Virtual Fire

by Mendy Sobol

  Jane’s, the bible of fighting machines, lists every bit of unclassified information you’d ever want to know about F-14s. They’re as big as a condo—a $38,000,000 condo. That’s partly why the Navy retired them in 2006. The only military that flies them now is the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force, old ones we sold them before the revolution when the Iranians were still our friends. Jane’s also lists the specs—from wingspan to payload, weight to radar profile. In combat all that stuff makes a difference. But when you’re out for a joyride only one thing matters—speed. And Tomcats are fucking fast.

  Multiplying g-forces pinned me to my ejection seat on takeoff as Captain Rusk wasted no time rocketing up to cruising speed. I knew there were computers on this rig, and more computers on the ground guiding it, helping the big fighter’s computers and Captain Rusk with navigation, communications, and, had we been in combat, weapons systems. And that meant code. Lots and lots of code. But who the fuck was writing it? Not me, that’s for sure. I was killing time writing payroll programs. Somewhere down there, some motherfucker was making magic!

  “Miss Kennedy.” Rusk’s voice crackled in my headset. “See that red handle between your knees?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I say eject, keep your arms and legs tucked in tight and pull that handle. If you answer ‘What?’ instead of pulling that handle, you’ll be talking to yourself. Understood?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Oh, and Miss Kennedy….”

  “Sir?”

  “I also left you a plastic bag—just in case.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I won’t be needing it.”

  I could almost feel Captain Rusk smiling, and I made up my mind right then that I’d choke to death before I’d use that fucking bag.

  I thought we might be heading for Washington and the Pentagon, thought it was really cool the way Captain Rusk kept me in suspense. Every now and then he used the intercom, pointing out some landmark—“There’s the Georgia Dome off to starboard”—never saying a word about our destination. I spotted the Washington Monument, and Rusk keyed the intercom again, saying, “We’ll be coming in low over the Potomac; prepare for landing.” That’s when I felt really smart, like I’d figured it all out. But as soon as we touched down, Captain Rusk came on again.

  “Sit tight, Miss Kennedy. We’re only refueling.”

  In less than half an hour we were airborne again, looking down on Pennsylvania’s farmland, New Jersey’s slums, and the Manhattan skyline. Other than occasional “Yes, sirs,” I hadn’t said a word the whole flight. I watched earth and sky, hardly noticing the chatter of pilots and air traffic controllers in my headset. But when I caught sight of the Statue of Liberty, I keyed the intercom, saying excitedly, stupidly, “The Statue of Liberty!” feeling less stupid when Captain Rusk, sounding just as excited, said, “Isn’t she beautiful!”

  Passing over New York Harbor, out over Long Island Sound, I’m thinking, Okay, I bet it’s the sub base at Groton. That would be great! But we continued north, then east over Rhode Island, descending slowly toward the unmistakable hook of Cape Cod.

  The intercom crackled. “There’s our destination. Otis Air Force Base.”

  Massachusetts? I thought, The Navy left in the ‘70s when they closed the Boston Shipyard!

  Rusk taxied to a stop in front of a gray tanker and an orange Geo Metro. A three-person Air Force ground crew jumped from the tanker, immediately beginning work on the Tomcat. The non-com crew chief, a tall, blonde woman whose fatigues looked freshly pressed and professionally tailored, saluted sharply, helping Captain Rusk from the cockpit, saluting again once his feet steadied on the runway.

  “Welcome to Otis, Captain. Please let me know if we may be of assistance.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Why don’t you help my backseater out of the aircraft. Then perhaps you could direct us to the head. And can you tell me where my wife is?”

  “She’s waiting inside, sir.” Then, a small smile. “Says she can’t stand watching you land.”

  Rusk smiled back. “I’ve never quite gotten the hang of dry landings,” he said. “In fact, it always amazes me how Air Force pilots make it look as easy as hitting the deck of an aircraft carrier.”

  The sergeant stiffened a little at that, started to answer, thought better of it, perhaps remembering who wore the stripes and who wore the fucking eagle.

