Virus

by Bill Buchanan

  Once the meeting ended, Scott allowed her eyes to glass over. She felt a relief in her soul, an exhilaration unlike anything she’d ever experienced. For the first time in a long time she believed they were going to make it. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know when, but she believed they could do it. Scott studied the expressions on Mac’s and Gonzo’s faces, looking anxiously for some sense of change. Without an exchange of words, she knew that they believed it too. Although silent, Mac and Gonzo experienced the same sense of relief and exhilaration. The immense pressure and tension had taken its toll on them all.

  Fraught with peril, their future together was inescapable, but they believed in their souls that they’d survive.

  Scott looked up into Mac’s glassy eyes. He nodded, giving her his I already know smile. She spoke slowly, her tone—final. “We’re gonna lick this thing, and when we do, we’re going to make damn sure it never happens again.”

  PART

  7

  THE DAY OF

  REVELATION

  DAY 6-

  DECEMBER 12-, 2014

  23

  The Briefing, 12/12/2014, 1500 Zulu, 8:00 AM. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  John Sullivan felt as if the weight of the world was crushing him, squeezing the very life from his body as he stood before Mason and his general staff. Thinking about his briefing, John gazed with trepidation down the length of the table in the video conference room. For the first time since the crisis began, sergeants from the Military Police stood armed and ramrod-straight by the entrances to the room. John hoped they were there to protect him. He felt he might need a military escort before his briefing was finished, but there was no reason to postpone the inevitable. The information in the Livermore Report was rock solid and inescapable.

  As John surveyed the faces in the room, time seemed to stand still. For a few moments, it all seemed like a dream. Glancing down, he was jolted back to reality by the single word on his first viewgraph. There was no possibility of awakening to something else, but he wished with all his heart that he might.

  As he distributed copies of the Livermore Report around the room, John felt nausea rising from his stomach. There was a peculiar aura surrounding the report. John felt contaminated, a kind of sickening disgust when he touched it. He believed it might describe a biblical prophecy come true, the beginning of the end of the world, and he was the chosen messenger. He found the future more unnerving now than before the Livermore Report, yet once again he stood before the general staff asking that they comprehend the unthinkable.

  Without fanfare or enthusiasm, John switched on his PC and the overhead slide projection system. His first view-graph summarized the Livermore Report in one word. The viewgraph read simply:

  INTRACTABLE

  John took a deep breath, then began. He spoke quietly, his tone was one of dismay. “Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the virus which infected Freedom has no cure. In Livermore’s opinion, the problem is intractable. We face a problem with no feasible solution.”

  Mason sat stunned, disbelieving. He did not speak. He felt helpless and wished he were somewhere else, anywhere else. His heart moaned a rueful cry, his mind wanted to surrender and let someone else take over.

  Mason surveyed Napper’s face, Krol’s, then Craven’s. They were staring at him looking like lost sheep. Their expressions read, What do we do now? The room was crammed with people and Mason suddenly became aware that everyone was staring at him. They needed someone, they needed a leader, they needed him now. He couldn’t abdicate.

  “John, we don’t fight without knowing our adversary and we don’t concede defeat without a fight.” Mason spoke in a compassionate voice. “I know your colleagues did their best, but it is not their place to judge the outcome of this war before the first battle. Perhaps there is no software solution. Be that as it may, we won’t give up until we find a solution. There must be one. We know the problem’s manmade.” He paused, sensed the pulse of his audience, and concluded they needed an encouraging message. Summarizing what he knew, he continued. “The situation may not be so bleak as it seems. Our latest on the Black Hole sounded encouraging. After two more modifications, Jack-son believes they’ll be ready. General Krol’s report from Kaliningrad is due in later today and he believes it’s significant. It could contain information about Freedom that may help us turn this situation around.”

  Mason looked around the room. Hope had returned to the eyes of his staff. He looked at John, winked, then in a deliberately relaxed and pleasant tone of voice he asked, “John, would you please brief us on the characteristics of this virus? Together, we’ll find the cure.”

  John smiled. “Very well, General.” He felt as if the burdens of the world had been lifted off his back. After culling his slides, he went on to describe the virus in detail, then presented a crisp summary at the end. “Let me conclude with what we know and what we’re missing. We don’t know the organization behind the virus. Off the record, the FBI informs me they are running out of leads. As you know, the U.S. government funded parts of the work, but we don’t know who put the pieces together. Whoever did it named the virus PAM.” John paused. After pondering her name, he looked puzzled. “I can’t tell you what it stands for. It’s probably not important anyway, but we didn’t see any good reason to change it. We know how PAM infected our software and we relearned one lesson we must never forget.” John projected a viewgraph which read simply:

  SHORTCUTS KILL

  “If we’d done the job right, we could've prevented this fiasco.” John’s tone was matter-of-fact, not accusing. He paused. His audience appeared impassive. Maybe he wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know.

  “Finally, and perhaps most important, we know exactly how the virus will behave in the future.” John changed viewgraphs and slowly read it out loud, word for word. “Mark my words, General.”

