a broadinvisible laser beam, scorching the area surrounding the blockhouse tobetter define its target position.

The DEW SAT illuminated the Ground Fire radar antenna with its laser,then detected the heat, using it as a beacon.

After locking on target, it destroyed the radar antenna using a goldenthread of light which burned its way through the atmosphere.

Changing of the Guard, 1211012014, 15,30 Zulu, 8:30 A.M. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

The Crow's Nest video conference room was packed with the general'sstaff-most looked like hollow-eyed zombies.

Even though Mason and Craven were briefing the President, they'd beentoo exhausted to fully prepare. Their view graphs were hand-drawnsketches, not the computer generated glitzy color visuals the Presidentand his Cabinet had come to expect. Ordinarily, hand-drawn visualspresented in a Cabinet meeting would mark the end of even the mostpromising military career.

Craven lamented that officer promotions during peacetime had beenreduced to a dog and pony show-no substance, just style and glitz. Helaid his view graphs side by side on the white sheets of his Army cotinside the Crow's Nest. He'd always organized his briefings this way,reviewing his story end to end, laid out over his sheets. Exhaustedand bleary-eyed, he concluded that hand-drawn view graphs wereappropriate for his presentation. His story'd been told-as supremeallied commander, he was finished.

In Washington, a dozen video cameras provided pictures to CheyenneMountain from inside the Cabinet meeting room. As usual, the CheyenneMountain general staff attended the President's emergency meeting byvideo link.

Mason watched a somber group of big shots crowding into the Cabinetroom. The secretary of Transportation arrived first with the heads ofthe Federal Aviation Administrationand Central Flow Control. Part of the FAA, Central Flow Controlmonitored all commercial air traffic across the United States. Thesecretaries of Defense and State arrived next, followed by the CIA andFBI directors, the White House chief of staff, and Clive Towles, thePresident's national security advisor. NORAD and NATO attaches filedin behind Clive Towles, and finally, additional staff from Central FlowControl entered the room and stood along the outside wall.

Mason looked over the drawn faces in the crowded room and sighed. Ameeting of the big guns, he thought. Central Flow Control mustcertainly have something to say. Judging from their numbers, it lookslike it's their meeting.

To Mason's surprise, no one spoke, no one said anything at all.Everyone avoided eye contact and felt uncomfortable making chitchat.Finally, the door opened and everyone stood as the President walked in.He found his place at the table, studied the faces on his videomonitors, then sat down.

Clearly impatient, the President spoke directly to the head of the

FAA.

"Let's get on with it." His voice was a mixture of anger andanxiety.

The tension in the air was charged, nerves were frayed before themeeting began.

"Mr. President," the head of the FAA began,

"I would like Dr. Mulcahy to give you a summary of our air trafficsituation. He works in Central Flow Control and knows more about ourair traffic situation than anyone else in Washington. After that,we'll do our best to answer any questions."

The President said nothing, but noted that Mulcahy was an Irishman,someone he could trust. His name, reddish hair, and ruddy skincomplexion broadcasted his origin.

Mulcahy was known as one who told the truth and didn't waste words-anendangered species around D.C. Without delay, Dr. Mulcahy moved to thelectern. He flipped a switch on the lectern, causing the lights todim.

Pointing a handheld remote at the TVNCR mounted on the wall, he pushedPLAY. The forty-inch TV screen showed a map of the continental UnitedStates, crisscrossed with thousands of white lines, each white linerepresenting an aircraft in flight. The lower corner of the picturewas tagged with a time stamp reading 09:50:00 A.M. Pressing the VCRPAUSE, he took a sip of water, then began.

"Gentlemen, today between 9:50 and 9:55 A.M. Washington time, acatastrophe of unparalleled proportions paralyzed air traffic acrossthe United States and around the world. This air disaster isunprecedented-over fifty thousand people are confirmed dead."

Everyone in the room gasped. Few attending knew the full scope andmagnitude of the disaster'. Dr. Mulcahy reverently made the sign ofthe cross and all those seated around the Cabinet room followed suit.

The President's jaw dropped. His face looked like a monument of silentagony. How do you comprehend the senseless death of over fiftythousand innocent people?

Dr. Mulcahy pressed the VCR PLAY button, then continued.

"The video you see was recorded by Central Flow Control earlier thismorning and has not been edited. Threethousand-six-hundred-forty-eightcommercial passenger aircraft were lost over the United States alone."Everyone in the room stared at the TV screen as the white traces begandisappearing. Dr. Mulcahy watched silently and he didn't rush. He'dseen this videotape twenty times, and still couldn't believe it. Inless than five minutes, every airborne aircraft over the United Stateshad flown into the ground.

He knew it would take some time for the full impact of his story tosink in.

Mulcahy studied the deadpan faces of his motionless audience-theCabinet room reminded him of a morgue.

Misty-eyed, Mulcahy had obviously been moved by the videotape, but hewaited patiently for feedback, some sign of acceptance from the group.After the map of the United States was clear of white aircraft traces,the TV picture shifted to a scene of downed aircraft burning on therunways of Hartsfield International Airport. Charred, blackenedaircraft wreckage graphically brought the problem home, placing it ineveryone's backyard.

"It's by the grace of God that I'm alive," Clive Towles said.

"I was supposed to've been on the nine-thirty nonstop to L.A." butContinental canceled the flight after I boarded the plane."

Mulcahy raised his eyebrows and nodded agreement.

Satisfied his message was getting traction, he blinked his eyes clearand continued.

"Although the exact figure will never be known, approximately 4,800commercial aircraft were lost worldwide-over fifty thousand people havebeen confirmed dead and this total is conservative-it could be short bytwenty thousand. Mr. President, this is nothing short of acatastrophe. At this moment, nothing's flying."

Stunned, not knowing what to say or do, the President was silent for afew moments, still absorbing the full scope of the disaster. Alwaysthe spin doctor, the President struggled to put a positive spin on thisbad situation. There must be something good he could say about it, butnothing came to mind-he drew a blank. Even the grand master of spindoctors couldn't make this situation sound acceptable to the Americanpeople. This was a catastrophe and he couldn't hide it. He'd have toface this problem head-on until he could come up with a betteralternative.

"Survivors?

What's being done to help?"

"We're doing all that can be done, moving medical staff and supplieswhere they're needed most, but ground and sea transportation takestime," the secretary of Transportation replied.

The President's concern turned to anger as he eyed the Secretary ofDefense in the subdued light. His eyes looked wild, like those of amad dog. He wasn't going to take the rap alone. In a stone cold voicehe said,

"Gentlemen, I assume you're going to tell me what went wrong and how tocorrect this situation."

General Craven spoke next over video link from Cheyenne Mountain.

"Mr. President, General Mason will explain what happened and outlineour alternatives. He's closest to the problem and the solution."

For the next thirty minutes, Mason related the sequence of events thatled them here. Exhausted, Mason's presentation wasn't crisp, but itwas clear and cut to the central core of the problem-technical problemstake time and understanding to resolve. As Mason proceeded, he watchedthe President's eyes grow wilder. Finally, when he looked as if he wasabout to pounce on his prey, the President bolted out of his chair. Hisvoice exploded over the videophone speakers.

"Unbelievable! Fifty thousand people dead and for what? This damncatastrophe was man-made. It should never have happened. We're heldhostage by our own machines." There was no sorrow in his voice, onlyrage.

"Reality often proves stranger than fiction," Clive Towles observedsomberly. Clive stood' and chatted quietly with the President.

After a brief exchange, the President regained his composure andplopped back down in his chair, demanding, "Alternatives-talkalternatives. We've got to turn this situation around, but fast."

Mason spoke gently but firmly.

"Sir, I'd like to discuss two alternatives, but they both will taketime."

"How much time?" barked the President.

"Weeks. There's no quick cure and we don't have any secret weapons.Both these alternatives come with high risks, but we can improve ourchances by understanding what we're up against."

General Craven iritedected,

"That's correct, Mr. President. If we'd taken the time to betterunderstand this problem in the first place, this disaster might nothave happened."

Perplexed, the President scratched his head and looked directly atCraven.

"But that's your job, so why didn't you?

Why didn't you take the time to do it right?"

"I wanted this virus situation resolved quickly." Craven's toneconveyed profound regret. And so did you. If you'll recall, Mr.President-you insisted."

Mason saw fire returning to the President's eyes, but the old Cravenwas back. He was speaking like the courageous leader and visionaryMason had always admired, the one he used to know.

"However," Craven continued slowly, "the final responsibility was mineand mine alone. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of onefundamental truth. We cannot change nature. It takes nine months tohave a healthy baby and, like it or not, we can't speed it up. Welearned this same lesson from the space shuttle Challenger disaster. The laws of physics always prevail above our political will."

Craven paused somberly in retrospect.

"Politics drove some of my technical decisions, not good physics, andover fifty thousand people are dead as a result.

"I wanted a simple cure to a complex problem," Craven lamented in awhisper.

"To understand this virus will take weeks, perhaps months' We can solvethis problem, but we absolutely cannot fix it fast-you can't have itboth ways.

More money won't help, more people won't help, you're gonna have towait. The solution to this problem requires clear thinking,resourcefulness, and courage. Political hype won't deliver thegoods."

The President shook his head angrily. After several seconds ofsilence, his eyes glowed like smoldering embers and he spoke with venomdripping from his voice.

"General. This disaster should never have happened! Furthermore, Iwant this situation turned around fast and I want it done right! Andby God-I'm going to get it." The President was emphatic.

Craven took the heat head-on.

"Mr. President, I assume full responsibility for this unprecedentedloss of life. I estimated the chances for disaster were acceptably lowbased on my best available information. I took a gamble, the odds werestacked against me, and I was wrong. We will give you our very besteffort, but you will not see this air traffic situation resolvedquickly. I don't expect you to like it, sir, but I'm telling you thetruth. You may have my resignation at any time you wish, but I wouldlike to resolve this matter."

"General Craven," seethed the wild-eyed chief executive, "it will benecessary for you to resign."

"Hold everything," interrupted Clive Towles, slamming his hand down onthe table to get the President's attention.

"The consequences of this software sabotage have been unbelievable!Fifty thousand dead! No one would have imagined this destruction intheir wildest dreams. Replacing General Craven doesn't solve anythingand second-guessing his decisions will only make matters worse."

The President replied bluntly.

"Frankly, Clive, I don't have any choice in the matter. I'll be luckyif the American people only impeach me. Fifty thousand people cry outfrom their graves for justice and heads must roll. You know it as wellas I do-there's no other way. General Craven must stay on as anadvisor until this matter is resolved, but as supreme allied commander,his job is done."

The President's facial muscles twitdhed as he turned toward the pictureof General Craven on screen.

"General, you are relieved of your command. This has nothing to dowith justice, it's political survival."

The President paused, took a long drink of water, then spoke to Cravenagain.

"I understand you recommended General Mason as your replacement. Doesyour recommendation still stand?"

"Absolutely, Mr. President. He'll do what he believes is right andget the job done."

Satisfied, the President took a moment to collect his thoughts, thenreflected,

"We really put all our eggs in one basket with this SDI system, didn'twe?"

"I shortcut my otvn safeguards, Mr. President," Craven said slowlywith deep remorse.

"I took a chance, gambled, and lost. If we'd used our standard testingprocedures, we wouldn't be in this trouble today."

Somewhat rhetorically, the President asked,

"Let me make sure I got this straight. Over fifty thousand innocentpeople died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Andthere's no air traffic anywhere because of some software glitch-nothingcan fly without being blown out of the sky. And you're telling me thatwe have only two alternatives that might-and I repeat might-pull ourasses out of the fire. One's an unproven lab prototype and the other'san XR-30 crew onboard Hope."

"Your synopsis is accurate, Mr. President," Mason replied withoutreservation.

"In my opinion Major LindaScott and her crew are our only viable alternative. We have only oneprototype aircraft in the Black Hole program and it's got a long way togo."

"General Mason, what would it mean if both our alternatives fail?"

That answer was easy.

"Global economic catastrophe. In all probability, some countries willtake advantage of our dilemma."

"General Mason, you are hereby appointed supreme commander of allAllied Forces. Exhaust every alternative.

Resolve this matter with God's speed and tell us how we can help. Aboveall else, do it right!"

Firestorm, 1211012014, 1855 Zulu, 1:55 P.m. Local

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Firestorm in Atlanta," announced the CNN newscaster.

"Live report coming up at the top of the hour."

Atlanta burning? To the President of the United States, these wordsfelt like a steel sword plunging deep into his chest, causing his kneesto buckle. He sank into his chair, where he sat breathless for severalmoments, trying to make some sense of it all. Gradually, the colorreturned to his face and he turned once again to watch CNN HeadlineNews.

The President sat spellbound behind his desk in the Oval Office,hypnotized by the news reports of aviation catastrophe flashing acrosshis TV screen. As airline casualties from around the world continuedto accumulate, the scene shifted to a live report from the top ofOverlook Mountain in the northwest corner of Atlanta. A slow, sweepingpanoramic camera shot of the Atlanta skyline showed boiling blackcolumns of thick heavy smoke engulfing the city.

