12:30 P.M. Local
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
From their video conference room, Craven, Sullivan, Krol, and Mason watched an array of TV screens showing pictures from inside the Oval Office. Seated around the Oval Office were the President, his national security advisor, and Craven’s boss, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Mason noticed that Sullivan’s complexion appeared ashen, then he remembered his own first meeting with the President. “John,” he said quietly, “don’t be intimidated by the big shots—-just say what you think.” Then he remembered Midway and his stomach turned over. Should take my own advice!
“Hello, Headquarters.” The President poured himself coffee, sat down behind his desk, and checked his 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 eleven people are confirmed dead as a result. In addition, one man is seriously injured on Hope and we’re unable to contact Freedom."
Spilling his coffee, the President sat for a moment, stunned in disbelief. “Eleven dead?”
“Yes, and two remain unaccounted for.”
After the shock wore off, the President’s expression changed to anger. Bolting from his chair, he turned toward his national security advisor, Clive Towles. “You said ninety-nine percent operational—testing wrapped up by Christmas.”
“This problem occurred within the last six hours,” Towles explained in a strained voice.
“So what happened?” demanded the President, slamming his fist down on his desk.
“Software sabotage.” Mason paused. “A computer virus the likes of which we’ve never seen.” This should never have happened, we knew better—buckled under pressure, got in a hurry, and blew it.
“How?”
“This was an inside job, Mr. President—well organized and professional—nothing was left to chance.” General Mason summarized the situation in less than five minutes as he watched the President pace the 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 warheads and in addition, we’ve destroyed over two hundred ASATs.”
“That is correct, Mr. President.” Mason spoke clearly in a quiet voice.
“Is there danger from radiation?”
“No, Mr. President. There is not.”
For a brief moment, the President looked relieved, but that quickly transitioned into a form of restrained rage. “So we killed eleven people, interrupted communications around the world, and destroyed every ASAT in orbit because of some damn program bug?” Infuriated, the wildeyed President blasted Mason with both barrels. “You’re telling me you don’t know exactly how many people are dead, who’s responsible, or how it happened? Senseless death and for what?”
Both ends of the conference call went silent as the ruddyfaced Irish President vented high-powered frustration. Mason thought he might go ballistic, but after a few long minutes, the President backed off and adopted an intellectual guise. The President walked over to the thick glass window and looked out onto the snow-covered lawn. Touching the frost-covered window, he felt the cold radiate through the swollen joints of his fingers. Almost immediately, his hand began aching from arthritis. His senses confirmed he was awake—his nightmare was real.
“Time,” the President said after some reflection. “We’re going to need some time.” Turing toward Clive Towles, he ordered: “Cancel my appointments for the afternoon. Give the reason as a crisis with my cabinet staff—the sudden resignation of a highly placed government official.” He smiled, but only slightly. Returning to his seat, he pulled up the low table, propped his feet up, and tried to relax. “For now, limit our discussion to damage control—plans to return the status 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 of the video camera and spoke in a low controlled voice. “We believe SDI operational. We’ve proven High Ground counterstealth technology works. We ran hostile missile threat tests after this infection and the system worked. Our DEWSATs are brilliant-class standalone weapon systems. They know what to do. Any missiles that threaten the Allies, our DEWSATs’1I take out, so there’s no cause for panic. 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 be delayed until we put this problem behind us, but like all technical problems, in time, we will solve it. We’re testing now, but from what we’ve seen so far, the armada reacts like it did before the virus.”
“That’s true, sir, but only to a point,” John Sullivan added cautiously. “Our situation could degenerate anytime. We don’t know the DEWSATs operating rules of engagement”
“Rules?” The President leaned forward. “John, tell me more.”
“DEWSATs track, identify, and destroy targets based on a programmed book of operating rules. They’re brilliant-class weapons and networked together, they operate as a team. Like people, they talk among themselves and help each other out, but they operate based on programmed rules of combat etiquette. I think this virus may have changed the rule book. If I’d written this virus, I would’ve changed it.” “How?” asked the President. “Knowing what you know, what would you have done?”
