Satisfied, he sent his scrambled message to his printer, picked up the hard copy, deleted the message from his I computer, then rushed out the door never once thinking I about lunch.
He had one brief stop to make on his way back to work. Nothing unusual about that, he thought, noticing his gas I gauge—less than 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, Colorado
Generals Craven and Mason warily surveyed their meager cafeteria style lunch.
“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 hands trembling. They’d been running wide open for the last fourteen hours. 'Think I I’m gonna call it a day.”
“Before you go, Slim, we need a heart-to-heart.”
“Here? Now?” Mason felt reluctant to begin another high-stress discussion.
“No better time or place,” Craven replied somberly, looking Mason squarely in the eyes. “Let me level with I you, Slim, because as I see it, we’re on a collision course. I You’re missing some important data points.”
Mason agreed, but his heart wasn’t in it. Struggling to stay alert, he gulped down another Coke, his fifth or sixth I today, he couldn’t remember how many. Maybe the caffeine would give him his second wind.
“There's two things I want, Slim, and you’re about to get in the way.”
Mason sat silent.
Craven reached in his pocket and pulled out a snapshot—a picture of a stone house with twin fireplaces on a beautiful green golf course fairway.
“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 at Pebble 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 golfs biggest I fans.”
“Well, I plan to retire there come January and I’m looking to retire with 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 testing wrapped up ASAP. We prove we can track I these stealth targets and we get the money our outfit needs I to operate.” Craven paused, letting his words sink in. “If we I don’t deliver by the end of this year, our operating budget I gets slashed—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 I budget’s on the chopping block. Our operating budget’s I being held hostage pending the outcome of this testing.”
“I don’t...”
Craven interrupted again.
In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never been so abrupt. For some reason—Mason surmised chronic I stress—his boss was changing, folding under pressure, I making technical decisions for the wrong reasons. Politics—not physics—now drove Craven. Ranking politics I above the law of physics inevitably invited disaster.
“Let me finish. We need something to show. We need a win ... a victory. I want a big win, then I want to retire.” I Mason sat silent. Why open his mouth to get cut off? I “Talk to me, Slim,” ordered Craven. “Can you deliver?” I Mason rubbed his temples. He understood clearly what I Craven wanted. He’d seen this characteristic before with I outgoing commanders—the need for a final big score. I “Level with me, General. What’s your motivation?” I Craven thought for a moment. “I’ve committed my life I to this outfit. I love it more than anything else in the I world—these people—what we stand for. It’s part of me. I I won’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 I continued. “I won’t—I will not compromise our technical integrity for any reason. The laws of physics prevail over Washington’s public opinion polls without exception.” I Craven snorted, cocked his head to one side, and looked I Mason over carefully. In a somber, low, clear voice he said, I “Long as you understand where I’m coming from.”
“I’ll say what I think and I’ll do what I believe is right unless you give 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. For the first time, he felt a cool chill in Craven’s I voice.
Somehow, instinctively Mason felt this conversation marked a turning point in their relationship. He sensed I storm clouds looming heavy over their horizon. He knew I Craven was bleary-eyed and worn-out. Forever the optimist, Mason thought he could be wrong, and he hoped he I was.
Message to Baghdad, 12107/2014, 1940 Zulu, 12:40 P.M. Local
En Route To Cheyenne Mountain,
Returning From Lunch,
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Shripod Addams squinted, blocking the glare of sunlight off the snow. Driving over slush-covered roads, he knew I where he wanted to stop for gas, he passed it every day, but I he couldn’t see the road very well. He’d run out of washer I fluid and had smeared streaks of road grime across his I windshield. Any other day, running out of washer fluid I would have been a nuisance. Today, Addams believed the I smudged windshield was a sign from Allah. He must stop I for his own safety as well 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, then I slowly turned off the road, parking at the pumps for a fillup. Walking into the store, wet snow crunched under his I shoes, but he didn’t notice. While the attendant filled his car with gas and washer fluid, Addams made a brief phone call.
