It presented the world in regular Mercator projection, with hostile territories shown in red, U.S. in blue, its assortment of allies, in varying shades of beige through burnet brown, depending on the assigned level of dependability, and the remaining neutrals in gray. Principal targets were indicated by icons according to category, along with ground launch bases and the present positions of submarines, bombers, and orbiting attack satellites. The display's design was the work of Eissensatt's people. He looked toward Orst invitingly as a side panel added itself, providing a legend of icon identifiers and symbol descriptions.
"It needs more numbers," Orst murmured in answer to the unvoiced question.
"We've been upgrading it," Eissensatt told him. "Wait." Even as he spoke, new lines began appearing, superposed on the general display.
S2/5C, 8 x 2 Megatons, Coordinate cluster 6, ETT 22 min, 30 sec
Success prob'y 88%; α/φ = 2.76; Δτ0 = 27; (θA/θB - γ) = 0.25; Status = Green 3
Orst nodded happily and was about to express approval, when the unrolling data froze suddenly, and the map behind dimmed. Eissensatt's expression just had time to change from a satisfied smile to a frown before the entire display blanked out, to be replaced by a blue background and the message:
THIS PROGRAM HAS PERFORMED AN ILLEGAL OPERATION AND WILL SHUT DOWN. ERROR ANALYSIS NOT AVAILABLE. PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE.
President Byrne blinked and looked at General Craig. Craig mustered his most demanding glare and turned to General Filbert. Filbert spread his hands. "I don't know, sir. It's totally irregular. Nothing like this has ever..." He looked helplessly across toward the Fire Control Commander, who was already snarling instructions at a technician manning a monitor console below and in front of him. Eissensatt hurried across, followed by Orst.
"Forget that. Revert to direct manual override." The FCC's voice came from above. The technician hammered in a command string, which elicited on his screen the response:
PROGRAM NOT RESPONDING
and buttons for the options:
END TASK SHUT DOWN TRY AGAIN
Byrne and his entourage arrived as a medley of bemused expressions and angry scowls. "What in hell's going on?" the President demanded. The FCC could only shake his head as his gaze darted over the console displays, looking for clues. Nothing in the exercises and operation manuals had prepared anyone for this. Beside him, the Operations supervisor was tapping in befuddlement at a keyboard beneath a screen reading:
Page Not Found. Try clicking Refresh or select one of the following options...
"Get whoever's in charge of IT," Craig snapped. His neck and brow were turning purple. The FCC hesitated, not seeming sure who that would be.
"Try Sigmund Velorski at the Pentagon," Eissensatt suggested.
The FCC nodded to the Operations supervisor. "Use Priority Channel Red." Above the War Room floor, the main Situation Display had reverted to showing wallpaper consisting of bouncing smiley faces. Somewhere in the background a phone started ringing. An Air Force officer picked it up and answered in muffled tones behind a raised hand.
The Operations supervisor looked up with the uncomprehending expression of a human cannonball watching the net slide blithely by below. "It says, Invalid Password. Request Denied."
Byrne jerked his head impatiently from side to side. "What is all this shit?"
"This is ridiculous!" General Craig blared. "Somebody get him on the phone. Put it on speaker. I'll talk to him myself."
General Filbert accepted a handset proffered by an aide and thumbed the number that was highlighted. A ringing tone sounded from the speaker, followed by, "We're sorry, but the person you are calling is not available just now to take your call. If you would like to—"
General Craig snatched the phone savagely and cut the connection. "What's their main number?" he yelled. Filbert obtained it from an aide.
"If this is for a military operational matter, press One. For matters of national domestic security, press Two. For all other—" Craig cut the call again and stood gaping at the room, evidently at a loss for how to continue.
Orst stepped forward, took the phone from Craig's unresisting fingers, and looked inquiringly at Byrne. "If I might suggest, Mr. President, I recall there was someone with the main systems integration contractor who seemed to have a good grasp of just about everything. Multimex—in Maryland, not far from here. A young man called Sullivan, I think it was."
Byrne nodded numbly. "Why not? Anyone who can make some kind of sense out of anything. It's not as if things could get any crazier."
Orst copied the phone to one of the console displays and got through to the company. The operator who answered said that Alex Sullivan's line was busy right now, but she would put the call through to that department. A bearded, bespectacled youth in a baggy sweater that gave him somewhat studentish look appeared on the screen and announced himself as the "Support Desk." Was Orst calling to report trouble with a Multimex system? Orst confirmed that he was.
"Have you checked that the machine is plugged in?"
"What?... Well, yes, of course it is."
"Which operating system and version are you using?"
Orst was momentarily too disoriented to give a coherent answer. "Which...? I really don't know. That isn't what I do. Look, I can assure you that the problem is nothing of that nature. My questions have to do with the applications that your company installed and integrated."
