Virus

by Bill Buchanan

  After reading it, he felt his stay at Livermore might be cut short. He never really believed his second job would I come to this—but what the hell—the money was excellent. I Merchant A. Lucky was many things to different people, I but above all else, he was a mercenary taking care of number one. He liked to think of his second job as sales— I specifically, the sale of inside information. In fact, Lucky, I was a thirty-nine-year-old spy with a goal—comfortable retirement by the age of forty. Thanks to his second job, he I just might make it. Looking beyond his greed, Lucky was a I computer security wiz—the finest mind in computer security ever employed simultaneously by both the United I States and Iraqi governments.

  Livermore Lab, like many other research and development giants, had streamlined their operations by consolidating both plant and computer security departments into a single organization. As a result, Lucky’s responsibilities I for the United States government included both Livermore I plant and computer security. He often mused that his Livermore job gave him a full body workout—security walks I around the plant grounds exercised his legs, while computer security problems constantly stretched his mind. I Oddly enough, Lucky solved some of Livermore’s most I perplexing computer security problems during his plant I walks. He found that walking—getting out of the office— I aided clear thought and helped lead to some of his most innovative solutions. As it turned out, getting out of the I office for walks around the grounds had been a big help I with his second job as well. Information sales were excellent. His overseas employer had an insatiable appetite for I source code—most notably SDI source—with no end in I sight.

  After a few moments of reflection on his shrewdly orchestrated prospects for early retirement, Lucky smiled to himself, then gazed at his screen.

  DATE: December 7, 2014

  TRANSMIT TIME: 11:56 p.m. Local, 2056

  hours Zulu RECEIVE TIME: 1:5I 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. Lucky knew what to do. He rehearsed this procedure at least once I every day. If called on to deliver, his response would be I mechanical. He’d practiced this procedure so often, the I keystrokes felt wired into his fingers. He read the message I one last time, removed it from his computer, then began his I preparation procedure.

  First, he checked his copy of PAM. No problem. Everything looked fine. He stored encrypted copies of PAM on his workstation with extra copies backed up on tape. He I smiled at the name he’d given her—mother’s_best. Next, I he checked all lab computer activity again. As before, all I was quiet. Finally, Lucky programmed his computer to automatically watch activity on every lab computer. These I procedures felt routine. He’d practiced them often enough. I While Lucky was away from work, his computer would I continue recording the activity of all other computers I within the Lawrence Livermore Lab. Lucky did all he I needed to do—for now. Returning to the flight simulator I program, Lucky thought he may have been given an early I warning of some significant problem to come.

  He was right.

  PART

  3

  THE

  CHRISTMAS

  RUSH

  DAY 2-

  DECEHBER 8, 2014

  11

  Root Cause, 12108/2014, 1600 Zulu, 9:00 A.M. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  John Sullivan, the DEWSAT tech rep from Livermore, and Colonel Hinson hurriedly walked together down a long concrete corridor deep inside Cheyenne Mountain. They were bound for their root cause meeting with Craven and his top brass.

  Sullivan and Hinson reached the locked steel blast door entrance to the War Room and began their security clearance procedures. Both punched in a code word, then had their fingerprints and retinal scans matched.

  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 what happened yesterday and you explain why it happened.”

  “The what’s easy,” Sullivan groaned. “Have the generals been told anything since they spoke to Hell Fire yesterday?”

  Hinson remembered an event which left Craven in a good 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 turned from 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 small steel corridor about the size of a freight elevator—a blast-tight transition space between the War Room and the outside world. Once the massive doors had closed and locked behind them, another steel door opened 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 where Craven’s team waited.