He walked to the pay picture phone in the back comer of the store, fed the machine three dollar bills, then dialed a I local number across town. As the picture phone rang, he I slid a gadget shaped like a cylinder over the phone’s camera lens. The gadget was a custom-made wide-angle Nikon I lens with a rubber adapter sleeve on one end and an amber-colored plastic filter on the other. The lens and filter optically distorted (optical encryption) the picture phone’s I image so that straight lines were bent and colors appeared I either black, white, or shades of gray. Looking through the I gadget, the camera saw black-and-white images as they appeared through a fish-eye lens. Overall, colors through the I filter looked brownish, much like the black-and-white pictures taken in the late 1800s using metal plates.
Addams called a computer across town which indirectly tied him into a network of computers scattered across the I United States and Europe. After attaching his scrambled I message to a Kodak photographer’s gray card, he held it in I front of the lens. The picture phone camera scanned a distorted brownish image into the computer’s database across I town. He said nothing, but the computer responded with a I detached mechanical tone. “I’ll forward your message.” I 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, he returned to Cheyenne Mountain hungry.
Addams called a computer network which would relay his message across the United States and Europe. The computer network, using standard phone lines and modems, I placed phone calls which could not be easily traced. Overall, the computer network knew how to indirectly relay a I message to Baghdad, but each computer involved along the I way only knew one small piece of the communication path.
First, the computer Addams had phoned placed a local call within Colorado Springs, which could not be traced without
a court order, to a second computer. To further I complicate matters, many local telephone calls could be I traced only while connected, and the call lasted less than I one minute. The second computer accepted Addams’ message, hung up, then made a brief long-distance call to New I York City. Subsequent calls could be traced only after obtaining separate search warrants for each leg of the trip, and I court orders took time. For additional security, the computers used in the relay network were tamperproof—they I could not be examined without destroying their encrypted I contents. The New York City computer accepted the call, I took Addams’ message, then hung up and made a local call I to another computer located in New York City. Again, the I call could not be easily traced, and this pattern repeated for I the overseas leg of the computer network link. New York’s I computer called London, England—London’s computer I hung up, then went through a local call sequence. Finally, I London called Paris, Paris called Bern, Switzerland, and I Bern’s computer called Baghdad, Iraq.
Mother’s Response, 12/0712014, 2045 Zulu, 11:45 P.M. Local
Iraqi Intelligence Service Headquarters,
Underground Bunker Beneath Residential Neighborhood,
Baghdad, Iraq
Late at night, deep inside an Iraqi underground bunker, all was quiet—business as usual. The sergeant on duty in the I crypto room had turned off most of the lights, propped his I feet up on his desk, and was dozing off. To survive working the graveyard shift, he’d learned to keep refreshed by I taking short naps.
Suddenly an earsplitting BONG ... BONG... BONG reverberated around the room.
As the incoming message indicator flashed, a bright red The Bad Seed light illuminated the crypto room. Startled, the sergeant kicked his coffee 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, almost parched. He’d never dealt with message traffic for I Mother before, but he knew enough to know this message I was hot. A few moments later, the status window on their I American-made QMS laser printer began blinking.
PROCESSING INCOMING MESSAGE/BUSY.
The sergeant pulled a list of phone numbers from his desk sorted in priority order. Mother’s number appeared on I top of the list.
Code-named Mother by Kamel’s Republican Guard, al-Mashhadi’s reputation for vengeance was well established inside the Iraqi military. He tolerated incompetence—not at I all.
Dialing al-Mashhadi’s direct line, the sergeant felt his heart pounding as 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 identified himself.
“What is it?”
“Message for Mother’s eyes only.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” Mother hung up. The phone was dead.
The sergeant felt he needed something to drink. His mouth was as dry as his sandy lawn. Walking to the vending machine, he heard the QMS printer click—an indication the message was available in hard copy. His drink I would have to wait. Rushing to the printer, he found a terse I coded message. It wasn’t obvious to him what the fuss was I about. Someone named Lawrence wanted a horse and Ad-dams wanted a raise. The sergeant placed the message in a I red folder, popped open a can of Coke, kicked his feet up, I and waited for Mother. Before he could get comfortable, I the crypto room door flew open and six armed bodyguards I burst 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 I threats—bombs, nerve agents (gas), electronic bugs, I weapons of any sort. Finally, they posted guards at the door I and spoke to someone standing outside the crypto room.
The silhouette of Mother’s large dark hulk appeared in the doorway wearing his traditional gandura robe. The I sergeant would never forget his first visit with Mother.