  Maggie Rusk was waiting inside the weathered gray control tower. Approaching her husband with small, liquid steps, hugging him in a way that seemed, well, grateful. Seeing me behind him she quickly broke the embrace, taking my hand with one of her small hands beneath it and one above.

  “Oh, Miss Kennedy, it is so good to see you again. You must honor our home for dinner so we can get to know each other better!”

  “Now, Maggie, this is business. Let’s not force ourselves on Miss Kennedy.”

  “Dinner sounds great to me, Mrs. Rusk. I’m starving.”

  “Oh, that is wonderful, Melora—may I call you that?” I nodded. “And you must call me Maggie. Have you ever eaten Vietnamese food, Melora?”

  “No, Maggie, but I’d love to try it.”

  Captain Rusk, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his duffle bag from one shoulder to the other, was looking a way I’d never seen or imagined him looking—not in command.

  “Okay you two, but taps is early tonight. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Of course, dear. You come sit up front with me, Melora,” Maggie said, steering me out of the building toward the orange Metro.

  The Captain trailed behind, returning salutes every step of the way. Our duffels took up the whole trunk, his legs the entire back seat. Maggie insisted I ride up front, and I soon realized why her husband hadn’t objected—Maggie was in charge and objecting would be futile.

  After an amazing dinner of chicken, pork, and rice in silky white and spicy red sauces that made my eyes water and my nose run, Captain Rusk repeated his warning about our “big day” and headed upstairs to bed. Maggie and I stayed up talking past 3:00, me answering Maggie’s questions about growing up in Florida, Maggie answering mine about her homeland, Vietnam.

  The next thing I knew, Captain Rusk, in blue wool civilian suit, white shirt, and red silk tie, was shaking me awake.

  “C’mon, Miss Kennedy. Rise and shine.”

  “I should say goodbye to your wife, sir.”

  “Forget it. She’s asleep. And if you two start talking again, I’ll have to take both of you to Pensacola. That’ll be a tight fit in the Tomcat.”

  With the Captain behind the wheel, the Metro was a completely different machine, cruising Route 128 as serene and steady as a luxury car, acting nowhere near like the shit-box it actually was. Rusk took the Natick exit, turning in at a long driveway leading to three boxy, four-story, red brick buildings. A sign screened in simple black letters on a concrete security blockhouse inside the entrance read, IPI. The entry was open, ungated, but a plainclothes security guard stepped outside as the Metro approached.

  “Good morning, sir. It’s good seeing you again,” the guard said.

  “Likewise.”

  “May I have your credentials, please?”

  Rusk handed him two laminated cards roughly twice the size of standard Navy I.D.s. A Glock holstered beneath the guard’s blue blazer bulged into view as he reached for the cards. Studying the I.D.s carefully, he looked at Rusk, then at me.

  “Excuse me sir, but would you ask the young lady to remove her sunglasses?”

  I took them off, not waiting for Rusk to ask.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Here are your credentials, sir. Be sure to keep them on your person at all times. Please be advised that you are authorized for admission only to Building A. Your guest is also required to remain with you at all times during your visit.”

  “Even in the head?” I joked. No one laughed.

  “Please park in lot number two. I’ll phone ahead and let them know you’re on your way.”
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br />   Though I passed through security checkpoints every day at Pensacola, there was something about this one that had me sweating. Even Rusk, a Pentagon-posted captain, decorated naval aviator, and former wing commander, seemed uncomfortable. All that changed the moment we opened a pair of smoked-glass doors and entered the middle building, where a round little man with rimless glasses who looked like Popeye’s sidekick Wimpy, came running up to meet us. I half expected him to say, I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today!

  “John, it’s so good to see you,” he said, pumping Rusk’s hand up and down, Adam’s apple bobbing with the rhythm. “And this must be Miss Kennedy!” reaching for my hand, giving it the same treatment.

  “Miss Kennedy, may I introduce Professor Robert Sherman. At Annapolis, he taught me everything I know about computers.”

  “Nice meeting you, Professor.”

