Wargames

by David Bischoff

  David Lightman is playing with his computer. He’s just finished changing his high school biology grade. Now he’s scanning the country for the latest electronic games.

  But he doesn’t know that he’s about to tap into America’s computerized defense system.

  To David, it will just be one hell of a game.

  WAR GAMES

  THE MONITOR RESPONDED IMMEDIATELY

  IDENTIFICATION NOT RECOGNIZED

  YOU HAVE BEEN DISCONNECTED

  McKittrick dialed the computer center Richter answered. “Paul,” McKittrick said. “I can’t get into the WOPR.”

  “I know,” replied Richter “We’re trying everything. It’s like the entire password file has been wiped out.”

  “Hey,” David cried, pointing up at the board. “What are those?”

  On the lower screen, below the fantasy holocaust, a series of random numbers and letters flashed, changing so rapidly that the digits blurred.

  McKittrick shot an annoyed glance at David, but when he saw the digits, his expression changed instantly to one of pure dread.

  “Christ! The launch codes!”

  Jennifer Mack looked up at the changing numbers, then back to McKittrick. “What are they?”

  “Looks like Joshua is getting ready to send up the real missiles,” he said, and there was no joking in his tone.

  WARGAMES

  A Novel by

  David Bischoff

  Based on the original screenplay written by

  Lawrence Lasker

  &

  Walter F. Parkes

  A DELL BOOK

  Published by

  Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

  New York, New York 10017

  Copyright © 1983 by United Artists Corporation

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  ISBN: 0-440-19387-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  First printing—June 1983

  Second printing—June 1983

  To Kate Ennis,

  most affectionately

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Snow.

  The flakes came thick as TV static, muffling the growls of the Air Force van’s engines as the vehicle carried the two officers toward their deadly night duty.

  “Crummy day to guard the nation, huh?” Lieutenant Ulmer said. Ulmer’s hands held the steering wheel with the casual ease of the practiced snow driver, but his eyes stayed glued to the icy North Dakota road. Numberless windblown flakes fluttered through the arcs of the van’s headlights, cutting visibility to near zero.

  Ulmer’s companion grunted. “Yeah, the sky’s taken a dump on the Red River Valley, all right. I used to serve in Alaska, though, so I’ve seen worse.”

  Nonetheless, Captain Jerry Hallorhan huddled tighter in his parka, glaring at the faulty heater. Goddamned Air Force vans, he thought. They can keep a half-dozen Blue Angels in precision flight, but they can’t heat a crummy four-wheeler

  “Maybe we’ll get a medal just for getting there,” Ulmer suggested, shifting down to second for a slight upward grade.

  “Christ, Lieutenant,” Hallorhan said, sinking lower in his seat, “if a guy on button jockey duty does somethin’ to get a medal for chances are there ain’t gonna be no one around to pin it on his irradiated chest!”

  Hallorhan barked a coarse laugh, then honked his nose into his handkerchief.

  It figured. Cold coming on. His sinuses were allergic to snow, no question. When he had enough seniority, he’d make damn sure he was located in someplace like Arizona, warmer. Gladys would like that. The kids too. His nose would love it.

  Hallorhan wiped his nose and sighed. His breath misted.

  “You were telling me about that hippie girl friend you used to have, Sheila,” Steve Ulmer said as he put the column shift back into third. “Sounds like quite a lady.”

  Hallorhan smiled to himself. “Oh, yes. The one back near Andrews Air Force Base. Those were the days, all right. Protests and pot. Acid rock and free love. Sheila was right there with them, a real radical. Boy, she’d have a fit if she knew what I was doing now! When she wasn’t off sucking in tear gas on Route One at the University of Maryland, she was draggin’ me to see some Godard film, or Hiroshima Mon Amour. We saw Dr. Strangelove musta been three times!”

  “Anti-nuke, huh,” Ulmer said, somberly.

