Wargames

by David Bischoff

  Meanwhile, Radar Analyst Tyson Adler took a careful sip of hot herbal tea tasting of almonds. You weren’t supposed to drink anything near your console, and with good reason. A container of liquid, spilled in just the right spot, could short out a whole board. But Adler’s throat was killing him. He’d been out all last night with a date, dancing, and the exertion had somehow brought on a cold. Adler supposed they shouldn’t have gone skipping through rain puddles. Oh well, he would survive.

  He carefully put a lid back on the tea container, then set it down by his chair. The very moment his face was turned from his radar scope, an electronic blip appeared over the horizon.

  Two more.

  Then a whole flock of blips moved in a trajectory toward the western United States.

  Radar Analyst Adler sighed as he rose up to peer back into his electronic crystal ball. Julie was supposed to be cooking spaghetti for him tonight, and she was not the best cook in the world and...

  Jesus Christ!

  He stared at the blips on the scope for a split second, then grabbed his phone.

  “I have seven...” he said, “correction, eight Red Birds at two degrees past apogee, projected target areas... NORAD regions two-five and two-six.”

  In a matter of moments a wailing signal commenced, and heads popped up along the rows of consoles like students awakened from their afternoon naps.

  Radar Analyst Adler’s message caught Captain Kent Newt daydreaming. He quickly pulled himself from his reverie, adjusted his monitor, and punched up the direct line to the Alaskan NORAD base.

  “Cobra Dane,” he said, heart beginning to race. “We have a Soviet missile warning. Check for malfunction and report confidence....”

  The siren caught Airman Maggie Fields halfway to the ladies’ room. In nothing like military fashion, she about-faced and rushed at breakneck speed back to her chair, scrambling to put on her headset, thinking, Talk about bad timing!

  “All stations,” she said tersely, eyeing her terminal. “This is Crystal Palace, initiation and emergency conference.”

  Beside her Lieutenant Morgan hopped hastily into his chair and slipped on his headset. He had been down the aisle, talking to that redhead.

  Too busy to be frightened, Radar Analyst Adler was still reporting what his scope showed him. “... Nineteen degrees past apogee with eighteen possible targets in track. Estimate reentry at twenty-three, nineteen, Zulu.”

  General Jack Berringer tried to wipe up the coffee he’d spilled on his pants.

  “Sir,” Colonel Conley said, “we have a radar tracking of eight inbound Soviet ICBMs already over the pole.” Conley’s slightly protuberant eyes seemed a bit glazed with shock, but his mouth indicated that he was carrying out his duties. He checked some hastily scribbled notes.

  “Estimated impact... twelve... make that eleven minutes. Confirmed target area: western United States.”

  General Berringer was stunned for a split second. Then his head jerked up to the central screen, representing North America and its surrounding seas. That very instant eight blips appeared on the screen headed for the continent.

  “Why didn’t we get a launch detection from the spy satellites?” General Berringer demanded.

  Sweat had broken out on Conley’s brow, just below the hairline. “I’m not sure, sir. We’re checking for DSP malfunction.” Conley turned back to his communications board, feverishly going back to work.

  General Berringer thought, And we were just getting the talks set up. Never did trust that Andropov character.

  Radar Analyst Adler felt like he was about to throw up. The graphics in his screen told the dreadful story as clear as day. Swallowing, taking a deep breath, he adjusted the skewed mouthpiece of his headset and reported what he saw.

  “BMEWS has continuous radar tracking on inbounds... confidence is high... I repeat, confidence is high.”

  I love ya, Mom, thought Adler.

  Close to a thousand miles away, two teen-agers sat amid a scatter of computer equipment, staring in fascination at the screen of a nineteen-inch Sylvania TV set. Across that screen flowed a fleeting jumble of printouts that looked to Jennifer Mack something like Egyptian hieroglyphics on fast forward. The boy’s face registered unadulterated glee as he answered any queries from the machine, typing rapidly into the terminal, then peering up to see what the results were.

  “What does all that mean?” Jennifer wished to know.

  David Lightman smiled. “I don’t know, but it sure is great!”