  “Please, please, call me Bobby. And from what John here tells me you have much to teach us, Miss Kennedy!”

  There it was again. Like the first time Maggie met me and told me she’d heard I was a genius. But this time I wasn’t quite so floored. After three years working with other programmers, I knew I was good. Still, this guy Sherman was a professor! So I figured he was blowing me some rainbows.

  “Thanks, Bobby. Call me Melora. And you’re the teacher, so where do we start?”

  Bobby’s face lit up like the 4th of July. “Right this way, Melora!”

  He led us to a polished brass door and stuck his I.D. into a reader. The door slid silently open. Four feet inside was another door, this one made of dull, flat-finish steel. The brass door closed behind us, and a dim red light came on. I couldn’t hear a sound from behind either door. Bobby stepped to the side and put one eye against a raised peephole next to the steel door. There was a green flash, and Bobby made a startled little jump. I’m pretty sure I did, too. The door slid open, and we stepped into another world.

  It’s weird, but the first thing I noticed was the air conditioning. In Florida that was just a name for noisy machines that made the indoors freezing cold. But here, the air felt conditioned. It had a cool, silky quality, like it was the best air that could ever be. It wasn’t cold, but it gave me goose bumps.

  The next thing I noticed was the lighting. Like the air, it was soothing. I could hear a faint, steady hum, but when I looked out across the room, I realized it wasn’t the whir of the AC or the buzz of fluorescent lights. It was the sound of big, mainframe computers, dozens of them behind a glass wall that stretched the length of a football field.

  “Holy sh….” I caught Captain Rusk’s look out of the corner of my eye. “Uh, I mean, WOW!”

  “Wow indeed, Melora!” Bobby said. “You are looking at the largest networked array of IPI 6000 computers, with the most memory, power, and fastest speeds anywhere on earth. The Russians don’t have anything like it, and neither do the Chinese. No one does. The programs you were using in Pensacola—the ones you kept improving—they were all created on these machines. And that’s a tiny percent of what we do with them. Let’s head upstairs where you can see more of IPI and meet the people who work with these modern wonders!”

  We didn’t see that much of IPI, because looking over the programmers’ shoulders took up all of our time. What I did see changed my life forever. The fastest, most powerful computers imaginable, and the smartest programmers and smartest programs I’d ever seen. I always thought the Defense Department’s hidden programming, its real programming, the kind of stuff I’d imagined on the Tomcat, happened at the Pentagon. I was wrong. Guidance systems, global navigation, weapons control, electronic intelligence gathering—all of it was happening at IPI. And Bobby kept hinting about something way bigger.

  “I can’t say much, but our top programmers are working on a project that will revolutionize the way military operations are conducted, something we couldn’t dream of without the computing power—and brainpower—we’ve assembled here at IPI!”

  While many of the programmers I met were veterans, everyone at IPI was a civilian. Some worked with screens, some with visors. A few jacked directly into keyboards using some kind of implant behind each ear, connected by thin plastic threads pulsing with light. And the amazing thing was, while their screens flickered with lightning-fast strings of code, they never touched the keyboards.

  Bobby introduced me to one of the supervisors, a no-necked former marine named Ted. I asked him about the shiny, round steel plate above his ear, visible under the stubble of his GI buzz-cut.

  “We program the computers to recognize and respond to neural commands activated by a programmer’s subvocalizations. One end of the interface connects here…” Ted reached behind his ear and touched the implant, “…and the other end goes into a keyboard. The keyboard’s for backup. That keeps the bosses happy, but frankly, we never use them. The business end of the connection is here.” Ted rolled up his sleeve. Tattooed on his bicep was a toothy, spike-collared, fiercely-grinning, muscle-bound bulldog with sergeant’s stripes on one foreleg and a drill instructors hat angled between its ears. I’d seen plenty of USMC bulldog tattoos before—shit, I’d done a few—but I’d never seen a tattoo like this one. Shiny, flickering, iridescent, electric. Alive. It looked more like it had been forged from strips of hot platinum and gold than drawn with needle and ink.