"Do you have a support contract? If not I may have to charge at a rate of sixty dollars an hour. Would that be okay?"
General Craig exploded. "Gimme that goddam phone!... You look here, Mister whatever your name is. See this uniform I'm wearing? Do you know what these medals mean? You are talking to the highest level of the United States government. The President himself is here with me, and this call concerns topmost matters of national security. Now if you don't know your own ass from a hole in the ground and can't help, then get somebody on the line who can. Is that clear enough? I mean now! Immediate! This moment!"
If the youth was impressed, it failed to show in the view coming through on the screen. He glanced away for a moment , then came back without missing a beat. "Oh, I think you were asking for Alex Sullivan," he said. "It looks as if he's free now. I'll put you through."
The new face that appeared was of a man perhaps in his early thirties. He had sandy colored hair, cut conventionally in a shaggy but neat and easy style, the suggestion of casualness enhanced by the three-day matching growth of beard softening his features, which were lean and angular, framing a narrow nose and chin. His eyes were sharp, with creases at the corners hinting at a mirthful bent. The part of his upper body that was visible showed a dove gray jacket and navy shirt worn with a tie sporting a silver and blue abstract design.
Craig squared up to face the screen directly. "Are you the person in charge of whatever goes on there?"
"My name is Alex Sullivan. I'm the Technical Development Director."
"General Elmer Craig, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the United States Military."
"Yes, I recognize you from media pictures." The general's glare, which had never failed to command and intimidate, drew an affable smile that seemed to form naturally. "What can I do for you, General?"
"I take it you're aware that the government uses some highly complex and extremely sensitive computer systems that were put together by your company? Specifically, I'm talking about a system that goes by the code designation Symphony. It cost four billion dollars."
Sullivan nodded. "Yes, the strategic launch command sequencing and control network. In fact, I was responsible for coordinating a large part of it."
Consternation was breaking out among the presidential and Pentagon staff. General Filbert appealed to Craig. "Sir, this is an open line! We need to switch to a secure circuit."
Craig nodded. "Do it." As an operator intervened to make the adjustment, the general glanced back at the President, who was looking lost and as if trying to appear in charge at t
he same time. "Well, at least we seem to be onto the right guy."
The reconnection was made, and Sullivan reappeared. While Craig launched into a diatribe of woes and threats, Eissensatt moved closer to where Orst was standing. "You know what this is?" he said, keeping his voice low. Orst lifted his chin and eyebrows. "For years I have been telling everyone how stupid is was to use the Chinese for procurement. They tempted us with low prices because they knew we never see anything beyond a bottom line, and we walked right into it. We let them supply everything—hardware, maintenance, training... Even many of the software contracts!"
"What are you getting at?" Orst was only half listening. He was wondering why simulations and testing hadn't picked up these faults long ago.
"They built it all in!" Eissensatt whispered. He gestured to indicate the screens, consoles, and electronics cubicles all around them. "Can't you see what is happening? The Chinese buried special functions in their chips, that they could activate remotely. It is they who are doing this. It's a Trojan horse!"
Orst registered what he was saying, finally, and stared at him incredulously. It was preposterous, of course. Yet it had to be! What else could explain why all the testing had detected nothing?
"But it gets far worse," Essensatt went on. "Don't you see?"
"What?" Orst found his voice but was still too much in shock to fully think the implication through.
"They know!" Eissensatt moaned. "Do you think they'd sneak something like that into our launch system without making it capable of reporting back to them?"
Orst gulped. "You mean they've got Spyware in there too?"
"Of course, Spyware! So it means they know we've attempted to launch. And what do you think that means? Do you think they'll just sit there?"
Engineers and programmers had crowded around a nearby console, and were taking turns to try various stratagems and offer advice. The one currently in the operator's chair sat back and threw up his hands. "I give up. It doesn't like anything I tell it. No version of anything is compatible with anything else."
Orst looked back bleakly to where the President and his group of senior officials had moved closer behind General Craig. Sullivan was speaking from the screen.
"It appears that the project manager quit and didn't update his documentation. It will probably take some time to figure out what the programmer was trying to do, I'm afraid."
Craig's color deepened. "Didn't update the documents? What kind of main contractor do you call yourselves? Four billion dollars! Don't you have anyone there who knows how to manage supervision?"
"Er, with respect, General, it appears to have been one of your own supervising officers assigned from the Pentagon."
"Hmph."
General Filbert interceded to rescue the situation. "I think I know who he means. I might be able to trace him and get a cell phone number. Craig nodded mutely in a way that said they might as well try exorcism if there was a chance it might do any good.
President Byrne stood in the middle of it all, looking dazed. "I don't believe this," he mumbled to Vice President Halle. "The mightiest war machine that the world has ever seen. And we can't do a thing with it because of a bunch of..." he broke off, seeing that Orst was trying to get his attention. "What?"