  The symbols flitted across the screen like electronic phantoms chasing one another toward doomsday, then back to the WOPR computer deep in Cheyenne Mountain, quite close to the Crystal Palace’s command balcony, where Lieutenant Harlan Dougherty, a lanky communications aide, leaned over a printer.

  Dougherty ripped out a printout and barked its contents over to General Jack Berringer, whose nails were digging holes into the pads of his chair. “... The President is in his limousine, they are diverting to Andrews.... The Vice-President is out of position.... The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is—”

  Colonel Conley jerked his head up from the communications board, cutting into Dougherty’s report.

  “Missile warning reports no malfunction. Confidence remains high,” he said, suddenly aware of a slight dizziness. He’d always wondered what it would be like when this business wasn’t just a drill or a test. Conley knew now, and he wondered if, despite the training, despite his professionalism, he was going to make it.

  “Take us to DEFCON 3,” General Jack Berringer ordered. “Get on to SAC. Have them flush out the bombers.”

  Hands flew, obeying his orders. Berringer stared up to the electronic scoreboard above, which still read DEFCON 5. In a blink of an eye it changed to DEFCON 3. So far, so good, thought Berringer.

  Captain Kent Newt, in the communications module, noticed the sign change, noticed on the edge of his vision the technicians and officers scurrying about, noticed the chatter of voices, the increased blinking of lights. But his mind was fixed on the duty just assigned him. He pushed the button that would complete the code already fed into the phone, then spoke into his headset.

  “SAC, this is Crystal Palace,” he said. “C-in-C NORAD declares DEFCON 3. Scramble all alert aircraft. I repeat, scramble all alert aircraft.”

  Radar Analyst Adler, on the floor below, still gazed into his screen, which mirrored exactly what was happening on-the big board above. The eight missiles headed for North America split off into multiple warheads.

  “Inbounds presently MIRVing,” reported Radar Analyst Adler “We now have approximately twenty-four possible targets in track.”

  Lieutenant D’oughterty heard that report and glanced at a readout screen. “Sir,” he said to General Berringer, “new time to impact, eight minutes!”

  Up in the command balcony, Colonel Conley handed a phone to General Berringer. “Sir,” he said tersely, “SAC is launching the bombers.... General Powers is on the line.”

  “Berringer here,” said the general into the phone.

  “What have you guys been doing?” General Powers virtually screamed over the line. “Standing around with your thumbs up your asses?”

  “God damn it,” Berringer said defensively, “we never got a launch detection from the satellites. Radar picked ’em up already out of the atmosphere, and that’s the first thing we heard.”

  “Yeah, well if this is the real thing, we’re going to need more than bombers. And if it is, Berringer...” There was a pause from Powers, a lightening of the tone. “I’ll see you in hell, okay?”

  “Yeah, Bill.” Berringer hung up, then turned to the board. It was really happening. Unless something changed radically, it was the beginning of the Big Three. When you had a job like Berringer’s, you thought about that sort of thing all the time. He sighed. It’s almost a relief, he thought. But then he thought about his grandchildren and his wife, and even his goddamned son studying English in some goddamned prissy college, and suddenly war wasn’t
just a job, even to him.

  Berringer turned to Conley. “You better have the ICBMs warm up in their bullpens. Get ’em ready to fly.”

  Berringer looked back up at the blips blinking on the board, drawing steadily closer to the United States. Each was a missile, screaming through the atmosphere, carrying megatons of nuclear destruction, bearing screeching wind and searing fire that would tear apart cities and millions of human lives in just a few heartbeats of time.

  The Grim Reaper could have a real big day ahead of him, Berringer thought.

  “Sir?” Berringer suddenly realized that an aide was standing next to him, holding a yellow phone. Berringer took it. The people in the command balcony turned toward him, knowing what that yellow phone meant.

  The most dreaded of all decisions was about to be made.

  “You know,” said David Lightman to Jennifer Mack, looking up from the monitor with its parade of letters and symbols, “I think I’m getting the hang of this thing. I wish it had more graphics, though. When I do my own version, I’m definitely going to have to plot out some jim-dandy graphics!”