Although the sergeant felt apprehensive, he picked up the red message folder and walked directly to al-Mashhadi. I “Ahlan wa sahlan, ahlan wa sahlcm”—my house is your I house—a traditional Arabic salutation. The sergeant didn’t I mean what he said, but he was no fool.
“My message?” requested al-Mashhadi, holding out his large, deeply wrinkled hand.
The sergeant handed over the red folder. Looking up, he noticed Mother looked even larger in person than on TV.
Al-Mashhadi sat down as the sergeant poured him coffee. On reading the message, Mother’s large hands went limp, his coffee cup dropped to the floor. His dark eyes I which had been barely visible were as large as quarters and I bloodshot red. The sergeant thought al-Mashhadi smiled, I but he couldn’t say for sure—it happened so quickly.
DATE: December 7, 2014
TRANSMIT TIME: 12:4I P.n. Local-. 12:41 hours Zulu RECEIVE TIME: 11:45 p.m. Local-. 2045
hours Zulu Colorado Springs, Colorado: US West:
local phone number: 5294861
New York, New York: AT&T: long-distance phone number: 12127516611
New York! New York: NYNEX: local phon number: 7515620
London, England: I I I AT&T International :
long-distance phone number:
101144716822651
London, England: British Telcom: local phone number: 6824940
Paris! France: Alcatel: long-distance phone number: 01133125774400
Parisi France: Alcatel: I I I I local phone number: 5775629
Bern, Switzerland: Siemens: long-distance phone number: 01141314295329
Bern, Switzerland: Siemens: local phone number: 4296803
Baghdadi Iraq: Alcatel: long-distance phone number: 01196412309153
Baghdad! Iraq: Alcatel: local phone number: 2303465
FROM: addams I
TO: mother SUBJECT: Lawrence wants a horse-
MERRY CHRISTMAS Addams wants a raise-
network phone: (605) 691-6281
network password: ho_ho_ho network computer name: allies computer e-mail id: addams computer password: sa-ddam 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 com-
plete. Situation critical. This is no drill-
Problem: Hot TDM Operations In Progress Over Test Zone Root Cause: UNKNOWN
Solution: UNKNOWN
Objective: IPrevent loss of Hell Fire
crew.
Additional explanation will follow as technical translation becomes available-
End Of Message
Al-Mashhadi sat quietly for a few moments, studying every element of the message. He wrote a short response, I not to Addams but to someone at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. “Sergeant, e-mail this message to Merchant Lucky. It’s urgent and I need you to send it now. I Lucky’s computer is named security and his e-mail ID is I mal. All the access information you need to get into Addams’ computer is in the message you gave me tonight. Is I 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 I Iraqi military leaders would be pleased to learn that the I High Ground testing program had run into serious trouble. I “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 the door, al-Mashhadi sign
aled his bodyguards and disappeared.
His coded message read simply:
TO: security!mal FROM: mother SUBJECT: Lawrence wants a horse-
Preparation, 12/07/2014, 215I Zulu, 1:5I 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 ID—mal, sat hunched I over his computer workstation alongside an array of plant I security video monitors. All was quiet. No one was inside I Lawrence Livermore Lab except plant and computer security guards. Lucky read over a short printout summarizing I Livermore’s computer activity during the last twenty-four I hours. John Sullivan had been logged in from Cheyenne I Mountain since around midnight. Other than that, the place I was a ghost town over the weekend. That’s the reason I Lucky loved working the weekend shift.
Lucky loved computer games, and during the weekends he had the lab computers all to himself. He thought this I should be a fine afternoon for a high-speed run of his favorite flight simulator program. He was just beginning his I roll down the runway when the bell rang on his terminal. I Reluctantly, he backed off his throttles. He curled his lips I inward, knowing that bell could mean work, and he didn’t I like the thought. Maybe it would be something he could put I off. After changing windows on his terminal, a message I flashed on screen.
You have electronic mail.
All l need is something to do, Lucky thought with a grimace. Reading his message summary, his hands turned cold as ice. He was a tough, intelligent man, though, and quickly I regained his composure. He’d always known this could I happen, but this was sort of like dying—it always happened I to someone else. He’d received a message from Mother.
Lucky tried reading his mail, but the encrypted message filled his screen with random characters. Making certain he I was alone, he decrypted the e-mail message.
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