  “Yeah, but it was all worth it!” Hallorhan said, almost defensively. “One tripped-out lady, Sheila! Really into Eastern mysticism, you know? And drugs... ! We had some fine times, I tell you! She did some of the weirdest things. Like, she had this forest of marijuana plants and—”

  Ulmer peered through the dimness ahead. “Center’s coming up,” he said.

  “About time!” Hallorhan fumbled with the satchel to his side, locked to his left wrist. “My momma used to put gloves on me this way. They musta talked to her before they stuck me on this gig!”

  “Right.” Ulmer laughed as he wedged the van into a parking slot by the guard gate.

  “Geronimo!” cried Hallorhan, bracing himself for the chill. He pushed the door open and stepped into a pile of frosty white stuff. The wind struck him hard and pushed him against the van’s fender He cursed and looked up. Flakes were driven into his eyes. He pulled his hood up. Before them a building that looked like a farm house rose from snowdrifts. Lieutenant Ulmer was already bashing his way through the weather.

  “Friggin’ New Air Force,” Hallorhan muttered, driving his burly form after his junior officer.

  Ulmer made it to the door first and held it open for the captain. Hallorhan stepped into the warmth, immediately kicking off his snow-clogged boots and slipping off his parka, revealing a bright blue jumpsuit with 321ST MISSILE WING emblazoned on the back. A bright red ascot snuggled around his neck.

  “Sure feels a hell of a lot better in here, huh?” the captain said, fooling with the lock on his satchel.

  “Sure does,” agreed Ulmer. He grinned as Hallorhan finally opened the lock and pulled a red folder out of the satchel. Hallorhan approached a bulletproof glass and slipped the folder to the expressionless guard.

  The guard flipped open the folder, studied the two photo IDs enclosed, then peered blankly up at the new arrivals. He picked up a phone and punched out a number

  “Replacement team’s here, sir,” he said. A smile crept over his face. “Right.” He hung up the phone. “Come on through. Another twenty minutes and we were going to start looking for you.”

  “Yeah,” Hallorhan said. “Gotta warn ya, kid...” he said to Ulmer, “’round Minuteman III missile launch control centers, you go AWOL, you get nuked!”

  The guard shook his head at the grim joke, then leaned over and hit a button. A buzz sounded, unlocking the door. The two officers pushed through into the secure area.

  The guard checked out their faces again, then returned the folder. He pulled out a pair of holstered service pistols and flopped them in front of the missilemen.

  Ulmer buckled his on. “See you tomorrow,” he said to the guard.

&n
bsp; Their footsteps echoed as they pounded down a corridor toward an elevator door. Hallorhan buckled on his holster.

  A young sentry clutching an M- 16 snapped to attention. The officers ignored him. Lieutenant Ulmer hit the button, then allowed his superior to step into the elevator first.

  “So anyway,” Hallorhan said, eager to continue his story. “I used to hear Sheila chanting all night long, ‘ah mahney pod me ohm, ah mahney pod me ohm.’”

  “Over the plants?” Ulmer was incredulous.

  “Yeah! She’d hold her hands over the seeds and chant by the hour. Grew the most beautiful wandos you ever saw. Primo stuff. Resin city!”

  The elevator door parted, revealing the base’s underground launch level. Enough concrete and steel here to build a city, Hallorhan thought. A five-megaton warhead would be like a cherry bomb to this baby, yes sir!

  As Hallorhan stepped out of the elevator ahead of Ulmer, an alarm began to wail.

  Hallorhan stepped briskly to the blast door. After punching a code into a keyboard, he spoke into an intercom. “This is Captain Hallorhan. Ready to authenticate.” He took a breath. “Lima, Oscar, November, Lima, Whiskey, Golf.” He winked at Ulmer.

  The alarm stopped. Good. Hallorhan’s head was ringing. It always did. Must be the pitch, he figured.

  Hidden motors whirred. Locking pins withdrew. The two men pushed the door open and passed through into another corridor, traipsing up to a second blast door

  “Avon calling,” Hallorhan said.

  The door opened for them.

  They casually saluted the team they were replacing.