  “And sounds?” Jennifer said. “Can you make sounds, like on the arcade machines?”

  “Oh, sure. Real roaring noises, explosions... kaboom! Ker-blam!”

  “And screams with that voice synthesizer?” Jennifer asked. a morbid smile on her face.

  “Not with the synthesizer. You ever heard a monotone scream?” He turned his attention back to the monitor, where new lettering was displayed, followed by a question mark.

  “Comrade Mack,” he said, in a poor attempt at a Russian accent, “Comrade Joshua wishes to know if we care to deploy submarine forces.”

  Jennifer Mack giggled. “Sure! Give ’em the works.”

  “Da. Comrade, comink up!”

  He was about to type in the appropriate orders, when a loud crash sounded from the backyard, followed by a series of frenzied barks.

  “Uh oh,” said David. “The American K-9 corps have been sent to attack us, Comrade Mack. Call the Kremlin! Call the KGB!”

  “David!” cried a voice. “David!”

  “Comrade Lightman, the Americans are bringing out their secret weapon!”

  They both were about to go into hysterics, but David managed to make it to the window and looked down through the screen. There he was, Commander Lard himself, standing by two knocked-over garbage cans, staring up with an indignant expression on his kisser. Litter lay strewn all about him.

  “David,” he yelled up, “I’ve told you you’ve got to fasten down the lids. Look at this mess!”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes, Dad,” David said.

  “Not in a few minutes!” Mr. Lightman yelled. “Now! You hear me? I want this picked up right now! Understand?”

  His mother walked out and looked at the mess, then glanced up at David, speaking in a kinder tone of voice. “Honey, will you come down here and do what your father says?”

  David hopped off the bed, knocking off a few books in the process.

  “The final ultimatum, Comrade?” Jennifer asked, looking up with an understanding expression.

  “Yeah. The damned spoilsports. Just when the game was getting really good!” He went over to the keyboard and stared at it with regret.

  “Shit,” he said, turning off the whole system.

  On the big central map of North America in NORAD’s Crystal Palace, everything began to blink.

  Suddenly all the boards went blank. The wailing signal, musical accompaniment to the crisis, ceased.

  Radar Analyst Adler said, “Huh?”

  Captain Newt said, “What the hell?”

  Colonel Conley fumbled with his controls.

  Then the boards slowly came back on.

  None of them showed even a trace of any approaching Russian missiles.

  Colonel Conley listened for a moment to his earpiece, then looked over to where General Berringer stood, growing armpit stains showing on his light blue shirt.

  “General, BMEWS and Cobra Dane now report negative confirmation on all inbound tracking.”

  The message took a moment to register with Berringer. Hope flooded through him. “Get SAC,” he ordered. “Tell them to hold steady!”

  To one side of his vision he saw a sweatered man rushing desperately onto the floor of the Crystal Palace, waving his arms frantically to attract attention.

  Paul Richter yelled as loud as he could and still maintain coherence. “Stop it! Stop!” The faces of technicians swiveled his way, astonished. “It’s a simulation,” he cried. “There’s an attack simulation running!”

  As soon as he had realized what was happening, Paul Richter had raced out of the WOPR room. I have to get to the command balcony before the missiles are launched, he thought, dodging an empty chair, reaching the bottom of the steps.

  General Berringer, in the command balcony, was nonplussed. “What’s he saying?” he asked of anyone within earshot.

  A technician got in the way. Richter shoved him aside, and pounded up the steps. He almost threw himself into the command balcony, saying breathlessly, “We’re not being attacked!” He drew in a difficult breath. He was terribly out of shape for this kind of thing. “It’s a simulation! For God’s sake, don’t—”

  Berringer was standing, his face still red. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. “You know we don’t allow running here. Someone could get hurt!”

  Richter said breathlessly, “Sorry sir. We’re not really certain how, but someone on the outside fed an attack simulation into the main system.”

  Pat Healy was on Richter’s heels. In her hands was a computer printout. She handed it to Richter.