Scattered across the city, inky black smoke plumes erupted from blazingaircraft wreckage, turning the sky a dingy shade of grayish brown. TheTV pictures from Atlanta looked like the black-and-white newsreelfootage taken in Europe during World War II-no color, just shades ofblack, white, and brownish gray. The President gazed on this horrificscene in disbelief During the day, there were about a dozen SecretService agents on duty in this part of the presidential mansion, butprofessional as they were, their eyes were focused on CNN HeadlineNews. For that matter, in all fairness to the agents, the eyes of theentire world, from Baghdad to Washington, were fixed on CNN. Inaddition to the Secret Service agents collected in the Oval Office,Clive Towles, the President's national security advisor, and Dr.Mulcahy from Central Flow Control silently watched the news by thePresident's side.

The President's chief of staff and his glitzy White House presssecretary lumbered slowly into the Oval Office reading the statementthey'd prepared for the press.

"I don't know what to do," said the President with a sense of dismay.Shaken by the graphic news reports of the Atlanta firestorm, thePresident walked over to the mirror and looked somberly at hisreflection.

"Mulcahy, are you sure this is the way we should handle this?"

"Yes, Mr. President. Lay your cards on the table. If you f don'tlevel with the press, you'll only make an impossible situation worse.If you come before the people with your head in your hands, they can'tvery well lop it off. Remember, the . .

"Do you take me for a fool?" interrupted the White House presssecretary as his blood pressure shot through the roof.

"First of all, nobody would believe the truth, and second, we don'thave all the facts yet. I have trouble believing it myself, and ourstory may change. Besides, they'll ask some tough, finger-pointingquestions and expect answers we don't have. We don't know whosabotaged the SDI software or how it happened. Do you seriouslybelieve that the President of the United States should stand before theworld and admit that we don't have a clue?" The press secretary raisedboth eyebrows and cut a glance across the room, making direct eyecontact with the President.

"Should the President publicly acknowledge that we're held hostage byour own technology? I don't think so! Who'd believe that a softwareglitch, some computer virus, could account for all this chaos, and whodo we blame?"

No one in the Oval Office spoke.

"Hell-we don't know," the press secretary scoffed.

"But we know whoever screwed us chews Juicy Fruit gum.

Yeah-right. I tell you, Mr. President, we've been caught with ourpants down and we'll look like incompetent fools if we let this storyout. General Mason believes their solution to this problem could beweeks away. John Sullivan doesn't think they'll ever find who's behindthe virus. What if they're right? I say we stall until we cangenerate a cover story that'll cover our, err-years of governmentservice.

Say we've had a serious sabotage problem with the SDI system and we'reworking the situation, united as Allies.

All the details are wrapped up in national security. Just read yourprepared statement." The press secretary handed the President thestatement and concluded,

"Stall, Mr. President. Stall."

The President didn't know what to think, but in the final analysis,this problem was his to face alone. He had to respect the man in themirror after he woke up from this nightmare. He'd always relied onothers for advice and then used his own judgment. After some somberthought, he turned to his national security advisor.

"What do you think, Clive?"

Clive Towles and the President had worked through some lean timesbefore in the business world, but none so grave or life threatening asthese. Clive respected the press secretary for his skill atmaneuvering the press, leading them where he wanted them to go-however,on this occasion he believed the press secretary was wrong.

"Considering the global magnitude and scope of this problem, I don'tbelieve the people will accept anything less than the absolute andcomplete truth-as you know it. If you stall, you'll get caught. Thisstory's too big to imagine otherwise.

Our back's against the wall, Mr. President. Your integrity is theonly thing you've got; it's all that matters. If you piss away thepeople's trust, you'll never get it back."

"No compromise?" the President asked cautiously.

"No compromise, Mr. President. Nothing less than the absolute truthwill do. People aren't mushrooms. Don't shovel shit on 'em expectingto keep 'em in the dark."

The President nervously bit his lip as his stomach began to knot. He'dgotten Clive's message, but felt that giving advice was easy, takingadvice was the hard part.

"The President sighed, then looked at his press secretary.

"Okay, let's get on with it. How long till show time?"

"Twenty minutes, Mr. President."

The President sighed, again.

"I'd like some time alone,"

he lamented. The Oval Office quickly emptied, leaving the Presidentalone and staring at the portrait of Dwight David Eisenhower hanging onthe wall.

Altar to Allah, 1211012014, 1920 Zulu, 12:20 P.m. local

RETURN DRIVE FROM SHRIPOD AD DAMS

APARTMENT To CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN,

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

Wrangler rented a small U-Haul van, the same size vehicle used byFederal Express for small business deliveries. He drove to theMountain View apartments, arriving just before noon, then parked nextto Shripod Addams' empty parking space. Following in the ear, Toniloaded his ski bag in the rear of the U-Haul once they reachedShripod's apartment.

Inside his ski bag, Toni carried the device which would cause Shripod'saccident, the milepost assembly. Earlier, Toni'd completed thefinishing touches on the assembly; now he needed only to install itunderneath Shripod's Honda.

The assembly was deceptively simple, consisting of three parts-afour-foot length of metal post, a short six-inch section of transparentnylon fishing line, and a small electronics module about the size of abar of soap. One end of the post was torn and sharp, the other blunt.Near the sharp end, Toni looped the nylon line through a slot in themilepost. Using epoxy, he planned to attach the line to the bottomof Shripod's car. On the blunt end of the milepost, Toni attached hisbreakaway electronics package. Wrapped in clear cellophane, Toni'selectronics included a six-Volt battery, a tiny radio receiver, and acustom-built electromagnet. Built of a pressed powder ferritematerial, the electromagnet would crumble to dust when run over by acar.

Toni could control the electromagnet from ten miles away using atransmitter he'd mounted inside Wrangler's car. All was in readinessawaiting Shripod's arrival.

During lunch, Shripod Addams drove the five-mile journey home to hisapartment as he did every working day. It offered him an escape duringthe da which he looked forward to most of all. After driving into theparking lot, he maneuvered his car into its regular space, parkingbetween the curb and a small U-Haul van. As Shripod rushed around thecorner of the building into his apartment, he thought only of lunch andfeeding his fish. He knew something had gone wrong in the Crow's Nestthis morning, but he didn't know any details.

Once Shripod entered his apartment, Toni quickly slid his milepostassembly out of the U-Haul van and onto the dust-covered asphaltunderneath Shripod's Honda. As planned, the U-Haul van blockedShripod's view of the car from his apartment in case he decided tolook, which he didn't. The most technical part of Toni's operation wasthe installation, but he was confident. A master craftsman, his handswere steady and he knew exactly what to do. He'd practiced theinstallation a dozen times already this morning underneath Wrangler'sAccord. Working with all the skill and precision of a trained surgeon,Toni slid his shoulder alongside and underneath the driver's side ofShripod's Accord. He'd refined the installation procedure to anefficient sequence of simple steps with no wasted motion. The completeinstallation required only five minutes. By now, Toni didn't need tosee what his hands were doing, he could operate by feel and know whenthe installation was done right.

Lying on his back sandwiched between the body of Shripod's Accord andthe U-Haul van, Toni went to work.

The body of the Accord was so low to the ground that he couldn't slideunderneath, but he'd anticipated this. Toni built Shripod's milepostassembly with wide tolerances so that it would work even with a sloppyinstallation. Feeling underneath the driver's seat, Toni found fourbolts holding down the seat rails and used them as a positionreference.

The spot Toni was looking for, the sweet spot, was centered underneathand slightly in front of the driver's seat. He positioned the sharpend of the milepost on the ground directly below the sweet spot, thenaligned the post front-to-back. Next, he lifted the blunt end of themilepost off the ground and, using the electromagnet, he attached itunderneath the front of the car, next to the engine. At this stage,the forward blunt end of the post was attached to the metal frame ofthe car but the sharp rear end of the post remained on the ground. Onlyone installation step remained and the job was done. Toni coated theends of the nylon line with epoxy, then positioned the sharp end of thepost against the sweet spot. Should put it between his legs, Tonithought with a sardonic smile. After holding the line against theunderbody of the car about two minutes, the epoxy set and theinstallation was complete.

The nylon line would function like a hinge, holding the sharp end ofthe post in place against the car body when the blunt, front end of thepost dropped onto the road.

After less than four minutes' installation time, Toni dusted off hisclothes, walked to Wrangler's car, and drove down the street to theLoaf

"N' Jug. A few minutes later, Wrangler drove the U-Haul van to theLoaf

"N' Jug and joined him for lunch. Together, from a window booth insidethe dining area, they watched Cheyenne Meadows Road and the MountainView Apartments, waiting for Shripod Addams' return to work.

Shripod pulled out of his parking space about ten minutes till one.Toni walked outside to Wrangler's car, cranked it, and entered the leftturn lane immediately in front of Addams. After traveling a littleless than one mile on Highway 115, Toni drove past the LEAVING COLORADOSPRINGS City limits sign with Shripod Addams following six car lengthsbehind him.

Driving in the shadow of Cheyenne Mountain, Toni pressed the onlybutton on his radio transmitter as he passed the city limits sign. Itwasn't marked, but he knew what to expect.

Shripod Addams was traveling about sixty miles an hour when theelectromagnet let loose and the front, blunt end of the milepostdropped down, striking the asphalt hard with an ear-piercing scrapingsound. The violent impact of the milepost slamming against the asphaltdisintegrated the electronic module into tiny fragments and scatteredthem over the highway. Immediately, Shripod lifted his foot off thegas, but never made it to the brake. Before Shripod could slow hiscar, he felt the floorboard vibrate followed by the ear-piercing soundof metal shredding beneath his feet. He never knew what hit him. Theinstant he drove over the raised seam in the road, the sharp end of thepost violently erupted through the floorboard as the forward end of thepost lodged in the bump. Acting as a lance, the milepost thrust itsway upwards through the hole in the floor, slicing a gaping tearthrough the car seat, rocketing up between Shripod's legs, impaling himthrough the rib cage and exiting his neck below the ear. In a fractionof a second, the motion of the car caused the milepost to pivot forwardabout the hole in the floorboard, hurling Shripod's body upwards offthe seat into the ceiling, breaking his neck, and pinning his limp bodyagainst the steering wheel.

He was dead before his car rolled to a stop in the dirty snow on theshoulder of Highway 115.

Meet the Press, 1211012014, 1930 Zulu, 2.-30 P.m. Local THE WHITE HOUSESITUATION Room,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Everyone stood when the President entered the White House SituationRoom followed by Clive Towles, Dr. Mulcahy, and his personalbodyguards. Even in the dimlight, the President's face revealed that dark rings had formed underhis eyes.

Only minutes before this meeting was scheduled to begin with the press,the Secret Service had moved the meeting location and shifted thereporters into a dimly lit, blast proof room deep inside the WhiteHouse basement. This last minute change was an attempt by the SecretService to limit any physical threat to the President during his pressconference. This weary herd of reporters had been corralled into thestuffy, gloomy room, then packed shoulder-to shoulder like cattle in astockyard awaiting slaughter.

After stepping behind his pulpit, as he liked to call it, the Presidentdeliberately ignored the TV cameras and silently examined thecollection of anxious faces in the audience.

Some people here may have lost family, he thought. The Presidentlooked down at his press release, sighed, then looked up again directlyinto the eyes of his audience. He was silent for a protracted period,still spellbound by the graphic news reports of this horrible,high-tech catastrophe.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," he said slowly in a quiet voice.

"Before I begin, there's something I've got to know." The President'sthroat was parched. He took a sip of water from a glass on the podium,then continued.

"How many of you knew someone who died this morning?"

Nearly everyone in the room raised their hand. Their response seemedto knock the wind out of the President for a few moments and his faceturned ashen. The mood in the cramped, damp basement room beneath theWhite House could best be described as morose.

The President found it easier to count those who did not raise theirhands. Twenty-eight out of the thirty-two reporters present knewsomeone who had died. Glassy-eyed, the President asked,

"Now many of you lost someone in your family?"

Two women and four men raised their hands. Overwhelmed, the Presidentcouldn't control the tears sing down his face and his knees began toweaken. His shoulders slumped forward as he slowly sat down on a smallmetal chair by the podium. Holding his head in his hands, thePresident recalled Clive Towles' advice: Integrity is all you'vegot-it's the only thing that matters. He would not, he could not fieto the immediate families of those who'd suffered loss. He guessed theolder reporters might have lost children, but dared not ask for fear hewould break down.

The President held his head upright.

"I'll tell you everything we know about what's happened, but understandthat we've got a long way to go before we put this nightmare behindus."

For the next hour, a dumbfounded White House press secretary, as wellas the entire world, remained silent, thunderstruck, as the electedleader of the United States explained why their airplanes could nolonger fly. As best he could, he explained how the world was beingheld hostage by their own Star Wars technology orbiting overhead, 115miles above the earth. Flashbacks of the Atlanta firestorm constantlyentered the President's thoughts; he couldn't forget those pictures ofAtlanta burning. At the end of his monologue, he concluded with a toneof dismay.

"I'm not going to lie to you. Our back's against the wall and ourAllied Forces know it. We had a man-made catastrophe today and we'dbetter learn from it. Today, we've got more questions than answers,but in time, we'll turn this situation around because we must. Wedon't know who sabotaged our SDI software, but if they left any trailalong the way, we'll track them down. We don't know what to do torestore the status quo, but believe me, we're exhausting everyalternative we've got. Right now, we're spending all our time tryingto outsmart our own machines, but we won't rest until we get thissituation under control." Pausing for several moments, the Presidentlooked around the room once again and studied the faces of hisaudience. The room was absolutely silent except for the quiet, muffledsounds of sobbing. Most reporters sat glassy-eyed and slack-jawed,aghast by the story they'd heard. Some faces in the audience remindedthe President of lost sheep, others displayed rage frustrated by havingno one to blame, but most revealed an overwhelming sense of profoundsadness.