  Entering the Crow’s Nest, Sullivan was greeted by his boss, Colonel Sam Napper. Napper extended his hand to Sullivan and was startled to find John’s hand cold and clammy. Napper studied Sullivan’s blank expression. He recognized fear when he saw it. He’d seen it often enough 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 looking for a sacrifice, I’ll take the heat. I’ve been in spots a hell of a lot 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 began the introductions. Mason leaned forward, his bony arms stretching the full width of the steel conference table. He had anticipated Sullivan’s concern and hoped to put him at ease with his homespun Jimmy Stewart 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 his mind, but was always willing to listen. He lived his life governed by a single principle; Slim always tried to do what he believed was right. He would compromise, when his heart told him it was the right thing to do, but he always did what he believed was right. All his life, he’d wanted to be a general because he believed the job made a difference, but he’d never needed the money. He’d married into money, had everything he needed, and gave his salary back to the government. Those who’d worked for Mason felt proud to have been on his team. The mention of Slim Mason’s name was enough to bring a warm smile and kind word. Above all else, the man’s outlook on life and his integrity were inspirational. The man just made those around him feel good about themselves, about the future, about living.

  Slim Mason’s straightforward, open, and honest views had gained him the respect of his troops. He was an inspirational leader, but his views weren’t always welcomed in high political places. He’d often found truth and politics don’t mix; nevertheless, he strongly believed that technical and military leaders must live in reality—the laws of nature always prevail above public opinion.

  Trying not to smile, Mason struggled to keep a straight face, then looked seriously at John Sullivan. Putting on his most sincere Jimmy Stewart look, drawing out the words in a low seriocomic voice, Mason spoke slowly. “You’re ... not... the ... first... fella what’s . . . had bad news to tell this bunch of tarnished brass. Sam here’ll tell ya . . . we haven’t shot a messenger yet.” Mason’s eyes twinkled as he gave Sullivan a wink. Mason’s communicati
on connected. John’s gut told him Mason could be trusted.

  Mason’s neatly groomed brows and full head of silver-gray hair struck Sullivan as elegant. He’d been around Mason before, but had never taken the time to notice. Mason was thin—six foot two, about one hundred eighty pounds. His pipe-stem legs moved gracefully, yet he didn’t know what to do with them or where to put them when he sat down. The veins on the back of his thin, elegant hands stood out a little, but the man’s strength shone through his blue eyes. If you worked for Mason, or if he liked you, those blue eyes twinkled. Because he was independent and thought for himself, a few bosses, peers, and politicians had seen those eyes turn steel-blue and cold as ice.

  Thank God Mason’s no Patton, Sullivan thought, noticing Mason’s tie tack. He dressed more like a family man than a spit-and-polish general.

  Mason picked up his round hat. He always needed something to occupy his hands. “Gentlemen, I believe we all know one another here so let’s get started. Colonel Hinson will summarize the damage to our attack forces, and John Sullivan will explain what went wrong and why it happened.”

  Colonel Hinson stood behind the pulpit-sized lectern, cleared his throat, and began. “Gentlemen, I’d like to be brief and to the point. My talk contains two parts. First, I’ll explain why the XR-30 broke off Headquarters’s satellite control link yesterday and second, I’ll give you a damage report.

  “Hell Fire broke off the satellite control link because she was under fire from DEWSATs passing overhead.” Hinson noticed the group was uneasy 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 off pretty light—no one was killed or injured, minor equipment damage—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 were vaporized.”

  Mason motioned to Hinson and caught his attention. “I understood Hell Fire had some of her laser sensor panels burned off by DEWSAT fire.”

  “That’s not fact, sir, that’s speculation. Those panels were designed to burn off as Hell Fire left the atmosphere and entered low orbit. We suspect those laser sensor panels were burned off by the DEWSAT’s laser, but we can’t confirm it.

  “Finally, damage to the cruise missiles. This information has not been confirmed, but we believe it to be true. We’ll have confirmation within twenty-four hours. Our cruise missile reconstruction team found the flight recorder black boxes with the missile debris outside Edwards. They’re analyzing flight recordings as we speak, but they think the lead Jammer Hawk was damaged by the DEWSAT’s laser—it flew into the ground, then the Phantom and Hammer Hawk missiles followed. They think the DEWSAT’s laser damaged the Jammer Hawk’s navigation electronics. We caught the three missiles that made it to the Nevada Test Site in our target nets. Each missile showed laser damage—scorched and melted missile skin. Considering the extent of the damage, our missile team was surprised they made it. If there are no questions, John Sullivan’ll tell you exactly what happened and why.”

  John Sullivan stood, faced the room filled with generals, took a deep breath, and began.