  McKittrick and his goddamned machines, Berringer thought. And the bastard isn’t even here to see this!

  Berringer said, “Conley, get us off full alert and hold at DEFCON 4 until we find out exactly what is going on....”

  Richter looked up from the printout and turned angrily to Pat Healy. “I didn’t tell you to cut the line. Did I tell you to cut the line? You’ve cut the line!” He looked up with a frightened expression at General Berringer. “Sir, they shut down before we could complete our trace.”

  Pat Healy maintained her composure. “We did locate the general area where the transmission originated.”

  “Where?” Berringer demanded.

  “Seattle, Washington, sir.”

  Chapter Six

  The sun looked like a molten coin slipping into an arcade machine slot on the horizon. A pleasant spring breeze stirred the green leaves of the tree bordering David Lightman’s street as the teen-ager almost skipped home, Windbreaker aflap, his head thrown back, trying to whistle “Pac-Man Fever.” Part of the road had just been resurfaced, and the scent of tar hung in the air.

  God, he was in a good mood! It had been a great Monday. Classes had gone very fast. Jennifer Mack had been quite friendly, in a casual kind of way. Heck, maybe he’d even ask her out to fool around at the arcade sometime—teach her everything he knew about Joust. But that could wait. Jennifer was okay, but after all, first things first.

  Waiting for him at home was the disk containing the complete record of the game he’d played with Joshua yesterday. A lot of work there, figuring stuff out, but what a slew of information!

  What do you know, he thought as he jounced merrily up the sidewalk to his home, noticing that Mom’s flowers had bloomed prettily and that their perfume hung in the air along with the odor of new-mown grass from next door. The folks are home tonight!

  He pulled open the door. His face sported a big, happy grin. The TV set droned in the den. David could see his father’s legs and shoes sticking out from his favorite overstuffed chair.

  “Hi, Dad,” David called out cheerfully, poking his head into the dark room.

  His father grunted and changed the channel.

  David shrugged. He hopped up the stairs.

  “David!” his mother shouted from below. David froze. There was always something about
the way she said his name—probably programmed into him from his childhood—that switched him into instant tension mode. He turned around and headed back down the steps. What was up now, he wondered, bouncing down mopily.

  “What did I do?” His mother’s voice had been very stern, and she looked very businesslike now as she strode from the kitchen wearing her real estate lipstick and eye shadow. In her right hand was a white card.

  “Plenty, mister,” she said, thrusting out the paper. Lightning quick, her expression changed. She smiled! “You just passed all your classes for the semester. Congratulations, dear!”

  David glanced at the paper. Sure enough, all his diddling with the school computer had borne fruit. He shrugged, and his mother gave him a hug.

  “Show this to your father immediately. I told him you could do it.” She glanced toward the den. “Honey!” Grabbing his arm, his mother marched him forward.

  Oh, shit, thought David. He would really much rather get going on the analysis of his game with Joshua.

  As they traipsed in, the theme music from the CBS news was finishing. Yep, there was Dan Rather in his ratings-gathering sweater, looking professionally grim as he rattled off the top story of the day. “For three and half minutes yesterday evening, the defense forces of the United States went on a full-scale nuclear alert.”

  “Harold, just take a look at this!” Mrs. Lightman said, thrusting the card in Mr Lightman’s face.

  “Hey, I’m trying to watch the news. Didn’t you hear?” Mr. Lightman said, scrunching around so that he could see the picture tube. “We had a real crisis today.”

  “The belief,” the announcer said, “was that the Soviet Union had launched a surprise missile attack.”

  Huh? thought David suddenly, paying close attention. As he listened, realization crept over him. Disbelief slowly turned into a terrible, paralyzing horror.

  “Good heavens,” said Mrs. Lightman.

  Rather continued. “A Pentagon spokesman places blame for the error on a computer malfunction, insisting that the problem had been corrected. More on the story from Ike Pappas.”

  Mr. Lightman’s eyes were wide. “What was I telling you, dear. We’re getting closer to the final days than ever! That Pat Robertson on the 700 Club sure knows what he’s talking about! David. Are you paying attention?”