Wearily, the President asked,

"Are there any questions?" No one spoke. No one could speak, but mosthoped and prayed that this was some terrible dream. Surely we'll wakeup soon; we must wake this can't really be happening.

And so the course was set, their journey too frightening tocontemplate. The President didn't know what to think, but in the finalanalysis, he'd faced this problem head-on.

He'd delivered nothing less than the absolute and complete truth,without compromise. When your back's against the wall, integrity isall that matters.

Lucky Strikes Out, 1211012014, 1945 Zulu, 11.-45 A.m. Local GATE 2SECURITY GUARD SHACK, LAWRENCE LIVERMORE NATIONAL LABORATORY,

LIVERMORE, CALIFORNIA

Mamood Abdul moved swiftly, silently, through San Francisco on hisdivine mission from Allah. He was a Muslim extremist, pure and simple,who believed that killing Americans, especially those living in the bigcity, was God's will. Methodical, patient and dangerous, his view ofAmericans was developed during his ten-year period as a cab driver inthe Newark/ New York City area. He'd learned through experience thatlife on big city streets was cheap, and devoutly believed that peopleliving in the city had traded their souls, their humanity, to the devilfor the almighty dollar. As a result, they were no different from ratsor vermin and he felt the world was better off without them.

Dressed as a truck driver, Mamood's appearance was unremarkable. Hismost distinguishing features were his bushy black hair and beard.Reared by the Iraqi state with no family influences, Mafnood had neverknown his father or mother. His religious and spiritual needs had beenfilled by the Muslims when he was young and impressionable.

Educated only through the fifth grade, anything he lacked in formaltraining, he made up for with perseverance-the man would not take no foran answer and he wouldn't quit.

Mamood was perceptive and patient; he learned by observation, alwayswaiting for the right opportunity.

Mamood drove his rental car west down Interstate 580 to Livermore,California. Once at Livermore, he drove to the Livermore Laboratory toscope out the area firsthand. Livermore Laboratory was a sprawlingcollection of office, warehouse, and laboratory buildings spread acrossa square mile area, much like a college campus. Operated jointly bythe University of California, the Department of Energy, and theStrategic Defense Initiative Organization, Livermore's bread and butterwas Star Wars software. Livermore had programmed the SDI satellitearmada, and had software maintenance and test responsibility as well.

Compared to the large main laboratory buildings, Marnood found GuardShack 2 tiny, a small brick building positioned a few hundred feet fromthe main complex.

Anyone who walked in or out of the Livermore Lab complex from the northside parking lot was funneled past Merchant Lucky in Guard Shack 2.With clear glass on all four sides, visibility into the guard shackposed a problem of timing for Mamood, but he could work around it. Henoticed the many trees around the guard shack limited visibility fromthe laboratory complex. After watching the guard shack from theparking lot for about half an hour, he also noticed that no one' paidany attention to the security guard as they left the complex. Employeesdisplayed their ID badges for the security guard's approval when theyentered the complex, but when departing, they bolted out of thebuilding like wild horses racing to their automobiles, focusing only ontheir rat race home. Mamood decided that he must enter Guard Shack 2during a shift change when Merchant Lucky was alone.

Mamood recognized Merchant Lucky from his photograph, sitting alonebehind his computer terminal. He knew the first shift left Livermoreat 3:15 and that's all he needed to know. His controller had takencare of nearly all the details and Mamood need only execute.

Using American Express to solve all his travel problems, Mamood'scontroller ran his assassination company out ofNewark like a small business. His controller provided a travel andinformation package which included, in code, everything that Mamoodwould require for an efficient operation. Travel plans, tickets, carand van rentals, cash advances, lethal gasses, weapons, poisons-allsorts, and an information package containing everything available onMerchant Lucky, including photographs and maps of the Livermore area.

He rented a small EZ haul truck, then drove around the lab, circlingthe complex until a rush of outbound traffic announced the first shiftexodus. Mamood drove cautiously against the flow of traffic into theparking lot outside Guard Shack 2.

Merchant Lucky noticed an EZ haul truck pulling into the mammoth northparking lot and concluded the driver must be lost. They didn't takeany deliveries through Gate 2 and most drivers knew that.

Mamood parked his truck in the area designated for visitor parking,just outside Guard Shack 2, in plain view of Lucky. Lucky watchedMamood cautiously approach the guard shack, looking lost and somewhatbewildered, walking against the onslaught of employees in full galloptoward the north parking lot. He knocked on the glass door to theguard shack, pointing to his map, asking for directions.

Lucky signaled for him to enter, but remained seated.

Mamood clutched a map in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in theother. Inside the newspaper, he carried a silent device developed bythe Russian KGB-A compact lethal gas gun loaded with ficin. With anaverage lethal dose of only 1/5,000 gram, ficin was the untreatabletoxin used in the Georgi Markoff umbrella murder. Once inhaled, thegas quickly produced all the symptoms of a heart attack, and wasdifficult, if not impossible, to detect in the bloodstream; awell-established method for inducing accidental death, used most oftenon older adults.

Mamood smiled as he entered Guard Shack 2; Merchant Lucky was alone. Hequickly scanned the interior of the room for cameras. There weresecurity TV monitors, but none monitoring the inside of the guardshack. Mamood's heart pounded in his chest as he asked Lucky fordirections to shipping and receiving. Spreading Mamood's map acrosshis desk, Lucky studied it for a moment to orient himself.

When Lucky looked up to give the burly truck driver directions, hefound himself staring into the open end of a rolled newspaper.Startled, Lucky gasped his last breath. Seeing his surprise, Mamoodblessed Allah's name and squeezed the trigger, releasing the invisiblelethal gas in Lucky's face.

Oil, 1211012014, 2030 Zulu, 11:30 P.m. Local EMERGENCY CABINET

MEETING,

UNDERGROUND BUNKER,

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Secretary-general al-Mashhadi (Mother) was perched like a restless hawkbehind the lectern, surveying the faces of the Cabinet members as theywatched the American President on CNN. Towering over the lectern atthe head of the conference table, he looked gargantuan, shaped like thefront end of a bus, with sand papery skin and two dark reddish blackeyes that seemed to boast the Iraqi credo-Nobody hurts me unharmed. Behind his flint hard eyes beat the heart of a barbarian, and tonighthe had the disposition of a rattlesnake. He was trying to cope with akaleidoscope of feelings, from bewilderment to rage to exhilaration,all intertwined with overpowering fatigue. His complexion lookedIndian, but under the dim light inside the blast-proof bunker, it washard to tell. Whatever he was, there was a frightening presence abouthim.

He surveyed each Cabinet member for some moments, then found a kindredspirit, Colonel Nassar-the officer who created PAM-sitting at the farend of the table in the back of the room. He gazed at Colonel Nassar;he seemed so small and frail. All this destruction caused by such alittle man, he thought.

After the American President disappeared from the TV screen,al-Mashhadi pointed the remote control toward the TV and turned itoff.

No one in the room moved. No one, not even Colonel Nassar, couldmentally accept what they were viewing.

Iraqi President Kamel, Colonel Nassar, and the entire Iraqi Cabinet satthunderstruck by the global chaos, by the fearsome power of Allah.

After silently brooding over their situation several minutes,al-Mashhadi decided to set his Islamic religious practices aside. Hepoured himself a drink, topping off his shot glass with gin-drainingthe bottle dry.

"To PAM," he murmured softly, raising his drink in toast.

"Allahu Akbar."

Gulping it down, he felt invincible, like he would live forever. Motherstruggled to sort out his feelings. He felt the exhilaration thatcomes from revenge combined with an acute anxiety over the AmericanPresident's speech. In his soul, he'd always believed that Allah wasgreater than his enemies, but never imagined Allah would punish hisown.

Earlier today, approximately two hundred Iraqis had died in militaryand commercial aircraft crashes.

Slowly, the Cabinet members lifted their glasses to PAM, but saidnothing.

There was more than a moment of silence before alMashhadi continued.

"As we drink, the balance of power is shifting beneath our feet likedesert sands. The world is grounded by their orbiting armada and theAmerican President admits they are powerless against it. Inshallah(God willing), our time has come. Kuwaiti oil fields are ours for thetaking."

Sweat beaded across Colonel Nassar's balding forehead as he breathed asilent sigh of relief. Until now, the Iraqi expert on PAM had fearedfor his life because he'd never projected, or even imagined, sucharbitrary destruction and loss of life as this. PAM had crippled theAllied war machine as he'd expected, and more-much, much more.

Colonel Nassar contemplated their situation along with the chiefs ofthe Iraqi Air Force, Army, and Navy. A multitude of issues racedthrough the colonel's mind. Would the Americans link PAM to Iraq?Possible, but not likely.

Would the Iraqis have enough time to mobilize an invasion force andattack Kuwait before the Allies eliminated PAM?

He couldn't say. There were simply too many variables.

The diminutive little colonel stood and spoke first in a voice that wasbarely audible.

"We have two significant problems." The entire Cabinet leaned forwardin their seats, straining to hear the wiry little man speak.

"However, our risks can be managed. First, the Allies will not restuntil they find the saboteurs; therefore we must cover our tracks.

Second, we're not ready for an invasion of Kuwait. Our Army mustprepare and this will take time. The Allies could eliminate PAM andrestore their orbiting armada before we occupy Kuwait."

Iraqi President Kamel had lived much of his life in America, and heknew Colonel Nassar spoke the truth.

Through an alcoholic haze, Iraqi President Hessian Kamel al-Tikritiopened another bottle and filled his glass. This was the only way heknew to hide his doubt concerning his decision to deploy PAM, andclearly there was no turning back now.

"So this disastrous catastrophe comes down to a problem of covering ourtracks." President Kamel gazed around the room in disgust at hisslovenly, drunken, party of God.

"No battles, no glorious victories for Allah, only the rancid stench ofdeath." All the military chiefs were present, most huddled around theconference table under a thick cloud of cigar smoke, reveling in thecatastrophe they'd brought on the infidels. Looking through the smoke,the President saw the fire of revenge still blazing in their eyes.

Calmly blessing Allah's name, the sad-eyed chief of militaryintelligence replied,

"Our revenge is complete, Excellency. The Maronites (enemies of Allah)have suffered grievous losses. Our losses were significant, but smallby comparison."

"And what of our agents?" the Iraqi President seethed.

"What if they're discovered? Have you any idea what that wouldmean?"

"Inshallah," the chief of military intelligence responded cautiously,"they are already dead."

President Kamel gulped down his drink, then spoke in acaustic voice.

"No trail." The icy stare he gave the chief of military intelligenceconveyed the sincerity behind this order. The intelligence chiefacknowledged with a grimace.

"Allahu Akbar," al-Mashhadi mumbled after he guzzled down another drinkand sat down directly across from Colonel Nassar. He wondered if anyof the encrypted em ail messages he'd sent Lucky could be traced. Hedidn't think so, but he decided to have the crypto sergeant look intoit. Much of his adult life, al-Mashhadi had lived for this day, hadlived to revenge the Gulf War. Now, with his revenge complete, histhirst was insatiable. He wanted more.

"Colonel, how long do we have before the infidels eliminate PAM?"al-Mashhadi asked as he studied the clear liquid contents in hisglass.

"A few days at least, maybe months. We do not know.

No one knows, but Allah has delivered us. Our time has come." ColonelNassar was smart and shared one thing incommon with al-Mashhadi. Under his deceptively delicate facade beat abarbarian's heart. Although quiet, soft spoken, and physically small,hard work had made him wiry and tough.

The face of Iraqi President Kamel was acutely downcast-one could evencall it mournful. He buried his face in his hands and murmured,

"There you have it-chaos for oil." The Iraqi President had never feltso impotent, and he could feel the acid burning in his stomach from thefrustration. This sequence of events was out of his control. Anyprotest he might raise would be perceived as weakness and fall on deafears.

"No matter how great the preparation," al-Mashhadi said slowly.

"Nothing ever seems to work out the way it's planned." Al-Mashhadileaned forward on his sledgehammer fists, pushed himself up from hischair, and announced, "Allah is with us. There's no turning backnow."

Still thunderstruck by the global chaos, their tongues still, the IraqiPresident and Cabinet ministers offered no resistance.

Al-Mashhadi sat down and drummed his massive fingers on the table.After a few moments thought, he spoke to the overweight army chief.

"How long before we invade Kuwait?"

The portly general cleared his throat and tried not to stammer.

"As you know, our war plans assume we have air superiority. We plannedthat the Kuwaiti ground forces would be softened up by our air powerbefore we began our mechanized ground assault. We won't enjoy airsuperiority, but neither will Kuwait, and we'll have the benefit ofsurprise. We'll revise our attack plan to deliver a fast-moving,mechanized thrust that'll drive the Kuwaiti Army into the Gulf."

"I asked how long before we invade?" Al-Mashhadi was determined. Thegaze from his glassy black eyes penetrated the smoke-filled room.