“I’d add AI (Artificial Intelligence),” Sullivan replied confidently. Rule-based systems were his technical passion. “A combination of all the original rules plus AI. That way the armada would 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 him finish!”
Craven cringed, but reluctantly agreed.
“I’d add AI and let each DEWSAT learn from experience—within limits of course. Target recognition’s a good example—learning new threats. I’d allow the DEWSAT to train on new targets and learn to recognize them. Once a DEWSAT 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 not conclusive 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 only assets we have in place that can help us. They’re isolated on Hope, completely cut off, and there is nothing we can do about it. If they moved on Freedom today, they’d have no chance of success, but with time and Livermore’s help, their chances will improve.
“Look at what’s happened. Every threat to the armada has been eliminated. As you know, we cannot penetrate the DEWSAT layer. We can’t punch a hole through it—we’ve proven that. It’s a missile shield and it works.
“Assume our space station crews did what they were trained to do. They’re resourceful people—handpicked for the job. They would have switched armada control to Hope if they could have, but I think this virus tried to kill them. It wiped out Hope's crew—probably Freedom's, too.”
Mason took a deep breath, let his point sink in, then continued. “If we assume Freedom's crew is dead, then this battlefield grade virus controls both Freedom and our armada. It’s suicide to send Hope reinforcements. We can’t break through our armada, and Freedom is a
fortress—unapproachable. Mr. President, I believe we have a virus running the DEWSAT armada and there may be very little we can do about it. Our alternatives are limited to a precious few.”
“Talk alternatives,” ordered the President. He didn’t like what he’d heard and didn’t want to believe it.
“As you said, Mr. President, we need time. Time to characterize and simulate this virus, time to understand how it behaves. Once we understand it, we’ll have a better chance of predicting what it’ll do when 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 working round 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 battlefield grade—like nothing we’ve ever seen.”
The President, the chairman, and Towles shot out of their seats like they’d been wired.
The President’s intellectual cover was blown and the ruddy-faced fighting Irishman emerged. “We don’t have a bloody month! We’ve got a crisis on our hands demanding action now!”
“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 approach to the press wasn’t new, but in this case, it might limit several promising political careers. “There must be a better way.”
For the second time, Craven moved directly in front of the video camera. “Mr. President, I propose we make our move now and draw this crisis to a close. As General Mason said earlier, we disagree on this point. I believe we can restore armada control within twenty-four hours. We can turn this situation around using assets we have in place today.”
The President returned to his chair, obviously not convinced. At what risk? 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 the status quo.” Craven’s confidence didn’t sway the group in the Crow’s Nest or Oval Office. “Then we’ll isolate and characterize this virus with Freedom off-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 have died trying.”
“No better than one in ten. Hope can’t take over if Freedom won’t release control, but if it works, we’ll have our armada back. If not, I propose we storm Freedom. We have military options. We should use them.
“We’ll blast a hole through the DEWSAT layer, move assault troops to Hope, then storm Freedom. A three-phase operation—break out, regroup, and charge.
“Our opportunity is now! We must take the offensive while we have the chance. This is a job for our military professionals, not engineering technocrats who’ll study this problem to death. In my profession, there’s absolutely no substitute for command experience. Commanders must take risks to win and those who don’t—die.”
“I thought the DEWSAT 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 penetrate the DEWSAT armada and that’s true. It’s also true that we would not allow ourselves to be held hostage by our own satellite weapons. We’ll concentrate our efforts at the weakest region of the DEWSAT layer and punch through it. Knock out a few DEWSATs and open up the hole we need.”
“What’s your objection?” the chairman asked, speaking to General Mason. “I agree with Craven. We wouldn’t allow ourselves to be boxed into a corner without some way out.”
“We don’t know what this virus will do or how it’ll react. It could turn on us—it leveled Arecibo. Our intelligence about this virus is only beginning to take shape. We need—we must have time.”
Craven spoke next. “If our frontal assault on the DEWSAT layer fails, we have a second option—MIT’s Black Hole project. They’ve developed an experimental airplane and ASAT that our DEWSATs can’t detect.”