  “Gentlemen, I’d like to give you the answer before we talk about the question because I think the technical details obscure our real problem. In summary, the DEWSATs did exactly what they were programmed to do. This target discrimination mode is both repeatable and predictable. No technical failure caused this problem—the lack of clear communication between people and organizations on the ground caused 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 of satellites is too big—too complex to accurately simulate and test. Our armada is so complex that it outstrips our ability to control it. We simulate pieces of the satellite network and guesstimate the rest. Keep in mind. General, that each DEWSAT is not a smart weapon—it’s a genius. Each DEWSAT examines thousands of threatening objects every day—warheads, decoys, ASATs, space mines, and rubbish. Target discrimination’s a big job, but it’s normally routine. The vast majority of TDM operations run cold. I mean they’re passive. They don’t turn up the heat. As a rule, DEWSATs simply track potentially threatening objects. Unless these objects pose an imminent threat, tracking them is sufficient.”

  “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 DEWSAT’s hot TDM operations. When both Phantom Hawks went active simultaneously, they produced hundreds of target decoys. The DEWSAT had to do something quickly or risk being saturated with false targets. Keep in mind that each DEWSAT is programmed to recognize target saturation as an imminent threat condition. Under these extraordinary conditions, DEWSATs are programmed to ferret out the decoys using laser burn-through and that’s exactly what they did. Decoys must be light to be practical. Light typically means thin and cheap. A small fraction of the power needed to destroy a booster melts a hole through a decoy and this hole produces an observable temperature anomaly.”

  Sullivan noticed that Craven looked frustrated. He collected his thoughts for a moment, then restated his point. “What I mean to say, General, is that the DEWSAT can see and detect this 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, we didn’t talk to the right people, and two, turns out the right people left Lawrence Livermore Lab three years ago. This hot target discrimination mode simply slipped through our corporate cracks. Our situation was made more complicated because Livermore didn’t develop the hardware. Lawrence Livermore programmed the DEWs—Los Alamos developed them.”

  “Sounds complicated even before you get to the details,” said Mason.

  “In my opinion, this network is by far too complicated and distributed to properly test and maintain. We don’t have any experts who understand the entire network end to end—only government contractors who make money launching payload by the pound. With all due respect, General, I don’t think we have the resources to thoroughly test and characterize this orbiting mess.”

  Craven went ballistic. “Do you have anything to add beyond your initial observation that our testing problem was due to a corporate screwup?” The veins on his forehead bulged as his face turned beet-red.

  “I have considerable supporting detail, sir.”

  “I don’t want to hear more detail,” barked Craven, his forehead wrinkled as he pounded the hard steel table. “I want this damn mess fixed and I want it fixed fast—and I mean before Christmas. We’re over two years behind schedule and I’m damn tired of excuses. Our funding’s in jeopardy and besides—what the hell am I supposed to tell the President? We screwed up because somebody quit. I can’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’t ignore his view just because it doesn’t make us look good. I agree with him. We have a quality problem with our testing operation here and we need to clean up our act.” Looking Craven squarely in the eyes, Mason lowered his voice to a whisper. His tone conveyed a pressing sense of urgency. “John’s analysis cuts to the crux of our predicament. The complexity of 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, Naper, Slim, Yuri—I want to 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 his mind. Tomorrow they were going to run this stealth missile test over again and this time they were going to do it right! “I want numbers with some stretch.”

  “The fix is reasonably straightforward, sir,” Sullivan replied nervously, his heart racing. “We’ve gotta change about a half dozen lines of software, but testing the changes takes six months.”

  “Can’t you talk to Centurion? Train him instead of programming this fix?”

  “It’s not that easy. Software in Centurion, his subordinates, and every DEWS AT needs to be modified.”

  “What’s the worst that may happen if we shortcut the testing?” Craven already knew the answer.

  “We could break something somewhere else in the system. I don’t recommend it.” Sullivan meant what he said.

  “Could we fix it now and test it later—say, later next year?” Craven put 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 to this problem and you know it. Ground-based testing is a must. We’ve learned 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 breaking any 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 for trouble if we bypass our quality controls.”

  “How long would it take to fix the problem?” asked Craven.