The president caught his breath in an audible gasp. “It worked?”
Archer’s broad face cracked in a sarcastic smile. “Of course. We flew sortie after sortie while the Iraqis scrambled below us, trying to figure out what sort of voodoo we had conjured up for them. By the time they discovered the device, the war was already won.” He looked across the table to the vice president. “It was a highly classified operation, of course. We paired Prentice with Brad Hunter, one of our SEALS commanders, and sent them in alone, though we nearly lost them both outside Baghdad. A sniper caught them just inside the border. Hunter threw himself in front of Prentice, but one bullet got both men. We lifted them out and let them quietly recuperate at Walter Reed. Afterward, Prentice went back to his millions, and Hunter joined the NSA.”
Archer gestured toward the folder on the table. “It’s all there, plus Prentice’s history for the last eight years. He’s still single, still brilliant, still in touch with Hunter. I think we can approach him.”
The president reached out and drew the folder closer, then nodded around the circle. “If no one has a better suggestion, I think we’re just about done here.”
“Mr. President, I have collected some other data,” the vice president called from his end of the table. “For instance, I’ve polled the various government agencies. Social Security says its computers will be compliant on time, while FEMA will finish by June of the year 2000. The Department of Justice projects it will be compliant by 2001, the Department of the Treasury by 2004, and the Department of Transportation by 2010—”
“Thank you, John,” President Stedman said, pushing back his chair as he stood. “But we don’t have any more time to debate how bad the situation is. The time has come to act.”
He flashed a grim smile around the circle, then moved out through the doorway. Taking her cue from her boss, Lauren rose and followed.
SIX
11:39 A.M., Monday, November 9, 1998
DANIEL PRENTICE’S DOSSIER ENDED UP ON LAUREN’S DESK, AS SHE KNEW IT would. As she’d hurried into the Oval Office after the cabinet meeting, the president had tossed the folder to her with a brusque request. “If the guy is solid—and heaven knows he ought to be, if he’s earned Archer’s recommendation— then call him, write him, do whatever you must to get him on the team. The sooner, the better.”
Now Lauren sat in her small West Wing office, the folder spread on her desk and a black-and-white photo in her hand. From the physical description cited in the report she knew that Daniel Prentice, age thirty-eight, stood six feet three inches tall, had brown hair and brown eyes, and weighed 185 pounds. But that rudimentary description did not do justice to the striking young man in the photograph.
Some camera had caught Daniel Prentice outdoors, for he was squinting slightly in the sunlight and a breeze ruffled his short hair. He wore a flight suit, so apparently the photo dated from Desert Storm and his short stint with the navy. The clean, straight look of him impressed her; even as a civilian he had a certain no-nonsense look she associated with the military. His handsome square face framed his dark eyes, and the set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. But even in this candid black-and-white he held his head high, and Lauren had always admired men who knew who they were.
By all reports, Daniel Prentice was someone special . . . and apparently he knew it. The guy probably had a different woman for every night of the week.
She slid the photo onto her desk and read the background report Archer had prepared. Daniel Prentice, born on October 2, 1960, was the only child of John and Amelia Prentice. Amelia Prentice lived now in a St. Petersburg townhouse, where Daniel Prentice paid the annual property taxes of $2,560. John Prentice, former navy pilot, was deceased, killed on a routine mission over North Vietnam in 1967.
“Poor kid.” Lauren mentally subtracted one date from another. “Seven years old is a tough time to lose your father.”
She read on. After John Prentice’s death, Amelia and her son moved to her childhood home in Canada, where Daniel grew up outside North Bay, Ontario. After a rather uneventful childhood and teenage employment at a North Bay marina, he graduated summa cum laude from MIT and established Prentice Technologies at the tender age of twenty-three. In the fifteen years of the company’s existence, Prentice Technologies had developed and marketed antivirus software as well as advanced technologies to aid the blind and deaf. The company was a leading manufacturer of personal identification computer chips, used in the identification of livestock and lost pets.
Lauren flipped the page, and her eyes widened when she realized she was staring at Daniel Prentice’s personal financial records.
His assets included an apartment on New York’s glitzy Park Avenue, purchased in 1990 for $3.2 million. He owned a 1957 Jaguar, license number IMAPID, a 1999 Range Rover registered and licensed in Ontario, and a $700,000 yacht docked at a Montauk Point marina.
Her eyes skimmed over the rest of the report. Daniel Prentice paid taxes in the top bracket, yet still was able to deposit thousands of discretionary dollars in various stocks, bonds, and mutual funds, and he donated a healthy percentage of his income to his mother’s community church in Florida. In the fifteen years he’d been filing income tax returns, he had never taken a deduction for gambling losses, alimony, or child support.
Lauren’s mouth twitched with wry amusement as her image of Daniel Prentice, playboy, vanished like a morning mist. The guy was a Boy Scout. A rich scout, to be sure, but definitely an all-American do-gooder. He probably stopped outside his office complex in Mount Vernon to help little gray-haired ladies cross the street. The fact that he had never married most likely meant that he was shy. Despite his striking good looks, Daniel Prentice had to be a quiet, retiring computer nerd.