“That program’s experimental—still in the lab,” Mason remarked. High Ground’s already obsolete, he thought. We stay ahead, but the race never 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 some weakness.”
After an extended period of discussion around the Oval Office, the President asked General Craven, “What do you propose?”
“Storm Freedom'.” After collecting his thoughts, he offered Mason an olive branch. “In addition, I propose we study the virus as General Mason recommended, 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 better than doing nothing. You learn as you go and, if necessary, you change directions.”
Speaking directly to General Craven, he said: “If your attempt to transfer armada control to Hope fails, storm Freedom. Keep me informed, and may God help us.”
In Washington, the chairman disconnected the video link to Cheyenne Mountain. After his TV screen went blank, the President continued the meeting. “Towles, find out who and what caused this blood mess—your job is to make sure it never happens again. If the system’s broken, fix it. If we’ve got a people problem, I want to know about it!”
The Barbarian Who Wouldn’t Die, 12/10/2014, 2335 Zulu,
2:35 a.m. Local
Saddam Hussein’s Winter Home,
West Bank Overlooking the Tigris River,
South of Baghdad, Iraq
Iraqi President Hessian Kamel al-Tikriti knew the drive to his father-in-law’s winter retirement home better than the streets around his own neighborhood. He and his wife made this trip often, not so much out of love for the old man, but because Saddam Hussein demanded it. Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti was enshrined as a national Iraqi treasure, and national treasures always received the Iraqi President’s attention.
But tonight’s family visit was different. This visit was President Kamel’s idea and would come as a complete surprise to Saddam Hussein. Unannounced, Kamel and his wife were driven through the security gates leading to Saddam’s large estate just after 2:30 a.m.
They waited for Saddam in his river room, an enormous brilliant white room with plush fluorescent orange chairs lining three walls. A bulletproof picture window overlooking the river dominated the fourth wall, and the center of 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, anxiously waiting to see her father. In her hand, she held a piece of paper—a piece of paper that would not wait till tomorrow.
Kamel allowed himself a smile. He had no affection whatsoever for the old man—it was hard to respect the brutal tribe chieftain, but not so hard to fear him.
Saddam Hussein didn’t keep Kamel and his daughter waiting long.
A bodyguard for the Iraqi regime rolled Saddam’s wheelchair into the river 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 of the barbarian in Saddam’s expression. His face looked deeply wrinkled, like an old weathered shoe, but his black eyes revealed a caustic hatred still smoldering in his soul.
Saddam’s old carcass was failing him, his health wasn’t what it once was, but his mind remained sharp and alert. He’d been seriously ill for
several years, which had taken a toll on his appearance, but the old man wouldn’t die. The Kurds couldn’t kill him, the Allies couldn’t kill him, and he’d survived two battles with cancer. Only in his seventies, he looked thin and frail, like a man well over ninety. No one had expected he’d live this long.
He rose from the wheelchair, trying to stand erect, then walked toward his daughter with a slow, shuffling gait. Bending forward almost immediately, a little shaky on his feet, the fragile skeleton of a man looked on the face of his daughter and saw a mirror 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. Iraqi President Kamel slid three chairs over to the picture window and they sat down. Kamel thought Saddam sincere, but he dared not let his guard down—not around this old man.
Kamel nodded to his wife, then she handed her father the paper dated Tuesday, December 9, 2014.
Parkinson’s disease forced a slight tremor in Saddam’s hands. He had trouble holding it still, but the newspaper type was large and he could read it.
During the minutes which followed, Saddam’s daughter saw her father for the barbarian he was.
BATTLEFIELD GRADE COMPUTER
VIRUS INFECTS STAR WARS
Star Wars, the Allied satellite based missile defense system, lay crippled today as a result of a rogue program which slowed down computers by replicating itself time and time again. Early damage control reports conflict. Cheyenne Mountain has acknowledged loss of satellite weapon control, but believes systems will return to normal within 24 hours. Scientists at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory are not as optimistic.
“It may be impossible to isolate this virus in the near future," reported Dr. Tristan Roberts, President of Information Sciences at Livermore, 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 a code cancer than a virus.
Virus Page 18