  The missile commander; Captain Ed Flanders, stood up from his chair by the entrance controls, rubbing his stomach and stretching lazily. “We were worried about you guys.” He glanced over to his deputy, Lieutenant Morgan, who sat by one of the launch controls, penning readings onto a form clamped by a clipboard. “The roads must be—”

  “What roads?” Hallorhan said sardonically.

  Their overnight home was a capsule ten feet by twenty feet, a technophobe’s nightmare. Lights blipped. Fans hummed. The faint aroma of electricity mingled with a hint of unwashed socks and a trace of strong coffee. The place was crammed with panels of high-frequency transmitters, circuit breakers, air purification and backup systems. A high-speed teleprinter with a direct line to Strategic Air Command headquarters sat mute in a corner. A refrigerator hummed in another corner. A small and very unprivate latrine huddled whitely in yet another. Each of the two launch consoles possessed a computer terminal and large annunciator panels displaying the status of each of the ten missiles controlled by this capsule.

  Mounted on the capsule wall was a bright red strongbox, secured by two locks.

  Captain Flanders peered closer at Hallorhan, then pointed disbelievingly at his face. “What is that?”

  Jerry blinked. “That? That’s a mustache,” he said indignantly.

  “New image!” said Ulmer

  The deputy put the clipboard down and headed for the open door.

  “Well, gentleman,” said Captain Flanders, following suit. “Have a good one!”

  As Hallorhan closed the blast door behind the departing team, Ulmer unstrapped his holster hung it on a hook, and settled uneasily into the red chair of his console. The kid was fresh, thought Hallorhan as he walked over to a mirror. But he’d get broken in real quick. Already the fellow was running through a checklist of the console functions.

  Hallorhan stared at his reflection. Gladys had given him hell about the mustache too. She said that it tickled when they kissed. Not that they kissed that often these days.

  Ulmer was already at work. “Number three is still off alert, sir. Other than that all nine birds are clean and green with no warnings at this time.”

  Hallorhan fingered his mustache. “I like it,” he said.

  “So this primo grass...” Ulmer said as his hands floated over a series of buttons. “It was like sinsemilla, right?” A row of lights activated. A buzzer sounded. Ulmer cleared the buzzer by quickly pushing a second relay.

  Hallorhan went over and checked out the refrigerator.

  “Sinsemilla? This grass made Thai stick taste like oregano, man. It would lay you flat.”

  Milk for coffee. Some cellophane-wrapped Hostess Sno Balls. A carton of takeout Chinese that had been sitting there for a week. Some fruit. Talking about dope had given Hallorhan the munchies. He selected an apple and turned to watch what his deputy was up to.

  He chomped noisily. Sour. It figured.

  A red light on a panel failed to respond to the release button. Lieutenant Ulmer stiffened. “Sir, red light.”

  Hallorhan walked forward to get a better view. “What on?”

  Ulmer’s eyes stayed fixed on the console, as if he’d seen a ghost. “Number eight, warhead alarm,” he said flatly.

  Hallorhan chuckled. “Just give it a thump with your finger. “

  Clearly relieved, Ulmer tapped the light. It blinked off immediately.

  As Ulmer went on with his checklist, Hallorhan strode over to his own console twelve feet from the lieutenant’s, sat down, made a cursory survey of the equipment, then propped his feet up on the console and began daydreaming about Sheila as he clipped his fingernails.

  Hallorhan thumbed a page of his paperback detective novel. This guy Spenser was great, he thought. He’d have to check out the other books by Robert B. Parker. The detective was getting the crap beaten out of him when a voice began to warble over the loudspeaker.

  “Skybird, this is Dropkick with a Blue Dash Alpha message in two parts. Break, break.”

  The novel slapped onto the floor as Hallorhan’s training propelled him into instant action. He stood and grabbed the format book from its shelf above the console. He quickly flipped through it. Where the hell was it... Ah. He found a blue plastic page marked BLUE DASH ALPHA/WOPR. He fumbled for the felt marker.