"The duration of the war must be short, one week or less.

Speed and preparation are our linchpins. In the past, we've plannedone massive, overwhelming strike. Knock 'em off balance, then drivethem into the sea before they can react.

Assuming our missiles and aircraft are useless, 150,000 men, onethousand tanks . . ." The general paused, furrowed his brow, thendecided to dig in and stand his ground. He turned to the IraqiPresident in protest.

"Excellency, this is nonsense! I must study our revised plans before Icommit to-an attack date. Rapid occupation without air power-thisrequires a significant change in our war plans, a major shift instrategy and thrust. I'll deliver you our revised plans tomorrow, butI expect we'll require at least twelve weeks to prepare."

Suddenly, like a great ocean swell, al-Mashhadi's gigantic hulk rose upand grabbed the corpulent army general by the braided lapels on hisuniform, then slammed him hard against the concrete wall. In anacidic, menacing voice, he muttered,

"There is no alternative. No discussion. Occupy Kuwait city byChristmas."

The heavyset general gazed upward into al-Mashhadi's thick-lidded eyes.Al-Mashhadi tightened his grip on the lapels and brought the general'sfleshy face to within an inch of his own. The Iraqi army generalsmelled the stenchof al-Mashhadi's breath and considered going for the small graphiterevolver he kept concealed in his pocket. The general decided againstit. There would be another time and a better place. Perhaps asniper's bullet inside Kuwait city, yes, that could be easilyarranged.

"Kuwait city-Christmas day," the army general seethed quietly. Hisvoice was restrained, but sounded loathsome.

Al-Mashhadi released the general, who glared at him with a mixture ofcontempt, rage, and fear. As in any meeting of the Iraqi Cabinet, fearwon out, so he straightened his coat, turned, and walked out the bunkerdoor.

Regroup, 1211012014, 2130 Zulu, 2:30 Pm. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Bleary-eyed and alone in the Crow's Nest video conference room, Masonread a brief report concerning the accidental death of Shripod Addams.He was in a daze, still shaken. by the mind-boggling events of theday, all the staggering losses. Mason had ordered his staff to getsome sleep then organize into shifts. As he reread the message, Cravenwalked quietly into the room.

"Shripod Addams is dead," Mason sighed as he passed the message toCraven.

"I heard," Craven said somberly.

"Damn grisly way to die. Sounded like a fluke accident, but you neverknow."

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Mason rubbed his temples.

"We don't have much to go on, just that gum, but we're going over hisapartment with a fine-toothed comb."

There was silence while they tried to make some sense of it, but it wasimpossible. The shock of the disaster had numbed their minds. Nothingseemed to make sense anymore.

Craven placed both his large hands on Mason's shoulders as if to say, Iunderstand. Two years Mason's senior, Craven had precious few peers.Some in the military had feared him, many had envied him, many more hadwanted his job, but not Mason. Craven thought Mason's leadershipinspirational. Mason made you feel good about yourself, about others,about life. Above all, he couldn't be bought.

He was a man of principle and integrity. He stood up for what hebelieved in, he had courage, and Craven respected him for it. He hadadmired Mason's independence for thirty years, and now wanted to givehim something in return.

Craven removed the five-star shoulder boards from his uniform.

"These meant the world to me and I want you to have them." Craven, whowas very powerful, was sometimes surprisingly gentle.

"I know they'll be in good hands."

Mason accepted Craven's shoulder boards without an exchange of words.There was no need to speak. Mason loved the man; his eyes said itall.

"What about Scott?" Craven asked, lowering himself into the seat.

"When do you plan to tell them?"

With a blank stare, Mason gazed through the glass walls of the Crow'sNest.

"Tomorrow, after they get some sleep; but we're not going anywhereuntil we're ready. They won't get but one chance and to die trying isto fail. Livermore and Yuri's folks in Kaliningrad are working roundthe clock. They offer our greatest hope. Freedom's armor must havesome Achilles' heel, some weakness we can exploit.

Before we make our next move, Livermore must characterize this virus,no matter what it takes. We've got to have a plan for boarding Freedomthat will work; we've got to find some weakness."

"Hope's the perfect place to train for an assault on Freedom," Cravensaid with a sense of purpose.

"Scott and her crew can train by attacking Hope. We'll work out thebugs, refine it until we get it right."

Placing his head in his hands, Mason wearily nodded agreement.

"But we've such a long way to go." Mason seemed almost asleep. Cravenrealized Mason had developed a capacity to live with crisis by takingshort naps, much in the same way Winston Churchill did during World WarII. If he allowed each crisis to take its toll, he would have diedlong ago of anxiety. Now, his eyes half closed, his face relaxed,Mason looked closer to his real age. No one ever makes the completeadjustment to constant tension. Responsibility had laid circles underMason's eyes,etched lines around his mouth, given his powerful, elegant hands theslightest tremor.

"Do what you can, Slim, then don't worry about it. Worrying'll killyou. Believe in yourself and trust in your staff.

They're good people, they're behind you, and they'll pull through.After a little rest, you'll see things more clearly.

This problem is man-made, it can be solved, and your team can do it."Craven paused a moment, and shifted the subject to a smaller, moreimmediate problem.

"You thought about Hinson?"

Mason felt like unloading on Hinson, but he knew this wasn't the time.He would sleep on his decision and wait until tomorrow, when his headwas clear.

"Hinson has no place in his heart for anyone but Hinson," Mason repliedwith a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

"I want him out of the service. Yuri suggested an officer exchangeprogram assignment counting penguins on the tundra of the New SiberianIslands. His idea has merit, but I plan to give Hinson a choice.Either join the civilian community or count penguins."

"It's your operation," Craven said, never second-guessing Mason'sjudgment. Craven was silent for a few moments as he studied Mason'sface. Mason's temples were raw, and the circles under his eyes haddarkened.

"You look like death warmed over, Slim. How about some sack time?"

Mason eyed the empty cots in the corner of the conference room thenchecked his watch. General Krol or Colonel Napper could run the storewhile Mason slept, but they were both out like a light.

"Krol and Napper are asleep,"

Mason lamented quietly.

Craven smiled.

"I'll wake you if anything hot comes down." His voice conveyedconcern.

Mason didn't need to hear it twice.

THE DAY OF RECKONING

DAY 5 DECEMBER 11 2014

The Black Hole, 1211112014, 0525 Zulu, 12:25 A.m. Local

INSIDE AIR FORCE PROTOTYPE HANGAR DESIGNATED BIG

BLUE,

HANS COM FIELD,

BEDFORD, MASSACHUSETTS

Intensely bright white flashes from an arc welder illuminated thehangar's interior like an enormous strobe light.

Thomas Jackson, the radar expert from MIT Lincoln Lab, watched from asafe distance as the welder guided his torch down the tapered,pyramid-shaped wall of the anechoic test chamber, generating aspectacular fireworks display of sparks along the way. Danglingperilously from a cable, suspended eighty feet above the concretehangar floor, the welder was nervous about laying his final bead.Jackson, speaking from the safety of the catwalk overhead, reminded himthey were six months behind schedule and insisted he cut out thebellyaching and get the job done. Angry, but unconvinced, thetechnician attacked the final seam with a vengeance.

When the electric torch went out, Jackson breathed a sigh of relief asthe two men pulled off their goggles. This latest modification to thetest chamber had increased its diameter to eighty feet, allowing it toencase a full-size aircraft. Working with a ball-peen hammer, thewelder cleaned away the crusty debris from his final bead while Jacksonclimbed down from the catwalk. Scaffolding fastened to the catwalkextended floor to ceiling and surrounded the colossal test chamber. After slowly lowering his overweight carcass onto the scaffolding,Jackson carefully inspected the welds framing the chamber walls. Apompous man with long oily hair, scraggly red beard, and puffy bagsunder his eyes, Jackson's abrasive personality failed to inspireconfidence, but those who knew him freely admitted-the guy was smart. Satisfied with the welds, Jackson cautiously maneuvered into the walledsecurity of the penthouse. Perched on top of the test chamber onehundred feet above the hangar floor, the one-room penthouse was filledwith radar test equipment, arranged about a large viewing porthole inthe center of the floor. The penthouse office would be called alaboratory by anyone who did not regularly work in one. To Jackson itseemed more a cluttered test bed, a place to verify his theories, anassessment that was wholly accurate. The room was perhaps five hundredsquare feet total, and Jackson felt cramped as he worked his way towardthe center of the room, squeezing between countless metal racks, eachstacked high with test equipment.

Jackson eventually worked his way through the equipment maze to theaircraft position control panel located by the porthole. Looking downthrough the porthole into the test chamber, Jackson saw onlypitch-black at first. He threw a power switch and floodlightsilluminated a large black form, seventy feet across, shaped like theDorito flying wing. Initially, the aircraft was positioned in astraight and level attitude, but using a combination of valves on thecontrol panel, Jackson could rotate the aircraft into any position herequired. He opened a hydraulic valve, then watched the aircraft belowslowly rotate skyward. Gradually, his aspect angle began to change asthe aircraft pivoted into a near vertical climb. Eventually, whenJackson viewed the flying wing head-on, the wedge shape changed intothat of the edge of a Frisbee. Satisfied with the positioning arm'sperformance, he believed the aircraft prototype and chamber were readyat last. Getting the positioning arm fitted to the aircraft had takenmore time than he'd expected. Too late, Jacksondiscovered that the positioning arm had to be custom machined and thattook time. But now it was ready and he felt relieved.

To the naked eye, the aircraft inside the test chamber looked likeCowboy's Dorito down to its air inlets and jet exhaust. Designated theBlack Hole prototype, its exterior looked like a McDonnell Douglas EF-12 flying wing in every respect-but it wasn't.

Gum, 1211112014, 0733 Zulu, 12:33 A.m. Local

SHRIPOD ADDAMS'APARTWNT,

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

After sifting through the contents of every trash can and cabinetinside Shripod Addams' apartment, FBI special agent Clint Bridges wasfrustrated. The sleeves of his white shirt were filthy, there wasstubble on his chin, and his neatly cropped snow-white hair wasplastered down with sweat and lint picked up from behind the clothesdryer.

After thirty years with the bureau, most of it in white-collar computercrime and counterespionage, the G-man knew where to look when it cameto searching for physical evidence. After a tedious examination ofShripod's apartment, the G-man, local police, and captain of securityfrom Cheyenne Mountain determined that Shripod Addams had beeninterested in computers, maintained a magnificent saltwater aquarium,paid his bills on time, and chewed Juicy Fruit gum. Not much to showfor a long night's work, but they felt the gum could be significant.

To Clint Bridges' dismay, it looked as if Shripod Addams had been afastidious housekeeper; everything was in its place. The inside of theapartment struck him as picture perfect, unlike any bachelor's homehe'd ever seen. The interior looked almost as if it'd never been livedin, like a photo from a House and Garden magazine article, too neat tobe true. Shripod's clothes were cleaned and pressed, bed neatly madewith the blanket corners tightly tucked, lunch dishes put away, and hiscomputer desk had been meticulously organized, as if he'd beenexpecting company. The only signs of life in the apartment wereswimming inside Shripod's aquarium, a large saltwater tank filled witha splendid variety of brightly colored fish. Although everythingseemed in order, Bridges was troubled because nothing was ever thisneat in real life unless it was staged.

Rivulets of sweat beaded across Clint's forehead as he and the lankyAir Force captain of security carefully pried the cover off Shripod'shome computer. After checking the computer for self-destructexplosives land auto-erase hardware, Clint decided it was safe to powerShripod's PC on.

"I'm afraid someone got here before we did," Clint observed quietly asthe computer screen flashed to life.

"Whataya mean?" Scratching the stubble on his angular chin, thegaunt-faced captain looked puzzled. They'd found no evidence ofunlawful entry. Nothing damaged, no unusual fingerprints, nothing thatwould indicate any unauthorized search.

"This place, it's all too ... tidy. An airtight package with no looseends." Clint opened a desk drawer, pulled out a case containing3.5-inch floppy disks, then handed it to the captain.

Casually, the captain opened the case, thumbed through the disks, thenremarked,

"Yeah, so'? Blank disks, what of it?"

"That's just it," quipped Clint.

"They're all blank. No backups, no extra copies, nothing."

As the realization of the G-man's observations sank in, the captain'sexpression turned hard.

"So either Shripod never used his computer or we're onto something."

Clint nodded.

"Check the door locks and windows again.

See if one of 'em hasn't been jimmied."

The tall lanky captain stood, walked out of the computer room, thenspoke quietly to the local police sergeant in charge of the accidentinvestigation. After a few moments, the sergeant acknowledgedagreement, walked outside to his cruiser, and brought back a portablelight and a bag oftools. The sergeant and a colleague roped off a clear area around thefront doorjamb, set up their high intensity light shining on the doorlatch plate, then carefully began looking for any evidence that thedoor might have been forced open-fresh scratches on the metal plate ortraces of plastic from a credit card.

Finally, the lanky captain returned to the computer room only to findClint Bridges shaking his head in disbelief.

"This is incredible," Clint said after reading over the computerscreen. The screen displayed Shripod's command history file-a terse,summarized record of every computer command Shripod had entered overthe last month.

"Absolutely incredible!" Clint scrolled through a few more pages, thencontinued.