“Finding anything interesting?”
Startled by the sound of a gentle voice, Lauren looked up. Victoria Stedman, the president’s wife, stood in the doorway with a teasing smile on her face. “Sam tells me that he just dropped a nice and eligible young man in your lap. I had to come and see this for myself.”
Lauren’s smile deepened into laughter. “Is he still trying to marry me off? I thought he put that idea aside when we came to Washington.”
“Just because Sam couldn’t fix you up with anyone in North Carolina doesn’t mean he’s going to stop trying.” Victoria’s clear blue eyes softened. “You know he only wants what’s best for you. We both do. Our time in the White House, whether it’s two more years or six, is going to fly by, Lauren, then Sam will retire. We just want to make sure you’re settled.”
Lauren took a deep breath and adjusted her smile. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself, and besides, I promised to stick to the job until the president retires.”
“No one questions your loyalty.” Victoria came into the room and leaned over Lauren’s desk, the light scent of flowers preceding her. “But there’s a lot more to life than taking care of yourself and working at a career. I’ve always found that joy comes when I’m taking care of someone else.”
Lauren felt a warm glow flow through her. Victoria Stedman, the pundits proclaimed, could charm the stripes off a tiger, and Lauren knew she’d just fallen under the woman’s spell. But could a little fantasy hurt?
She turned the photo so that it faced Mrs. Stedman. “Here’s his picture, but it’s eight years old. His name is Daniel Prentice, he’s a computer genius, and he saved our necks in Desert Storm—but you’ll never hear anything about that. It was a classified mission.”
Mrs. Stedman lifted her brows as she picked up the photo. “A nicelooking young man! How old is he?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“And not married?”
“No.” Lauren glanced down at the file in her lap. “He seems to spend all his time making money—much of which he gives, by the way, to his mother’s church.”
“Well!” Mrs. Stedman placed the photo back on Lauren’s desk and tapped it with a manicured fingernail. “Honey, what are you
waiting for? Call the man and invite him to dinner.”
Lauren laughed. “I can’t. We need him to sort out this Y2K computer crisis. I can’t ask him to take me out when we need him to save the country.”
Mrs. Stedman laughed softly, her fascinating smile crinkling the corner of her eyes. “Lauren, honey, even superheroes have to eat.” She tilted her head. “I think I’m going to start praying for you and this Daniel Prentice.”
“Now, Mrs. Stedman—”
“Surely you wouldn’t mind a few prayers?”
“No.” Lauren felt an unwelcome blush creep onto her cheeks. “I wouldn’t mind prayers. A few. But I’m not going to hold my breath.”
“Whatever suits you, honey.” Mrs. Stedman turned to leave but paused in the doorway again. “What are you waiting for? Samuel says we need that man, so pick up the phone. I think now would be a good time.”
Lauren pressed her lips together, then lifted the telephone receiver. She’d just received a direct order from the first lady, so how could she refuse?
Daniel sat at his desk, watching Dr. Kriegel’s X 2000 program run through its paces. The program was a marvel, complex and yet utterly simple in its function. Of course they’d have to rename it before they introduced it to the market—X 2000 would mean nothing to the average consumer. He’d have to put the marketing team to work on it.
But the program worked. He’d had a team of programmers work through the weekend to test and debug the program thoroughly, and the beta version had required only a few minor tweaks and patches. Best of all, the professor had even come up with a version for systems with color monitors.
“Mr. Prentice, you have a phone call.” Roberta’s voice floated out from the speakers.
“Route it to voice mail, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Prentice.”
Daniel typed in another string of test code, then clicked the enter key and sat back, his hands behind his head, as the program whizzed through and swiftly made its repairs in living color. A slow grin spread across Daniel’s face. Maybe he’d commission a statue to honor Dr. Kriegel. In bronze. The man deserved something extraordinary.
“Daniel!” A muffled voice came from behind his office door. Daniel looked up, annoyed.
Roberta explained the intrusion. “Mr. Prentice, Taylor Briner requests admission.”
“Let him in, Roberta. Please.” Daniel frowned in exasperation. Taylor served as Daniel’s personal secretary, and he knew better than to barge into the office while Daniel was working.
“Daniel!” Taylor’s flushed face appeared in the doorway. “The White House is calling! You’ve routed them to voice mail—twice!”
“The White House?” Daniel shifted uneasily in his chair, searching for a plausible explanation. “What do they want?”
Radiating offended dignity, Taylor stepped into the office. “I couldn’t come right out and ask! Lauren Mitchell is on the phone.”
Daniel closed his eyes, summoning an image to fit the name. He’d seen the president’s executive assistant on television, usually in the president’s entourage. From all appearances she was polished, competent, and more attractive than any politician had a right to be. So what in the world did she want with him?
Daniel swiveled his chair back toward the keyboard and tapped his fingers on the desk. “I’ve sent her to voice mail twice?”
“Yes.” Taylor’s voice was heavy with exasperation. “She finally spoke to someone in development, who put her through to me. She says it’s urgent. The president wants to speak to you.”