  PAM WILL NOT TOLERATE THREATS

  “And she’s predictable. Once she takes over a computer, she’ll run forever.”

  He was obviously uncomfortable with his next comment, but he was only the Livermore messenger. “Once a virgin PAM virus program starts running, she cannot be destroyed.” John cleared his throat. He’d expected some opposition from his audience, but didn’t get it. John concluded that this concept would take some time to sink in. “PAM senses her environment and, when threatened, she spreads like a cancer at the speed of light. She gives birth—she spawns copies of herself—then evacuates to the safety of another computer. PAM’s born to run and will survive at all costs. Undoubtedly, she’s spread to every computer on Freedom. PAM must be treated like a cancer, not a virus. The cure, if any is possible, requires major surgery. Every computer on Freedom must be disconnected and gutted of all permanent memory. Every trace of PAM must be purged. Obviously, Freedom must be boarded to gut each computer, but understand—PAM won’t allow anyone or anything to approach Freedom. ”

  John sighed, then spoke quietly. “In all probability, Commander Jay Fayhee and Depack McKee are dead. We don’t have hard data to prove our suspicion, but their very existence would certainly threaten PAM.”

  There was silence as John studied Mason’s expression, then the sound of a single sob. John saw Mason’s sadness to be sure, his eyes were glassy, his back to the wall. He was suffering, but he was not broken. Deep within those magnificent sad eyes of Mason’s, John saw a defiant fire burning. His humanity and spirit could not be smothered.

  “That’s all I have, sir.”

  Mason shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. There was a period of silence which followed for not more than forty seconds. “John, now that we know what we’re up against, I need Livermore to work up an operations plan that tells us three things. First, how we disconnect the booby traps sur-

  rounding Centurion. Second, how we disconnect him, and third, how we gut him.”

  Looking somewhat skeptical, John pursed his lips. “Someone must board Freedom.”

 
; “Yes.” Mason’s tone was final. From his tone, it was clear that this point was not open for discussion. Mason leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. He felt the tension building behind his eyes. “Yes, John, I understand. I don’t know how but we will board Freedom. We must.”

  The Dead Tone, 12/12/2014, 1910 Zulu, 12:10p.m. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  The conference room was silent and nearly empty as General Krol walked back to his chair at the conference table. For the past forty minutes he’d been mumbling Russian over the phone from the far back corner of the room. Mason and Napper looked up anxiously at Krol, hoping to see some facial expression which would hint as to what he was about to say. Characteristically, Krol maintained his stoic facade, but when he began speaking, his voice betrayed an overwhelming sense of relief combined with frustration. There were things he must communicate that he could not translate.

  “There’s good news and bad news from Kaliningrad.” General Krol paused, struggling with his translation, then smiled. “You know, after years of speaking English, I still think in Russian. Give me a moment to organize my thoughts. It’s important.” Krol wrote what he wanted to say on a pad of paper, then rearranged the words. He found it easier to write what he wanted to say and then read it aloud.

  Mason craned his neck but couldn’t read Krol’s handwriting upside down.

  Krol read his message with authority. “Space Station Freedom is vulnerable. Her radar is impaired.” Mason and Napper leaned forward in one simultaneous motion. “She has a cone-shaped blind spot off her red face. A radar dead zone which measures forty-five degrees wide.”

  Mason blinked his eyes in disbelief. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Yuri?”

  “Yes. Three technical teams independently reconstructed this blind spot from our best available data. As you Americans say, she’s as blind as a bat.”

  “Thank God.” He’d been given a second chance. Mason couldn’t contain his emotion. He didn’t try. His mind began to race, his heart pumped with excitement. A renewed energy charged his body. Freedom's blind spot was not the end, but it could mark the beginning of the end. Blinking his eyes clear, Mason winked at Krol.

  Krol’s stoic facade lifted before Mason’s eyes. His expression revealed a mixture of compassion and understanding. “I am happy to bring you this news, my friend.”

  Mason cleared his throat. “Yuri, does Kaliningrad have any more silver bullets for us?”

  Yuri looked puzzled. “What do you mean by silver bullets?”

  “More good news, more information.”

  “No more good news I’m afraid.” Krol paused. A genuine sadness shone through his eyes. “I am sorry, but we don’t know what happened to the crew.” He looked down and slowly read from his notes. “Unless they escaped into an airtight compartment, they are probably dead. The control room is depressurized and every airlock is open.” Mason sighed. Slowly, he accepted the inevitable. “We bury our dead but life must go on.”

  “That’s what they would want,” Krol lamented.

  Colonel Napper had been silent until now, but this seemed an opportune moment to interrupt. “What do we do next, General?”

  Mason picked up a pencil and began writing down alternatives. Suddenly, there was so much to do. Operations to plan, briefings to attend, phone calls to make, prototype aircraft to test, space stations to board, and computers to gut. The rest of his staff must be briefed, but that would happen soon enough. “Yuri, what time’s your briefing?”