"I'll tell you one thing. Shripod Addams was no computer hacker. Thisguy was a real pro, a guru. He used every trick in the book. Take alook at this."

Clint pointed to a line on the computer screen which read: 12/09/2014,12:29 P.m.

I'm -rf /usr/myfiles "Don't follow you, Clint. I'm not into computers.What does it all mean?"

"Simply this," the G-man responded as he continued looking through pageafter page of the command history file.

"The day before Shripod Addams was killed, or murdered, he removed allthe programs from his hard disk.

During his lunch break, he cleaned up his disk and didn't leave atrace."

"Could be coincidence," the captain remarked, obviously unconvinced.

"Take another look here," muttered the G-man with a confident smile. Hepointed again to the computer screen.

Searching through the history file on Shripod's computer, the G-man hadfound what he'd been looking for-proof of unlawful entry.

"No doubt about it, our man was murdered.

Check the time these commands were entered."

The screen read:

VTRUS 267

12/10/2014, 1:10 P.m.

cd /usr The lanky captain gulped, murmuring,

"You're right, Clint. Shripod died before one o'clock. Someone usedthis computer immediately after his death."

"That's the way I see it. Someone was looking for something onShripod's hard disk, but my guess is they didn't find it. Shripod hadcovered his tracks before they got here."

Mulling over his options, the captain's chest heaved with a sigh ofrelief.

"This is not the answer, but it's a step in the right direction.Whataya suggest we do from your end, Clint?"

"Fed-ex the disk to CIA headquarters at Langley. With a little luck,they may he able to reconstruct the contents of the disk."

"Good," said the security captain.

"You take care of the disk and I'll cover Shripod's car. We'll go overhis Honda with a fine-toothed comb. We know it was murder. We'll findout how."

Finishing up, the G-man said,

"Let's head back to the mountain and pull his records. Interview hisfriends, pick up a few leads on his family."

Checking his watch, the captain quipped,

"Yeah, right Clint." For the first time since their troubles began onSunday, Cheyenne Mountain was running on a skeleton crew.

The first shift regulars were at home asleep. After a moment'sthought, a glimmer shone in the captain's eye.

"Computers have gotten us this far. Let's round up the Computer Centerdirector and his networking guru. If Shripod's sent any electronicmail outside the country or to Livermore, maybe he left a trail."

"Do it," remarked the G-man with a wink.

"We may be onto something big here. Where it'll lead, I can't say, butit feels right!"

Electronic Trail, 1211112014, 0905 Zulu, 2:05 A.m. Local

COMPUTER CENTER,

BASEMENT FLOOR OF HEADQUARTERS BUILDING,

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

G-man Clint Bridges, a lifelong computer buff, stood on the raisedfloor inside the Cheyenne Mountain Computer Center staring at thearrays of optical computers and disk storage adorning the floor spacefrom wall to wall. Fascinated, he watched in silent disbelief as thecomputers collected, stored, and displayed information from all partsof the world. There was more computing power per square foot in thebasement of Cheyenne Mountain than in any other single place on earth,and the eerie thing was, the place looked deserted-wall-to-wallcomputers with no people. All this computing power required almost nolocal support staff. Most of the computer programming was done atLivermore.

Divided into four separate areas, the basement served as CheyenneMountain's central brain and nerve center. In the center of the room,orchestrating it all, stood Centurion's Twin. Identical to Centurionin every respect, Centurion's Twin coordinated all computer systemactivity inside Cheyenne Mountain. Operating around the clock,equipment on the south wall connected Cheyenne Mountain computers tothousands of fiber-optic cables feeding sensor data input from all overthe world. The north wall provided Cheyenne Mountain's computernetworking gateway to the outside world. Computer networking equipmentlining the north wall allowed Cheyenne Mountain computers to talk toeach other as well as thousands of other Department of Defensecomputers scattered across the world. The west wall was lined withbackup power supplies that switched on in case of emergency, andfinally, the east wall was covered floor to ceiling with projecteddisplays showing global situation information, computer networkingtraffic, and equipment maintenance information.

The nerve center was attached to the outside world through pulses ofdifferent colored light transmitted inside thousands of fiber-opticcables. The south wall of the basement provided Cheyenne Mountain'ssensor links to the outside world and looked much like the inside of atelephone central office-row after row of eleven-foot-tall metal framesstacked floor to ceiling with rack-mounted optical communicationequipment. The equipment against the north wall looked like theworld's largest doughnut and provided Cheyenne Mountain a computernetworking hub and gateway to the outside world.

Clint Bridges had never seen such computing power as was in thebasement of Cheyenne Mountain. He found the spectacle awe inspiring. tClint heard the revolving door turn and saw the Computer Centerdirector lumbering into the room, followed by the lanky captain ofsecurity. Middle-aged, flabby skin underneath his chin, with amplegirth about the middle, the Comp Center director didn't look like ahappy man.

Not one for small talk, Clint Bridges got directly to the point, oncetheir introductions were exchanged.

"Where's your guru?"

As Clint asked the question, the revolving door slowly turned again anda tall, thin, thirty-plus fellow with a scraggly brown beard walkedthrough carrying a large thirty-two-ounce cup of caffeine-enrichedCoke. Clint smiled, thinking, Now th eke area ready to work.

The Computer Center director introduced Craig Strauss to Clint Bridgesand the captain, then they got down to the business at hand.

Clint Bridges looked into Craig's sleepy eyes and explained.

"We need your help tracking down any e-mail traffic Shripod Addams mayhave launched since this past Sunday. We need any records you haveshowing what he's been up to."

"Addams?" Craig's ears perked up.

"That fella just died in a car accident, didn't he?"

Clint nodded agreement and exhaled a deep sigh. He needed to watchwhat he said concerning this case, and if he wasn't careful, this needto know issue of security could trip up their investigation. Throughone glance, without anexchange of words, he communicated with the captain of security. Theexpression on the captain's face read: Go ahead, tell him, he needs toknow.

"I can't overemphasize the importance of what you may find, Craig, solet me just say this. Addams may, and I repeat may, have beenconnected with this Star Wars disaster.

There's a remote chance his e-mail traffic could lead us to the bottomof it."

Immediately Craig's hollow, sleepy eyes widened to the size ofquarters. He was sold. He'd do whatever he could to help, anything.

"Over fifty thousand innocent people dead and for what?" Craig's jawmuscles tightened as he shook his head. Up until now, Craig hadn'tknown what to make of this situation. Yanked out of the bed in themiddle of the night by some tight-lipped Air Force captain and Gman.Now it all made sense. He'd thought it must be pretty important tobring in the Comp Center director, and he'd been right.

"What was his login?" Craig asked.

"And which of our computers was he on?"

"I can save you some time, Craig," said the Comp Center director as hebegan shuffling through some paper records.

"He was a government civilian employee and had an account on only onecomputer inside the mountain. His computer machine name was allies;login was ad dams

"Excellent! That narrows the field considerably," Craig said with asmile. Only a single computer to search. He might get some sleepafter all.

"I'll search the networking files on allies looking for any outbounde-mail traffic under ad dams Should be no problem. Our networkingtraffic log covers the last six months."

"Good," Clint responded with a smile.

"One final keyword for you, Craig. Highlight any e-mail traffic toLivermore."

"The Lawrence Livermore Lab?" Craig grimaced.

"One and the same. Why?" asked Clint, looking a bit perplexed.

"Some problem?"

"Yeah, a volume problem. We get more e-mail traffic in and out ofLivermore than any other Comp Center. We transfer hundreds, maybethousands of messages back and forth every day. They're our SDIsoftware house. We just got a new load from them Tuesday, I think."

"Search for outbound Livermore e-mail traffic with ad dams as thesender. He was a Russian interpreter, and normally he'd have nobusiness sending e-mail of any sort to Livermore."

"All right, let's go for it," Craig said, feeling reassured.

He sat down at his workstation and began clattering away at thekeyboard with amazing speed. Almost immediately, he was logged intothe allies computer looking over the networking records. He bit hislip. Thousands of files had been transferred between the allies andLivermore computers. He held his breath, then entered a single linethat extracted the information he was seeking. In computerese he askedallies if Shripod Addams sent any e-mail to the Livermore computers.Impatiently, Craig drummed his bony fingers across the computer consolewaiting for a response.

He didn't have to wait long. The answer was as simple as it wassurprising. Yes, Shripod Addams sent e-mail to Livermore. At 11:56P.m." Sunday, December 7, Addams sent e-mail addressed to mal on aLivermore computer named security.

Following a brief discussion, the group placed three phone callssimultaneously. Both the Comp Center director and the captain ofsecurity called their Livermore counterparts while the G-man calledWashington. Within five minutes, the group learned from Livermore'sdirector of security that mal, Merchant A. Lucky, was dead.

Super-User Violation, 1211112014, 13 1 0 Zulu, 5: I 0 A.M. Local

SDI SO@ ARE COMPUTER CENTER,

LAWRENCE LivERmoRE NATIONAL LABORATORY,

LIVERMORE, CALIFORNIA

Rushing ahead of his entourage of top-level executives, Dr. TristanRoberts, President of Information Sciences at Livermore, was first tobolt into the SDI Software Lab. Winded, he betrayed his exhaustion.This was an extraordinarilyearly hour to call an executive meeting, but these were extraordinarytimes.

Dr. Roberts had the dubious distinction of presiding over the worstsoftware debacle in the history of computing and aviation. In thefinal analysis, a situation such as this SDI disaster demanded abloodletting-political, military, and technical heads were rolling. Itwas only a matter of time for Roberts, but even though his career wasfinished, he wasn't going out without a fight. Both Washington andCheyenne Mountain had him in a stranglehold and weren't about to letgo. They wanted answers-now.

Who did it? How'd it happen? How would this virus behave in thefuture? So far, even with Livermore's management and technical staffworking around the clock on this problem, he had no answers. He'd beenparalyzed by the inertia and politics that came with everymammoth-sized software project, paralyzed by inaction, corporateinfighting, and lack of teamwork. But what could he do? Cornered withhis back pinned to the wall, Roberts understood one fundamentalcultural law of large corporations that Washington and CheyenneMountain refused to acknowledge.

Like any large organization, Livermore could not produce anything fastthat was good.

So why not?

Better than anyone else at Livermore, Dr. Roberts understood theircorporate system of career advancement by crisis-the Look Good Game.Ironically, he found himself a prisoner of the corporate game he'dplayed so well throughout his career. Like taxes, the rules of thegame were an integral part of Livermore's corporate culture; hecouldn't change them overnight and he knew it.

But for those anxious and willing to play the game, this corporatecrisis offered unlimited opportunity for promotion. After all, thewriting was on the wall, the guys at the top were on their way out. Theobjective of the game was to look good as you got yourself out of themess that you got yourself into. Creating the corporate illusion thatno progress was really something of consequence was tremendouslycompetitive work requiring enormous effort when you were not part ofthe solution. Sure, Livermore's emergency SWAT teams had done somework on the virus, but most of their corporate time and effort had beendevoted to looking good, to telling a good story, one with a positivespin on a bad situation, showing progress where there was none;presenting pretty, nicely formatted colored view graphs that lookedgood, sounded good, and said nothing.

To Roberts' dismay, he'd seen more positive spin than he could stomachand concluded his organization was constipated, bottled up tight as adrum. After their forty-eight hour-long frenzy, Livermore had notanswered a single relevant question for Cheyenne Mountain, but theirview graph story would lead one to conclude there was really noproblem-99.9% of Livermore's software was perfect. Ultimately, Robertswas responsible for isolating the virus and he wanted results. Robertswanted to break up this logjam and get on with the solution.

In spite of a corporate culture which suppressed the truth, Robertsfelt optimistic. He believed their situation was about to change.Finally, they'd gotten a lead in the SDI case-a dead Livermore securityguard linked by electronic e-mail to a dead Cheyenne Mountain man.

After receiving an early morning phone call from his Computer Centerdirector, Roberts immediately rushed to the lab. His face looked gauntand haggard, like the face of a man suffering from lack of sleep. Hehadn't slept for two full days, but now he had a plan to bypassLivermore's six layers of middle management and work directly with thetroops. He'd collected a small group of the software technical staffhe felt he could trust; those who were technically excellent, butpolitically had no ambition, those who did their programming workbecause they enjoyed it.

Art Brooks, the SDI software team leader, was such a gentleman, and agentleman in every sense of the word.

Highly regarded by his colleagues, a man with a family and friends wholoved him, a man who would never be president of the LivermoreInformation Sciences Division, but didn't care. He had the job hewanted and considered himself a very lucky and successful man. As longas he wasalive, his family would have a roof over their heads, food to eat,clothes to wear, but most important of all, they were happy. Asquat-framed introvert with all the charm of a single bookend, Artdidn't care for business issues, but he loved technical problems andthis computer virus was a pip.

Art surveyed the executive dress of the people in the room. Feelingintimidated, his stomach began to churn.

He'd definitely under-dressed, but how was he to know?