  This was weird, Hallorhan thought. “Stand by to copy message,” he ordered.

  Ulmer was on the ball. “Standing by,” he said, clutching his own book of instructions.

  The voice resumed. “Blue Dash Alpha... Blue Dash Alpha Romeo, Oscar, November, Charlie, Tango, Tango, Lima.”

  Quickly Hallorhan copied the code into the spaces provided in the format book.

  “Authentication,” the voice continued. “Delta, Lima, Gold, two, two, four, zero, niner, Tango, Victor, X ray.”

  Again his training seemed to power him automatically. He stepped to the strongbox. Ulmer was already there.

  Hallorhan attacked his combination lock. He had it off a mere second before Ulmer had his off. Hallorhan pushed the lid up. Both men removed their brass keys and plastic card authenticator marked BLUE-A.

  Hurrying back to his console, Hallorhan nervously ripped the seal off his authenticator. His fingers were trembling. He took a deep, long breath, then compared the letters on the authenticator card with those he had just copied down.

  They matched!

  Displayed on the computer screen was another series of letters. Hallorhan examined them carefully.

  Identical!

  “Holy shit!” said Ulmer.

  Hallorhan couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

  “Easy now.” He swallowed, calming himself. “Run a confirmation. Some asshole must have his wires crossed.”

  Carefully, Hallorhan tapped the query into his computer terminal. Twelve feet away, Lieutenant Steve Ulmer was doing the same.

  “Come on, baby,” Hallorhan said through gritted teeth. “Show us it’s wrong!”

  Letters paraded silently across his screen.

  LAUNCH ORDER CONFIRMED.

  TARGET SELECTION COMPLETE.

  ENABLE MISSILES.

  LAUNCH TIME MINUS 60 SECONDS.

  BEGIN COUNTDOWN.

  Hallorhan stared long seconds at the readout. The voice from the loudspeaker interrupted his reverie.

  “T-sixty, T-fifty-nine, T-fifty-eight...”

  Ulmer’s voice was
a monotone: “Oh, God! It’s real!”

  Hallorhan licked his lips. “All right. Let’s do it.” His training dragged those words out of him. Eighteen years in the Air Force tugged his body down into the chair; he pulled the seat belt up around his paunch and buckled it. All the rest of him was stunned.

  They tell you how to do this, they tell you that it might have to be done, but they don’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel when those orders stream into your capsule.

  Hallorhan took the key he’d grabbed from the red box and inserted it into a slot marked OFF, SET, LAUNCH.

  Still on automatic, Hallorhan said, “Insert lock codes.”

  Ulmer played at the keyboard, setting the codes. His voice hung on to its monotone. “Stand by... unlock codes inserted.”

  Somewhere in the back of Captain Jerry Hallorhan’s mind, past the training, past the surprise, past everything, a small voice seemed to be talking to him.

  “Uh,” he said, his voice faltering. “Insert launch key.”

  “Roger. Launch key inserted.

  A memory bloomed. Sheila again. Sheila in one of her diatribes on nuclear war

  “Okay...” Jerry said, staring ahead, his heart pounding, his mouth drying out. “On my mark. Rotate launch key to ‘set.’ “

  He twisted his key, and knew that Ulmer had turned his simultaneously.

  “Roger,” Ulmer confirmed. “At ‘set.’”

  In Jerry Hallorhan’s memory, he heard Sheila speak: The problem is that the concept is too big for little military minds to encompass. We’re talking about weapons that are going to wipe out millions upon millions of human lives, just because of different ideologies. We’re talking obliterated flesh and blood and possibility and hope and love. We’re talking about the destruction of everything that matters... maybe forever. Imagine it, Jerry. Imagine it!

  Lieutenant Ulmer said, “Sir?”

  “Uh...” Jerry said, starting. “Enable missiles.”

  Lieutenant Ulmer flipped the hubs off a series of protected switches. His face a study in concentration, he began the enabling procedure, flipping the toggles with practiced precision. “Number one enabled... number two enabled,” he droned. “Number three enabled.”