"Mr. President, there is a further ramification that doesn't seem to have been considered," Orst said gravely. "Since it's not functioning, it can no longer be considered the mightiest anything. So how long do we have before the sky turns black with incoming enemy hardware?"
The color drained from Burton's face, while the others around who were within earshot froze. "Holy shit," somebody whispered.
Burton almost choked. "My God! We're wide open. There's nothing to stop them!"
"Exactly," Orst agreed.
And now they would probably never find out if the neutrino bomb would have been feasible. It was all very upsetting.
* * *
The Chinese underground War Room, twenty-five miles in an undisclosed direction from Beijing, was a disaster area of crashed computers and stalled programs when Tsien-Tsu was led in after being rushed across from the adjacent Defense Ministry building and given special emergency clearance to be admitted. The senior of the two officers who had been sent to fetch her—polite enough, but oddly robotic in the way the military conditioning tends to instill—indicated for her to wait, then moved to stand respectfully behind a gray-haired, heavy-set man in a dark suit, whom Tsien knew from her work to be Xen Lu Jiang, principal scientific advisor to the National Security Cabinet.
"So why isn't the sky already black with incoming American warheads?" Xen was saying, vainly trying to gain the attention of a stern, heavy-joweled figure in a field marshal's uniform, who had to be the Chief of Staff, Yao Ziaping. Technicians scurried among the cabinets and consoles, while on every side engineers and supervisors babbled into handsets, with more phones ringing and lights flashing incessantly. Above it all, the huge mural panel that was supposed to have presented a blow-by-blow portrayal of the end of America was displaying a series of pop-up ads for magazine subscriptions, adult web sites, and software products that nobody, apparently, had found a way to stop.
"What do you mean, the Submarine Launch Designator isn't a recognized system device?" Ziaping screamed at a man in a blue tunic, cringing behind a desk on which stood a name plate bearing the words Command Director.
The director showed his hands helplessly. "That's what it's saying."
"Restart the command executive," an engineer in white shirtsleeves said from where he was standing behind a console operator wading through what looked like a labyrinth of Disk Copying Error and File Not Found error messages.
"We've already tried. It says the User Name is invalid."
"This is insane!" Ziaping wheeled upon a general behind him, wearing a lapel badge with the name Piao, who was watching anxiously over the shoulder of another operator. "Haven't you managed to raise that Head Designer yet?"
"We're still trying, sir," Piao replied. "But we keep getting connected to some kind of help desk in India."
Hao-Li Neng, the Chinese premier, was standing amid a gaggle of military staff officers and civilian high officials, looking bewildered. Even though she had been expecting it, Tsien found herself mildly awed to find herself in such a presence. The doctor of philosophy who had made such an impression on her at university in his discourses on reason and imperviousness of reality to human passions, and the political science professor who had held off-campus debates at his home in which students debated things like a social order based on individual freedom and merit, would probably have scoffed at such acquiescence to tradition. But reactions cultivated through years of cultural exposure and social pressures couldn't be forgotten entirely. Tsien enjoyed meeting visitors from the West. Life there sounded interestingly different in many ways—challenging and stimulating in some; uncertain and insecure in others. She hoped to live there one day. The experience would be an invaluable complement to the form of upbringing she had known. The result would surely be to shape a more complete and fully aware, all-round person.
A woman in Air Force uniform, who had been following events at an adjacent console, looked up at Piao. "We have something coming up here via the backup system, General," she said. Piao moved over to join her, with Ziaping stumping testily behind. By edging a little closer, Tsien was able to get a glimpse of the text appearing on the screen. It read:
Dear Friend,
My name is Ido Mayanga, and I am Financial Operations Controller of the First National Bank of Nigeria. You have been referred to me as a trustworthy person who might be able to help in a most important matter. I urgently need to move $10,000,000 (TEN MILLION US DOLLARS) currently held in a private account that is threatened with confiscation by unscrupulous and illegal agencies..."
Premier Neng had also come forward to see. He took in the first couple of lines, stared nonplused for several seconds, and looked around for an explanation. Xen Lu Jiang, the scientific advisor, sei
zed his opportunity to address the Chief of Staff. "Field Marshal Ziaping, the systems coordinator who was recommended from the Strategic Technical Directorate is here as commanded: Specialist Tsien-Tsu."
Ziaping turned to look her up and down. His expression didn't conceal a trace of disdain. She lowered her eyes and inclined her head demurely as protocol required. "We've been trying to contact the head of the design group," Ziaping informed her. "But either his phone is not working, or he's not answering. I'm told you know something about the system here."
"I was involved in formulating the original conceptual approach, and contributed to producing some of the implementation and proving software," she replied.
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Page 12