Everyone but Dr. Roberts looked good in their pin-striped suits. Dr.Roberts looked exhausted, while Art looked like he always looked atfive o'clock in the morning-unshaven, sleepy-eyed, wearing Nike Airsneakers and Docker jeans. Art chuckled to himself, thinking thisred-eye meeting seemed top-heavy with management. He counted twelvetop-level Livermore executives plus the director of Livermore'ssecurity, the director of Livermore's Comp Center, and one worker bee,himself. This could have been a meeting of the senior executive staffwith Dr. Roberts presiding as chairman of the board. The businessmenlooked totally out of place in the software laboratory, but didn't seemto mind; they strutted around the room with an air of confidence. Arthad never been in the same room with Livermore's top management, anddidn't know any of them personally. He'd seen their pictures enshrinedon corporate organizational charts, but had never seen their faces upclose. Remembering their pictures, he smiled-it must have been thelighting. Nearly everyone looked older in person, everyone but the onemost likely to replace Roberts, the one nicknamed Superman. Supermanreminded Art of mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent.

Pushing Art aside, Superman cornered Dr. Roberts and began intentlydiscussing his plan. Superman looked Roberts directly in the eyes,ignoring Art altogether. Art tolerated Superman's rudeness to a point,but after a few minutes, he decided he'd had enough. After all, Dr.Roberts had called Art in the middle of the night and insisted that hemeet them in the software lab. Art gathered his courage andinterrupted their huddle.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Art said, tapping Dr. Roberts on theshoulder.

"How about letting me in on the game plan? What can I do for you?"

Looking exasperated by his conversation with Superman, Roberts pickedup his small notepad and turned toward Art.

Roberts had been awake for over forty-eight hours. Lack of sleepcombined with unremitting pressure made him a bundle of fatiguednerves. He was weak from hunger too, but couldn't eat withoutsuffering stomach distress, so his diet consisted of uncut, blackcoffee.

"Desperation breeds unconventional approaches, Art, and you're my acein the hole. We've got a logjam to break up." Puzzled, Art quipped,

"Whatayamean?" Art thought he liked the ace in the hole part, but hewasn't sure what to make of it.

Dr. Roberts was a master at putting people at ease. Pouring them bothsome coffee, he asked Art to make himself comfortable behind thecomputer terminal. After signaling for Livermore's director ofsecurity to join them, he continued.

"We've gotten our first real lead in this virus case and I need yourhelp. Time is critically important so I thought it best for me to cometo you directly."

"Well, it depends on what you're looking for, Doc, but I expect you'reright."

"I think we understand each other, Art," Roberts said somberly as hethumbed through a few dog-eared pages in his notepad.

"I'm not looking for a song and dance, I need results."

The director of security, a large man built like a defensive tackle,made his way through the wall of top-level executives and joined themat the terminal, caressing his foam coffee cup.

Looking at the director of security, Roberts instructed, "Fill Art inon the details. Tell him everything we know."

He quickly outlined their impossible predicament. They desperatelyneeded to find those people at Livermore responsible for planting thesoftware virus and they needed the source code, a listing of the virusprogram.

After the director summarized the electronic mail link betweenLivermore and Cheyenne Mountain, Art asked,"You say Merchant Lucky was involved with both computer and plantsecurity?"

Sipping his coffee, the security director slowly nodded anacknowledgment.

"How many computers do we have here at Livermore anyway?" Art asked,holding his breath, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"And which computers did Lucky have access to?"

"Nobody knows exactly how many computers we have,"

the security director said bluntly.

"Our records show approximately how many computers we average per acre.All total, we maintain approximately five thousand computers on ourlocal lab network and Lucky had access to every one. Using hisworkstation, he ran security checks on every computer on the networkand had accounts on each."

"So much for computer security." Art frowned., The security directorwinced, but agreed.

"It looks like our man guarding the store may have robbed it."

"Following Lucky's tracks could take some time," Art lamented.

"If he left any tracks at all," the director observed quietly. " e wasa clever, very talented fellow, but I don't think he planned to die."

"Let's check the obvious first. Maybe we'll get a break."

Art leaned back and thoughtfully gazed at the domed ceiling. Thesoftware lab was magnificent, something akin to an amphitheater, withArt, Roberts, and the security director located center stage.

"I'll focus on the project computer first, the one used to build theSDI software. That's where the virus found entry.

What progress has been made tracing the program changes back to thetechnical staff?"

Bleary-eyed, on the fringe of exhaustion, Roberts read from hisnotepad.

"Roughly halfway through the list of changes, but nothing suspicious sofar."

"I'd like to take a look." With a trembling hand, Roberts handed Artthe pad. As he scanned the long list of changes made to the SDIsoftware, his jaw dropped to the floor. His eyes remained transfixedon the pad for several minutes.

When he spoke, his tone expressed despair.

"God, what a mess." He would always look back on this moment as thepoint when he decided to retire, to get out of the defense businessaltogether.

"Absolutely unbelievable," Roberts confirmed, wiping his face with hishand-a sign of fatigue and stress.

"So much for quality control."

Art went pale.

"I can't believe we shipped this program untested. I had no idea."Hundreds and hundreds of changes had been made to the software.

"An, it's not as bad as it seems," the director insisted.

"These changes were fixes to knows program bugs and they'd all beentested separately."

Unconvinced, Art spoke in a shakier voice.

"Who's shot gunning the effort to trace each change back to ourtechnical staff?"

"A couple of new hires," the director replied.

"The job's trivial, pretty much a step and repeat process. There wereso many changes, it's taking some time to get through them all."

"The change list shows who made each change and when," Art said as heclattered away on his terminal.

"I

want to sort through the list and find out if anyone made changes whois not on my team."

Dr. Roberts looked at the director of security and nodded.

"Makes sense to me." Roberts thought Art a most unusual man, but heneeded his skills. Art had trouble communicating with peopleeffectively; his directness made people uncomfortable and defensive,but he could communicate more effectively with a computer than anyoneelse Roberts had ever known. Due to the technical nature of Art'swork, he tended to be somewhat introspective, self-motivated,inquisitive, and unbelievably socially awkward.

After a few more moments of key-clattering, the terminal spat out ashort list of people. Art didn't know any of them, but one.

What followed over the next few moments had an otherworldly,surrealistic quality about it for Art. Looking back,he would think it more like a dream, it happened so quickly, soeasily. Looking over the list, Art did a double take, and stared atthat name again. Suddenly, there it was.

There was no mistake about it, The programmer who had made changenumber 1246 was named root, computerese for super-user.

"This is it!" announced Art.

"Take a look.

It's gotta be the one! A super-user violation!"

Looking over Art's shoulder, Dr. Roberts said,

"I don't understand. What does it mean?"

"By convention, no super-user ever changes the SDI software.Super-users keep the computers running for the users, the programmersWho write the SDI software' " Roberts couldn't believe how quickly Artworked. He'd found this software change control violation in less thanfive minutes. Puzzled, Roberts asked,

"Why wasn't this discovered before now?"

Art's reply was both thoughtful and out of character carefully craftedso the two new employees working on this job wouldn't look bad.

"The new hires lack experience and simply didn't know what to look for.We're talking about violating convention here; guidelines, not hard andfast rules. Our programming conventions aren't written down.

You pick 'em up along the way."

Art studied the list of names and times on his computer screen, thenturned and spoke to the security director.

"The super-user changed the software between one and two o'clock onMonday. Was Lucky working Monday afternoon?"

The security director sat down at a terminal, logged on, then copieddown the hours Lucky had worked over the past several days. Rubbinghis balding head, the director replied,

"Yeah, he was here all right, but he wasn't a super user He didn't havethe password."

"So, what about it? You said yourself, this guy was clever. He couldget it easily enough."

The tone of voice Art used caused the hair on the security director'sback to stand up, but why deny the allegation? Art was right.Reluctantly, the security director agreed with a grimace.

"You're right. Lucky could have made the change. Unfortunately, thiswouldn't be the first time our root password was compromised."

"We know Lucky could have done it, but we need proof," said Dr.Roberts, wanting to believe, but unconvinced. He needed evidence,something tangible; he needed a copy of the virus program.

Grabbing the security director by the arm, Art murmured quietly,

"Take me to Lucky's office. You run interference."

Weaving and bobbing through the gauntlet of well-dressed executives,Art followed the large security director out the door.

Pay Dirt, 1211112014, 1434 Zulu, 6:34 A.M. Local

GATE 2 SECURITY GUARD SHACK,

LAWRENCE LiVERmoRE NATIONAL LABORATORY,

LIVERMORE, CALIFORNIA

Bone-weary, Dr. Tristan Roberts sank down onto a hard straight-backchair with a quiet groan. Surveying the office, he found Art, thesecurity director, and a guard taking Lucky's computer workstationapart, piece by piece. Judging from the looks on their faces and theparts scattered around the floor, Roberts concluded that things couldhave been better.

It was still dark, and the bright lights inside the guard shackbothered his bloodshot eyes. He'd just come from a meeting with histop-level executive staff. They were tired, angry men and their senseof bewilderment was surpassed only by a profound sense of betrayal.Believing Cheyenne Mountain had sold them up the river, they felt likelame duck politicians whose hands were tied until the subsequentadministration moved in. They were angry at Cheyenne Mountain fordemanding that they bypass their standard quality controls in the firstplace, and they were angry at Washington for demanding so much in solittle time. Since no one from Cheyenne Mountain or Washington hadbeen present at their early morning meeting, Dr. Tristan Robertsbecame the focus of their deep-seated animosity.

How was our computer security compromised, Dr.Roberts? How did they do it? How did they plant this virus?

Can you guarantee this won't happen again, Dr. Roberts?

Why was this allowed to happen, Dr. Roberts?

Why wasn't someone guarding the store, Dr. Roberts?

Who is the mole inside your organization, Dr. Roberts?

What will the DEW SATs do next, Dr. Roberts?

Leaning back, rubbing his eyes, Roberts allowed himself a moment ofreflection. Maybe I should back off and let Superman solve this one.He's got all the politically correct answers. Hold on here. Who am Itrying to fool? He'd turn this virus into a career.

The tension in Guard Shack 2 could not have been strung any tighter asthe circuit board innards of Lucky's computer lay carefully spreadacross the floor. Art gently pried the boot Read-Only Memory chip outof Lucky's computer and replaced it with his own, custom-built part.The operation was tedious and one slip of the screwdriver could foul upthe electronic works. After the part swap was complete, Art beganputting Lucky's computer back together again.

Dr. Roberts looked over Art's shoulder and asked,

"So how's it going?"

Not one for small talk, Art replied,

"Lousy, Doc. Lucky knew a hell of a lot about security. It's going tobe a bitch just to log on. Everything on his computer is passwordprotected, and only he knew the passwords."

"Nothing's ever easy," Dr. Roberts sighed, picking up the Read-OnlyMemory device.

"What's your plan?"

"The short of it is this, Doc. That little chip you're holding wasLucky's boot program and I replaced it with a specially built editorprogram of my own. I'm going to clear out his passwords, all of them,then log on and take a look around."

"You've done this before?" Roberts asked apprehensively. He wanted tohear that this sort of thing was routine.

"I've done it before." Art made eye contact with Roberts, followed bya protracted pause.

"Once."

"Is there a chance you could fail?"

"Sure, there are no guarantees. Navigating around the disk takes time,and a lot of patience."

"Should we call in an expert?"

Kneeling over the open carcass of Lucky's computer, Art carefullyinserted the last of the computer circuit boards.

Exasperated, he looked at Dr. Roberts.

"Listen Doc, I know you're tired, but we're all tired here, so loosenup. I've thought this thing through and I need your help, but I don'tneed you telling me how to run my business."

"Art's right, Dr. Roberts," the security director said softly.

"Let the man do his job. It's up to you, but you might considercutting him a little slack!"

"But I only ... uh . . ." Roberts was taken aback. There were timesto concede and times to press. Roberts knew this tiny team representedhis only real hope for a fast solution; this was a time to concede.

"All right, Art, how can I help?"

"You said time is critical. The experts on Lucky's workstation areoutside Boston off Route 128. Well, they ain't gonna be flying here,right?" Art checked his watch.

"It's about nine-thirty their time, and I plan to give them a call ontheir hot line. I need you to convince those big shots in Boston thatour job is an urgent matter of national security, otherwise we couldget stuck on hold for hours. Once you clear it with Sun's fop brass,we'll work the technical details over the phone."

Dr. Tristan Roberts knew exactly what to do and who to call. 'theU.S. government was one of Sun Microsystems largest customers and anymatter of interest to Livermore was a matter of interest to the vicepresident of Sun's Government Division. Within twenty minutes, SunMicrosystems had their top software, hardware, and firmware expertspatched into Guard Shack 2 over a video conference call.

After spending an hour methodically combing through page after page ofspecially formatted data stored on Lucky's disk, Sun's expertsrecommended Art change the contents of a single eight-bit byte. Out ofthe millions and millions of data bytes stored on Lucky's disk, Artchanged only oneand the deed was done.

"It's all in knowing where to look and what to look for," Art said witha big smile. Once he'd removed the password protection from Lucky'sworkstation, Art took the workstation apart and replaced the originalRead-Only Memory device. After all the pieces were put back togetheragain, he plugged it in and turned it on.

Following an agonizing two-minute wait for the system to come alive,Art exclaimed: "Yes! Yes!" He logged on to Lucky's computer withoutany security password.

"Isn't technology wonderful?"