  Ted saw the look on my face and smiled. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said, “it didn’t hurt. Much.”

  I wanted to take my pants off and show him the ink aquarium circling my legs, but this didn’t seem like the time.

  “What’s it do?” I said. “I mean besides prove that marines are jealous of Navy tattoos?”

  Bobby and Captain Rusk looked like they were holding their breath, but Ted laughed.

  “They’re called subdermal semiconductors. Our implants talk to our tats, and our tats talk to the 6000s. It sounds tricky, but it helps our cybergrammers work up to a hundred times faster than our other programmers. And Marine cybergrammers? We get to leave work early, because we’re done about a thousand times faster than anyone.”

  “At least that’s what your girlfriends say.”

  “Well, ma’am,” Ted said, while Bobby covered a cough with his hand and Captain Rusk pretended to look real interested in a nearby computer screen, “I can see you’d fit right in here at IPI.”

  In that moment, I knew I wanted to be a cybergrammer more than anything in the world. And Ted knew it too.

  On the way out I asked Bobby, “How come you’re not wired?” He was way too bald to be hiding an implant under his hair the way some cybergrammers did.

  “Oh, that’s for young people like you, Melora. Cybergramming is far too stressful for an old man like me. I’m still using a keyboard if you can imagine that!”

  We stared at him.

  “What? Did I say something?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Rusk said. “It’s just that in the Navy, everyone uses keyboards.”

  “I didn’t realize... I mean, I guess I’ve really let myself get out of touch since I retired from teaching and joined IPI. I really miss teaching.”

  Looking at his watch, looking nervous, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one hand, a few strands of graying hair off his forehead with the other, Bobby began leading us back to the main entrance.

  “They only allow three hours for visitors. Can you join my wife Ellen and me for dinner this evening?”

  “Sorry, Professor Sherman. We’d love to, but Miss Kennedy’s overdue in Pensacola, and I’m expected in Washington, ASAP.”

  Shaking our hands, still looking uncomfortable, Bobby said his goodbyes as we reached the smoked-glass doors.

  “I am so looking forward to working with both of you!”

  On the drive to Otis we were quiet for a while. Captain Rusk spoke first, and for the first time he didn’t sound like a captain.

  “You must have a lot of questions, Melora, and I appreciate your patience with all this...” taking one hand off the wheel, wav
ing it in a circle, “…mysteriousness. I’m sure you appreciate the necessity for complete confidentiality about the last twenty-four hours and everything you witnessed at IPI.”

  “Yes sir. But Captain…”

  “Yes?”

  “…why did Professor Sherman quit teaching?”

  With that his grip on the wheel tightened.

  “Let’s just say IPI made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  “Are they making us an offer we can’t refuse?”

  Captain Rusk didn’t say anything for a long time.

  “The Navy’s my life, Melora, but I’ve gone as far as I can go. My first love was fighter planes, but after Vietnam they kicked me upstairs to a desk job. I got a second chance in Iraq and Afghanistan, but I spent most of those wars watching younger guys catapult off the Eisenhower’s deck. My second love became computers. But admirals aren’t programmers. Besides, Uncle Sam realizes washed-up fighter jocks and would-be computer geeks make for lousy admiral material. No, Melora, I’m retiring at the end of next year, and the only place I can keep doing what I love is IPI. As for you, the answer’s simple. Please don’t take offense at this, but we both know you’ll never be much of a sailor. We also know you’re the best programmer anyone’s ever seen. From the day Mrs. Oyeda first showed me your work at John Paul Jones, you’ve been slated for a job at IPI. Because you dropped out of high school, and college was out of the question, your only way into IPI was through the Navy. So, I’m admitting to you that I manipulated your life. I’m also hoping you’re not angry about it.”

  I didn’t feel angry, shook my head, letting him know.

  “You’re sick of the grunt work at Pensacola and I don’t blame you. Asking you to write payroll programs is like asking Picasso to paint outhouses. I could transfer you to Norfolk or Bremerton or D.C., but you’d end up doing the same kind of work. I kept you at Pensacola so you could be near your family, and near the beach.”