  “My report’s in reproduction. Should be ready in two hours or less.”

  Mason thought through his endless list of things to do. Who made the most difference? Jackson and Scott. “Sam, I think we’re ready to call Hope. ”

  Sam depressed a key on his computer terminal labeled hope and in a few moments the very long-distance connection was completed. Gonzo answered the call, then left the camera’s field of view to gather the others.

  Gonzo looks better today, Mason observed. The dark circles under his eyes were less evident.

  On return, Gonzo entered first. Mac and Scott followed walking alongside Pasha, steadying him by his arms. His sense of balance was a little shaky. Pasha looked pale, but from the expression on his face, he was clearly happy to be there.

  Mason, Krol, and Napper looked at each other, delighted to see Pasha up and around. He was an essential part of their team—their space station expert.

  Scott spoke first. “General Krol, someone here would like a word with you.” It was Krol’s turn to display emotion although he tried to maintain his stoic facade.

  What followed was a reunion of Russian comrades—a warm, heartfelt exchange in Russian which no one could translate. They didn’t need to. Their expressions, gestures, and tone of voice conveyed understanding in any language.

  Once the conversation returned to English, General Mason spoke to Scott. When he looked at her, she saw a dread premonition. “I am deeply sorry,” she heard his voice say. “Unless Jay found refuge in an airtight compartment, he is probably dead.” The deep concern in Mason’s eyes relayed the compassion he felt for Scott.

  Scott’s expression revealed her pain. She was suffering, but she wasn’t alone. She had friends and damn good ones. Gonzo, Pasha, and Mac were pulling for her and they’d get her through. Everyone on Hope was silent for a moment.

  Suddenly, Scott banged the desk with her fist and started to sob. Gonzo reached out to her. She put her head on his shoulder and cried her heart out. Feeling like she was about to explode, a kaleidoscope of feelings tore her heart in different directions. She felt loss and rage but, above all else, she felt loneliness.

  Then as quickly as it had begun, it was finished. Scott drew strength and comfort from the warmth of Gonzo’s touch. She thought him a most unusual man, different somehow from the others. Always kind and considerate of her feelings, he’d often joked that he was her greatest fan. Scott realized she wasn’t alone. Together, they were going to make it. They had to. In a gesture of affection, Scott gently patted Gonzo on the arm, wiped off her blotchy red face, then sat herself straight and upright. She quickly regained her composure and the analytical side of her brain took over.

  “It is hard,” Mason spoke quietly.

  There was a long pause.

  “It is,” Scott replied.

  Then, Mason slowly and calmly told them what had happened. First, he summarized PAM’s characteristics, then described Freedom's blind spot, and finally he explained the status of Jackson’s Black Hole prototype aircraft. Mason concluded his explanation with a somber warning. “Assuming Jackson is successful, they’ll fracture the DEWS AT layer and we’ll launch reinforcements immediately. But if Jackson fails,” Mason paused, choosing his words succinctly, “you will be on your own.” Scott saw a look of physical pain cross Mason’s face.

  Pasha grunted as if someone had delivered a sharp blow to his stomach. This was the first he’d heard of this standalone alternative.

  Scott’s eyes now blazed with fiery resolve. Clenching her fist, she reached into the depths of her soul and quietly spoke what she believed. “We will survive.”

  There was a deep silence on the line.

  “You must.” Mason’s voice had the distinctly metallic tone of urgency. Everyone was silent for a moment.

  Mason could hardly believe what happened next. The matter-of-fact tone and atmosphere of the conversation was something like you’d experience during the huddle of a football team. A you break this way, I’ll drop back sort of tone. First, Gonzo and Scott began discussing their flight plans. They talked about flying in out of the sun, then before they were close enough to cast a shadow, they’d sideslip into that blind spot on the red face. After several minutes, with no input from anyone on the ground, the discussions onboard Hope broke up into two separate meetings. Mac fastened a large set of space station blueprints onto a large plotting table. Pasha sat by the table and began circling the danger zones with red marker. From that moment forward,
the meeting sustained a pace of its own, feeding on its own energy. One idea led to another. Mason sensed the paralyzing inertia of this virus had been overcome. He hoped and prayed that this might be their turning point. Although he knew their obstacles would be formidable, for a moment at least, he felt he could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  PART

  8

  THE GATHERING

  STORM

  DAY 7-

  DECEHBER 13, 2014

  24

  The Inevitable, 12/13/2014, 1317 Zulu, 6:17 AM. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  The video conference room was enclosed by a wall of heavy black curtains, completely dark except for the light from a single blue TV screen. With satellite photographs in hand, Napper entered the room, gently tapping Mason on the shoulder.

  “General?”

  Mason awoke more slowly than usual from a dream he hated to leave. He blinked a few times and was disappointed to find himself camped out in his conference room. Focusing on the VCR digital clock, he remembered—like most VCR clocks—it was wrong. Still groggy, he looked at Sam. “What time is it?”