Everyone at Sun, including the vice president of Sun's GovernmentDivision, Dr. Roberts, and the security director sat up as thoughthey'd all been goosed at the same time and burst into applause.Outwardly, Dr. Roberts felt ecstatic, something had finally goneright. This was real, forward progress and a renewed energy pervadedhis body as an adrenaline rush kicked in. Inwardly, Dr. Roberts wasdumbfounded, he couldn't believe that this little bit twiddlingexercise had worked at all. After a few moments' thought, heconcluded, That Art doesn't miss a trick.

Immediately, Art began looking through Lucky's command history file.After looking over the record of Lucky's last two days' work, Art shookhis head sadly and sighed.

"Lucky was the mole, but I'm afraid we got here too late."

"Whataya mean?" came an exasperated voice over the videophone.

"Early Monday afternoon, Lucky transferred a collection of programsnamed mother's best from his workstation to the SDI computer. That'sall-the evidence I need to convince me that he's the mole. About twoo'clock on Monday, Lucky cleaned up his disk. He removed mother'sbest, and I expect any trace of the virus went with it."

"Never lose heart," came a reassuring baritone voice over thevideophone.

"Take an exhaustive look anyway.

Even if Lucky cleaned his disk, with a little luck, we can reconstructit."

Art knew this was possible, but he'd never reconstructed one himself.He navigated from place to place around Lucky's computer, then grimlyconfirmed that mother's-best was gone without a trace.

Following a long pause, the low, resonating baritone voice asked,

"Your mole had some form of backup?"

"Backup? Yes, backup! Of course! Why didn't I think of that? Unlesshe destroyed 'em all, there must he backup copies somewhere."

"Search the guard shack top to bottom," Dr. Roberts barked as hefrantically began opening drawers and file cabinets.

"Backup copies must be somewhere!"

As he discovered, somewhere was inside Lucky's lower left filedrawer-an unmarked gray metal box filled with tape backup copies ofLucky's programs. Opening the metal box, Art read the labels on eachtape, searching for the latest date. The good news was that Lucky wasnot only clever, he was methodical. Lucky backed up the programs onhis computer every Friday afternoon. Art grabbed the tape containingthe most recent backup, then loaded it into Lucky's computer. Heinstructed Lucky's computer to restore the collection of programs namedmother's best. 'the tape raced back and forth for a few minutes as theworkstation searched for the program. To Art and Dr. Roberts, thosefew minutes seemed to drag on for an eternity.

Suddenly, the whining sound of the tape drive hushed and Art's eyes litup.

"Bingo! We found it! Mother's-best is rolling in!"

Quick-time, Dr. Roberts and the security director moved into positiondirectly behind Art, looking over his shoulder.

Art felt them breathing down his neck, but couldn't blame them forwanting to see. The programs were encrypted, of course, but that wasno real problem for Art. He copied the encryption key from Lucky'scommand history file, then decrypted them in less than five minutes.Poring over the programs a page at a time, Art couldn't believe hiseyes.

This was it, it had to be, but exactly what it was he couldn't say. Artbelieved they'd found the program listing of the computer virus, but itwas nothing like he'd expected. He wasn't sure exactly what he'dexpected, but he was sure that this wasn't it. Mother's - best lookedlike a huge collection of programs written by the CIA, Air Force, andArmy.

"Unbelievable!" Art muttered, not really knowing what to think. Hismind felt numb, paralyzed.

Dumbfounded, Roberts rubbed his eyes. Like Art, he couldn't believewhat he was seeing.

"If this is the virus, then the CIA, Air Force, and Army wrote it."Roberts grimaced, pursing his lips.

"That's just great. Cheyenne Mountain is gonna love this."

The security director stood silent, his jaw dropped to his knees.

"I could be wrong," Art said with reservation. His mind couldn'taccept what big eyes were seeing.

"But I think we got it."

It had been a long and arduous journey. More than once, Roberts hadthought they wouldn't make it. But they did make it, they found paydirt-big-time. Roberts patted Art on the shoulder and asked,

"Recommendations?"

"Give me a minute, Doc. This is a bitter pill to swallow.

Somehow, this doesn't add up. The U.S. government doesn't write virusprograms to plant them in their own equipment.

We're missing some important data from somewhere."

"What you're saying is true, but all that really matters now is that webelieve we've found the virus."

"Well then, Doc, I recommend we go for broke. Get a task forcedissecting this thing immediately."

"Size the job for me," Dr. Roberts instructed, nodding agreement.

"How many people are we talking about here?"

Art clattered the keyboard of Lucky's workstation, checking the numberof program lines in mother's - best. A few moments later, heresponded,

"Give it two hundred of your best software folks; we'll split up theprogram into modules, then take it apart line by line-it's the onlyway.

We'll know what makes this baby tick by noon today, noon tomorrow atthe latest."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, take Lucky's computer off the lab network and isolate it in ourSDI lab. Lord knows we don't want this virus to spread over thenetwork."

"Done." Roberts felt weakness pervading his body as his adrenalinerush wore off. He had to maintain his strength long enough to get theball rolling. Light-headed, Roberts looked to his security directorand began barking orders.

"Order an autopsy on Lucky and find out what killed him."

"Already taken care of."

"Find out who he was working for. Search his home. Interview hisfamily and friends."

"An FBI task force is crawling all over this case, Doctop priority. IfLucky left a trail, they'll find it."

"Good. We're not where we want to be, but at least we know how to getthere!" Following a brief pause, Dr. Roberts rattled off additionalinstructions.

"Get John Sullivan on the line, and General Mason. Let them know whatwe've got."

Rifling through the gate guard's desk, the security director found apad of paper and began creating a To Do list.

"Superman, send me Superman," Roberts told the gate guard as hisperipheral vision began to fade.

"He'll round up the people we need." How much strain could one n,.,take? Roberts collapsed like a house of cards onto a straight-backmetal chair. Staring at the ceiling and dazed, he continued issuingorders like an automaton.

"Washington, connect me to Washington." With his bloodshot eyes openwide, he watched the bright lights around him fade to black, followedby a sense of dreamlike motion, as if he were falling into a bottomlessabyss. The last thing Roberts would recall before losing consciousnesswas the sound of frightened voices, muffled and indistinct. Theyseemed to drone on forever, but he couldn't respond. His mouthwouldn't form the words.

Fifty-fifty Chance, 1211112014, 1530 Zulu, 10:30 A.M. Local

INSIDE BLACK HOLE PROTOTYPE HANGAR DESIGNATED BIG BLUE,

HANs com FIELD,

BED FORI MASSACHUSETTS

His Air Force colleagues called him Wild Bill, but back home inMississippi they still called him Billy. A test pilot and Air Forceacademy graduate, he was the youngest of four sons, and had been hookedon flying nearly all his life.

He'd wanted to fly since he was a boy and first saw the Thunderbirdsperform at the Air Force pilot training base in Columbus.

All the brothers made good. One a physician, the other two madelawyers-and they all lived in Jackson, Mississippi-all but Billy. WildBill, Lieutenant Colonel William Boyd, had long wanted to return hometo his family and friends, but had resigned himself to the fact thatMississippi didn't need test pilots. Although he'd searched onnumerous occasions, he'd never found any work within a day's drive ofhis beautiful Magnolia State. Billy's soul was in Mississippi, butWild Bill's heart had wings, and his mind was addicted to the glitterof high-tech. Wild Bill had to fly and he had to fly somethingspecial.

Billy dreamed of moving back to Mississippi. He hoped he'd live longenough to retire, but never really believed he would. He couldn'timagine himself happy on the ground, technically retired, put out topasture. Wild Bill shuddered at the thought of life without flight andchose not to dwell on it. In his heart, he dreamed that one day he'dcome back to stay, but in his mind he believed he'd make the trip in apine box. He'd get back one way or the other. Retired or dead, itdidn't much matter.

Wild Bill didn't like anything about Thomas Jackson but his last name.Lieutenant Colonel Boyd respected Jackson of MIT Lincoln Labs for onereason and one reason only: Jackson was almost as smart as he thoughthe was. Radar technology was Jackson's expertise. He'd invented theDEW SAT counter stealth radar for the Allies and now they called on himonce again to do the impossible. The Allies needed an airplane thatJackson's radar could not see, an airplane that could fly undetected bythe orbiting DEW SAT armada. Jackson wasn't one to listen to theconcerns of others, evidently because his own opinions were far tooimportant; but then again, Jackson wasn't paid to be thoughtful ofothers. He was paid to deliver a single prototype aircraft, invisibleto the DEW SAT radar, and his reputation was on the line.

Jackson was no fool, Wild Bill had to admit that, but he lacked anyfeeling for teamwork. He was a loner in a large, team-orientedorganization. Jackson was not an expert pilot nor did he care to be.He had a low regard for anyone, especially test pilots, who were nothis technical equal. Lieutenant Colonel Boyd respected Jackson for histechnical judgment and that was enough. Wild Bill was paid to flyJackson's prototype aircraft, not to love him.

One thing was undeniable. Jackson was a legend. His God-giventechnical instinct differentiated him from lesser men. Jackson couldknow, could feel the solution to a complex problem before solving thedetails. He was one of a rare breed of scientists who had becomefamous by producng a series of weapon systems, cloaked in secrecy,which continually leapfrogged the opposition. His secret was aninquisitive mind coupled with a cardsharp's instinct for cuttingthrough the technical muck which obscured most problems. He could seeold problems in a different light andpropose new solutions which worked (to the delight of the UnitedStates government). Jackson intuitively felt solutions before hethought them through, or justified them in theory. He claimed to knowall there was to know about light, and many believed him. Othersbelieved that he could actually see colors in the radio and infraredregions of the electromagnetic spectrum, that he could see color justas his radars saw color. Although he never made this claim, he neverdenied it. He saw complex solutions without letting the theoreticalmathematics get in the way. He'd propose a solution to a specificproblem, then if necessary, he'd prove his solution was correct afterhe'd worked out the details.

He could punch through irrelevant detail which would choke a lesserman, then identify the essence of the solution after a quick knee-jerkanalysis.

But Jackson's greatest strength, his intuition, obscured one seriousweakness. He'd never failed. In the past, he'd worked on only themost important problems and used his intuition to make sure theproposed solutions were feasible.

Once he believed a problem could be solved, he threw government money,time, and people at working out the details. Time had never been amajor concern of Jackson's.

His adversary was the scientific problem. His record of successes wasunbroken. In the process he had become a millionaire and had achievedworldwide renown. He had become the leading expert on radar in theUnited States, debatably, in the world. He was oblivious of everythingexcept unsolved technical problems. Although his projects weresometimes delivered late, they always worked. Over the past four days,the rules of technical problem-solving had changed. The time variablein the problem-solving equation had virtually disappeared. The BlackHole prototype aircraft must work-now. He'd always done what he setout to do because he had the intuition, time, and resources to see thejob through. The taxpayers-those people who paid his bills-hadpatience and deep pockets, so he'd always gotten the resources heneeded to get the job done-until now.

To date, every military project for which Jackson had significantresponsibility had been considered successful.

Unknown to Wild Bill, Jackson was in over his head with this Black Holeprototype and needed time.

Lieutenant Colonel William Boyd climbed down from the catwalk to thetop of the test chamber and worked his way to the center of Jackson'spenthouse lab. Jackson had just completed a series of radar tests onhis Black Hole prototype and was poring over stacks of data when henoticed Wild Bill walk in.

After carefully studying the test results, Jackson felt doubt, anupwelling of disbelief. These results couldn't be correct.

This had never happened before, it couldn't be happening now. Hegroped for possible explanations: either there had to be somethingwrong with the test equipment or that cockpit canopy was one hell of abig problem. Then he looked up.

Wild Bill was looking at him casually, his eyes clear.

"How's she look, Jackson?"

For a moment, Jackson felt as if his jaw had suddenly fused shut. Hewas aware that Wild Bill was looking at him with something likepuzzlement in his eyes, but it didn't matter. He ordered his tongue tosay what he felt he must and almost choked on the words.

"There're always problems when you do anything for the first time, butI'll work through them." Jackson paused, handed Wild Bill a graph ofhis test data, then continued.

"You won't like these results."

Wild Bill read over the data with a puzzled expression at first. Aftera few moments, puzzlement was replaced with concern, deep concern. Thetest results read like a pilot's death warrant. Wild Bill was no radarexpert, but he didn't need to be to sort through this story.

"Are these results repeatable?"

"Yes," Jackson uttered the single word. It underlined his sense ofurgency. His eyes did not change. He blinked once and then turnedback to his test controls.

"Then there's no instrumentation error."

"Could be. I don't believe this data. It doesn't feel right.

The problem is either the test equipment or that damn gold dome." ThePlexiglas cockpit canopy of the Black Hole prototype had beenimpregnated with gold to keep radar energy out of the cockpit, but thecanopy reflected radar energy much like a curved mirror.

"Whataya plan?"

"Sea] that cockpit completely. button it up tight as a drum, cover itwith absorber and eliminate it once and for all."

"Are you serious?" Stunned, Wild Bill looked at Jackson indisbelief.

"Black it out completely?" Jackson planned to put him under the bag,have him take off, fly, and land relying totally on instruments. As atest pilot, he could do it if it was necessary, but he didn't like it.Sensitive DEW SAT radar technology combined with the physics of timeand distance dictated requirements for a stealthy aircraft which nopilot could love.

"From now on, the Black Hole flies on instruments only." Jacksonlooked at him without emotion.