“Take a message.”
Taylor’s brows shot up to his hairline. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Tell Miss Mitchell to call back in five—make that ten—minutes. I’ll speak to her then.”
Taylor gave Daniel a sidelong glance of utter disbelief, then he nodded. “All right. I’ll tell her.”
The door clicked, and he was gone.
Daniel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. The White House was calling. The White House had called him once before, eight years ago, and Daniel had been pleased and flattered enough to nearly get himself killed. Now the man behind the call would be Samuel Stedman, not George Bush, but the request would likely be in the same vein: Daniel, we need a man of your expertise to risk his life. Surely you’d be honored to volunteer.
Honored? Not any more. He’d been honored the first time, but then his eyes were opened.
With nothing else to do in the hospital, he and Brad Hunter had begun to discuss Vietnam. Brad’s father was a Vietnam vet, too, and Brad had promised that as soon as Walter Reed released him, he’d pull some strings at the NSA and the Department of Defense and unearth what he could about that fatal bombing mission over Hanoi.
Three months after Daniel’s return to civilian work, a plain brown envelope had arrived in the mail with no postmark or return address. Taylor had been about to scan the package for explosive devices when Daniel pulled it away and carried it into his office. Somehow he had known that the envelope had come from Brad, and when he opened it and began to read, he saw that his friend had kept his promise. It was all there— exhaustive details about his father’s ill-fated bombing raid, including the names, ranks, and serial numbers of the fallen pilots.
On the last page, Daniel had read the orders, then saw that someone had scrawled a note at the bottom of the page: Bombing raid ordered to demonstrate destructive capabilities to visiting congressman Orson Tobias.
Even now those words echoed in the black stillness of his mind, and Daniel’s face burned as he remembered his first reaction to them. His emotions had ricocheted from horror to disgust, from anguish to rage. There had been no compelling reason for those pilots to risk their lives on that autumn morning. His father had died just to impress some hotshot congressman, some idiot who wanted to go back to Washington and report that we were bombing the blazes out of the VC in Hanoi.
What a joke. Vietnam was a disaster, and it had imprinted Daniel’s life with sorrow. His mother had to leave their home and return to Canada, where they lived off a government pension and the charity of relatives until Daniel was old enough for a part-time job. He’d gone to MIT on scholarship, working after hours in a grocery just to pay his rent, buy books, and send a little something to his mother.
And now Washington was calling again! Lauren Mitchell should be grateful he hadn’t picked up the phone the first time she called. He would probably have hung up on her.
He swiveled his chair to face the door, then spun around and stood up, feeling a powerful need to pace.
He couldn’t hang up on the president’s representative. No matter what his personal feelings, as a loyal American he owed a certain amount of respect to the country’s leader. And he admired Stedman—the man seemed to have worthwhile principles. He had already demonstrated his commitment to several moral and spiritual issues that had largely been ignored by previous administrations.
So why was Stedman calling?
The country was not at war, so they couldn’t want him to devise another hardware virus or other stealth device. The economy was as robust as it had been in years, so they didn’t need his knowledge about financial planning, which, truth be told, wasn’t all that remarkable. Crime was a problem, of course, but most law enforcement was handled on a local level, so the president wouldn’t be calling him about a new stun gun or weapons system. Except for its aging computers, the country seemed to be in fairly decent shape—
The Y2K Bug.
The thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck deep in the pit of Daniel’s stomach. Do they know about X 2000?
With a shiver of recollection, he remembered his entrance into the company vestibule Friday. The professor’s program had been playing on the network monitors, and Daniel had just assumed someone on the professor’s team had demonstrated the program in a burst of enthusiasm.
But what if that scenario was false?
The sound of Roberta’s voice
made him jump. “Mr. Prentice, you have a phone call.”
Daniel’s voice emerged as a rusty croak. “Identify, please.”
A soft electronic hiss came over the computer speakers as Roberta queried the caller, then Daniel heard a tight, controlled voice: “This is Lauren Mitchell with the president’s office. I need to speak to Daniel Prentice at once.”
Forcing himself to calm down, Daniel moved to his chair and sat, then picked up the phone. “Daniel Prentice.”
“At last.” Lauren Mitchell’s voice was soft with disbelief. “That’s quite a screening system you have, Mr. Prentice. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I was . . . involved.” Daniel smiled, pleased with how nonchalant he sounded. “How can I help you?”
“Well—” she paused—“the president wanted to talk to you himself, but he’s in a meeting now and can’t be disturbed. If you like, I could have him call you later, or I can try to explain his proposal.”
“Please, go ahead and explain.” Daniel leaned back and propped his shoes on the edge of his desk. “I have the feeling none of us has time to waste.”
“You’re exactly right.” She paused again, and Daniel imagined her sitting at her desk, shuffling through papers in a mild panic. She hadn’t really expected to get through this time, either, and he had caught her unprepared.
“We would like to invite you—” her voice was clear and confident now—“to serve on the Presidential Year 2000 Crisis Committee. You are aware, no doubt, of the current situation involving our national computer systems, and you have been recommended—”
Flee The Darkness Page 5