"Better log some simulator time under the bag." Jackson's distinctiveNew England accent bore into the southern man's consciousness.

Wild Bill's jaw tensed, his mind focused, his nerves steeled.

"So what are my chances?"

The silence that ensued lasted almost sixty seconds.

Without emotion, Jackson scribbled some notes over his test results. Heguessed where his data would fall once the stealthy cockpit canopy hadbeen installed.

"No better than fifty-fifty." His voice was opaque, pitiless.

Wild Bill's teeth clenched together, the muscles at the back of his jawtightened into hard knots. Months ago, he had volunteered for thisassignment because he believed it important. Today, the SDI virus madethis work more important than then, but he didn't volunteer to die. Hehad stayed alive this long by keeping the odds in his favor.

Jackson continued talking, his nasal-like voice reaching back into hisconsciousness. Now his voice was talking about the probability ofdetection, the chances for error. A fascinating problem, he wassaying.

"It's my life we're talking about here," Wild Bill snarled with baffledanger. Looking at the equipment clutter scattered about the penthouse,he continued.

"This whole operation feels jury-rigged to me. You fix one problem andanother pops up."

Jackson made a sound. It was a low, primitive grunt. He paused, thenafter searching for the right words, he resumed speaking. This timehis voice was so slow that each word seemed to dangle.

"As you know, Colonel, we are caught in a desperate situation. Don'tconcern yourself needlessly. I will mask your aircraft using equipmentwhich mimics the DEW SAT radar signal. It displaces the radar returnand makes your aircraft look like a thousand moving targets."

Gesturing with his hands, Jackson's eyes gleamed as he described thisgadget. "I Wild Bill watched him with a jaundiced eye. He'd thoughtfor a long time that Jackson had some kind of weird affection for allthat damn equipment. It just wasn't natural.

"I presume you have experience with this device?" Wild Bill askedskeptically.

"We use the same device in the Phantom Hawk cruise missile." Jacksonspoke with convincing authority. He was wrong in this case, butnevertheless, he was completely confident. It was true that the radarmasking equipment was used in the Phantom Hawk. But it was also truethat the masking equipment triggered the DEW SAT burn-through mode.Jackson had' been isolated the last two days and had not read thelatest reports from Cheyenne Mountain. The DEW SAT would not allowitself to be overrun by false targets. Satisfied with his ownresponse, Jackson nodded his head in approval.

"I'd suggest you get some simulator time under the bag."

"Don't patronize me, Jackson," Wild Bill snarled.

"You do your job, I'll do mine."

Hope and Confrontation, 1211112014, 1545 Zulu, 8:45 A.M. Local

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

Mason looked across the video conference room at Hinson.

For a moment, he debated whether or not he should dealwith this personnel matter, but because of the urgency of thesituation he decided to meet it head-on. Mason planned to lop Hinsonfrom his War Room staff and ease him out of the service. He believedhis self-centered ambition had gotten him as far as he should go. Masoncalled him over to his console. He thought Hinson looked almostapprehensive as he sat down.

"We need to talk," Mason said plainly. He would talk to Hinsonface-to-face, not through another person. In addition to Hinson'sblind ambition, Mason had lingering doubts about his integrity. Whenthe chips were down, he couldn't be trusted. The man would lie lookingyou square in the eyes. The problem was to get Hinson off his staff inthe least amount of time" then quietly move him out of the service, sohe could not do any more damage.

"I want you off my staff effective immediately and out of theservice."

He spoke quietly but bluntly. His voice was a mixture of pity andhard-bitten reality. Mason paused for a moment to watch Hinson'sreactions. As usual, the wheels turned round in Hinson's head, but hisface revealed very little of what he felt inside.

"It's time you got into another line of work."

Hinson had expected this, only it came sooner than he'd planned. If hecould buy a little time, maybe a week or two to get all his transferducks lined up, he'd be history. Guys like Hinson might stumble, butthey never got hurt. They always landed feet first on top of somebodyelse.

"Sir, as you see it, what are my alternatives? I think you'd agree,this is coming rather suddenly. And the timing, this crisis.

We haven't even discussed my options."

Mason furrowed his brow and looked Hinson straight in the eyes. Asalways, his objective was to be direct.

"My immediate interest is my staff and this virus. I only work wellwith people I can trust, people who say what they think and areup-front about their motives. As far as your options, I'd like you outof the service. You know I can't bust you because you've done nothingillegal, but consider yourself notified. I plan to put you at risk.When our yearly force reduction comes next fall, you'll be gone. Makeyour plans now. I don't want you in a position where you can do anymore harm. Any questions?"

"About my-uh ... transition."

"What about it?"

"Can you give me two weeks? I'd train my replacement to ease thetransition."

Mason's knee-jerk reaction was to say no, but he held his tongue andconsidered Hinson's suggestion. After all, Hinson was competent and acapable liar. Mason knew he couldn't be trusted, but he wanted to givehim the benefit of the doubt. His head said no, his heart Aaid yes.

"You understand you are relieved of your duties' as CSOC commander asof this meeting?" Mason's voice sounded concerned.

Hinson hesitated. His reply was polite but edged with ice.

"I understand, General."

"Your single remaining responsibility here would be to train yourreplacement."

Hinson nodded.

I hope I don't live to regret this decision, Mason thought.

Hinson could be a conniving little prick.

"Very well, do what you can to bring your replacement up to speed asfast as possible. That is all." Mason stood, ending the meeting, andhoped this issue was resolved.

He felt an undefined and nagging discomfort when suddenly ColonelNapper burst into the Crow's Nest video conference room waving a faxover his head, quivering with excitement. The few men in the room whowere talking fell silent. Even those outside the conversation strainedto hear Napper.

Hinson remained impassive, but Mason leaned forward in his chair,anxious, hoping desperately for some good news.

"They've found it. Livermore's got their hands on the source code.

"They're verging on a breakthrough." His voice was heavily persuasive,but it didn't need to be. He'd said what they wanted to hear.

"All right, talk to me, Sam. Tell us what you know."

"They've found the virus source code and expect to know what makes ittick within twenty-four hours."

Colonel Napper paused, rubbing the stubble on his face.

The heavy beard he'd had since puberty was growing rapidly, but hecouldn't take the time to shave it today.

"And another thing, we wrote the virus, the United States government, Imean."

"Why the hell would we do that?" Mason asked, frustrated by a sense ofone step forward followed by one step back.

"I don't know for sure, Sir." Napper paused, and then went on, hisvoice now unconvincing.

"But as I understand it, the Army did some work on battlefield gradecomputer viruses back in the mid-nineties. As far as I know, theyshelved the idea when they found out that our equipment was moresusceptible than our enemies'. The virus Livermore found is built ofthree parts; each part was contracted separately by the Air Force,Army, and CIA."

Mason put his head facedown in his hands for a few moments, then lookedup at Napper.

"Is it possible that we brought this on ourselves?"

Colonel Napper paused. Then his voice gained confidence.

"No, Sir, the odds against this are so high it's impossible."

"All right," Mason said.

"I don't want to solve this here and now, but I want it solved beforeLivermore builds another software load. Tell Dr. Roberts to bring inany experts he needs, but retrace exactly how that virus gained entryinto our software. No matter what, we cannot ever allow this to happenagain."

"What do you make of it?" Mason invited Hinson's comments, but histone said "keep it short."

Hinson plugged back into the conversation.

"What about Shripod Addams? Any connection to LivermoreT' "Yes, it'sall in this fax," Napper replied as he handed out copies to everyone inthe video conference room.

Mason studied the document intently. His nagging discomfortreturned.

"All right, let me sum it up," Mason said.

"We don't know the organization behind the sabotage, but we've got thesource code. We should know how the virus behaves by this timetomorrow."

Napper and Hinson agreed.

"Sam, get this in the President's hands immediately, and one otherthing. Goose up our satellite surveillance, especially over thetrouble spots. Things are going to get worse before they get better. Ilearned a long time ago that the truth is a two-edged sword. It mayset you free-but it costs. It stands to reason. When the police pullout, chaos takes over-happens all the time. Somewhere, some pigheadedbarbarian is planning to exploit this situation. It has to be. Weneed to know about it before it happens." Mason clinched his teeth sohard his head throbbed, but he knew in his gut he was right.

Two-edged Sword, 1211112014, 1600 Zulu, 11:00 A.m. Local THE WHITEHOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The office he had aspired to occupy all his life seemed like theloneliest place on earth to the President. Gazing at presidentialportraits around the Oval Office, he reflected on the struggles ofthose who had occupied this office before him.

Recalling something Kennedy had said following the Bay of Pigsincident, he lamented.

"Success has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan." He hadn'tslept well, his mind raced in circles agonizing over their predicamentand what to do next. He felt good about his decision to tackle thisproblem head-on, but apprehensive about the future.

He needed a plan. In the past, he had come here seeking advice andtoday was no exception.

The President's concentration was broken when his hollow eyed nationalsecurity advisor walked into the room clutching the latest reports fromLivermore and Cheyenne Mountain.

"Pour yourself some coffee, Clive, and have a seat. Mason's comingon-line any minute." Clive Towles sat down on a small sofa facing thewall lined with video cameras and TV monitors. Before Towles hadfinished stirring his coffee, Supreme Commander Mason's pictureappeared on their TV monitor. Anxious and impatient, the President cutto the crux of the matter.

"General, I need a damn good plan that'll get us out of this mess or amiracle."

"Apparently you've got the right connections, Mr. President." Masonsmiled, but only slightly.

"Have you seen the latest from Livermore?"

The President's national security advisor interrupted before thePresident could respond.

"Here's a copy of the latest Livermore fax, Mr. President. It's stillwarm; picked it up on my way to your office."

The President read the message but seemed unimpressed.

He squinted his eyes and looked up at Slim on his video monitor.

"What does it mean in English?"

Mason summarized the Livermore findings for the President and concludedby saying,

"Livermore believes they found the virus source code. This could bethe breakthrough we've been waiting for. We'll know what we've gotwithin twenty-four hours."

"Know what?"

"Know why the virus behaves as it does and what we must do to isolateit. The source code could be the key to solving this problem. Itshould allow us to fully characterize the virus and, hopefully,eliminate it."

"What do you mean, hopefully?" the President asked impatiently.

"There are no guarantees, Mr. President. Conceivably, we may learn ofsome viral characteristics that we cannot counteract."

There was a long pause on the line, then the President spoke. Hisvoice boomed over the loudspeakers in Cheyenne Mountain.

"Don't play word games with me, General. Say what you mean clearly inEnglish. This is no time for misunderstanding." The President paused,studying the pictures of his general staff at Cheyenne Mountain. Hethen continued, deliberately slow.

"I want to ask you one question."

General Mason had a premonition of doom. He knew the question.

"General Mason, after studying this virus, could we learn there'snothing we can do? That we have no cure? That we can't end thiscrisis?"

Mason hesitated, not because he didn't know the answer, but because hewanted to see where his team stood. Napper, Sullivan, Krol, and Cravensomberly and unanimously agreed, then Mason spoke without apology.

"Yes, Mr. President, it is possible."

There was a swell of tension in the room as the President quickly cameforward in his seat. The President's eyes widened, but he decided notto press. His silence was ominous enough. The silence drew out Iuntil the President leaned back in his chair once again.

Craven felt a flash of admiration for Mason, a sense of pride combinedwith a kind of helplessness. When the chips were down, Mason would puthis career on the line every time and do what he believed was right.

General Krol handed Mason a handwritten note.

"Anything else?" the President asked.

"Yes. General Krol reminds me that he has a massive analysis effortrunning around the clock in Kaliningrad.

Progress is slow, but sure. The work is tedious. Hundreds ofscientists and engineers are reconstructing exactly what happened fromour computer logs. Once complete, we'll have a better detailed pictureof the conditions onboard Freedom. " "Good," the President said.

"Although I'm not technical, a detailed picture of what you've gotsounds damn important to me."

"It's our Freedom road map, Mr. President. We won't get there withoutit." Mason's eyes were clear, his voice sure.

"Very well, General Mason. I need a plan from you and I need it fast.I can't help you if I don't know what you need.

As it stands, I've got no visibility. I want to see what's being doneto turn this thing around. Get me a plan, one with some contingency,then together we'll follow it through."

"We're working the plan, Mr. President."

"Well then, what's our next step? What should I do to improve ourchances?"

"We have only two recommendations at this time, Mr. President. Thefirst will come as no surprise: give Livermore whatever they need.Second, goose up our satellite surveillance coverage over thethird-world hot spots." Puzzled, the President glanced across his deskat Clive Towles, who was strongly urging approval.

"I agree," Clive insisted as he spoke to Mason over video.

"We'd come to exactly the same conclusion, but we need to coordinateour coverage. Link your recon folks with ours. We've repositionedseveral Navy and CIA birds already. We need your Air Force reconsatellites to cover the holes."

Rubbing his eyes, the President added,

"I share your concern, General." His voice sounded convincing.

Mason spoke softly but with deliberate clarity. He'd learned thislesson firsthand, very early in his career.

"The truth is a two-edged sword, Mr. President. You don't tell thetruth without paying the price. We're in a desperate situation andthere'll certainly be those who'll take advantage of it."

"I agree." The President paused, then focused his thinking onceagain.

"I'd like that operations plan by tomorrow."

Mason looked to