Wargames

by David Bischoff

  David Lightman was indeed paying attention.

  The machine had said it was just a game, he thought. Just a game!

  “Excuse me,” he said, and ran up to his room, where he turned on the television to watch the rest of the report. A spokesman for the Defense Department was on the screen, explaining that at no time was there any danger—that this was a million-to-one possibility and that it would never, repeat never, happen again.

  The phone rang.

  David jumped. Nervously he went over and picked it up. “Hello?”

  Immediately he recognized Jennifer Mack’s voice. “David. Are you watching TV?”

  “The news—uh... yeah.”

  Jennifer was excited. “Is that us? Did we do that?”

  And the realization hit David Lightman finally and totally. His own little world of fun and games had suddenly expanded into a larger, much scarier arena. “It must be,” he said. “Oh, Jesus, I’m really screwed now. Jennifer, what am I gonna do... they’re gonna get us.”

  Silence from the other end for a moment. “What do you mean us, white man?” Jennifer said. Then she laughed. “Hey! Calm down. If they’re so smart, they’d have already found you. I mean, it has been a day. Right?”

  David wasn’t so sure. The U.S. military was a giant, and giants moved slowly. “Yeah... I guess...”

  “Hey, cool off!” Jennifer said casually. “Just don’t call that number again. Throw it away!”

  An inkling of hope surfaced in David’s mind. “You know... there is the possibility that I didn’t.. that’s right, we had to shut down early and... They didn’t trace the call!”

  “Sure! So just act normal. You’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Jennifer. You’ve made me feel a lot better. “

  “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s just unbelievable. You think I could just tell Marci?”

  David almost had a heart attack. “No! Jennifer, please.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, clearly disappointed and obviously not fully realizing all the implications. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow at school.”

  “Right. ’Bye.”

  He hung up the phone and fell onto his bed, hiding his head underneath the pillow, trying to get himself together. My God, he thought. If Ralph hadn’t turned over that trash can... if my dad hadn’t demanded that I come down immediately... if... if.. if...

  The world had been saved by a dog!

  Evidence, David Lightman thought. There was still evidence! He shot up from his bed, panicked. My God, the evidence of his crime surrounded him. Books, magazines, government-published pamphlets of essays and reports littered the place. Printouts were strewn like the aftermath of a Thanksgiving Day parade. From his bookshelf hung a picture of Falken he had photocopied from an old magazine.

  David Lightman stared at it for a moment.

  Stephen Falken was a thin-faced, delicate-looking sort of fellow, English of hair and mouth, with a look in his eye that stared into lands where David Lightman wished to go. A long, sensitive finger was placed on his temple as though to say, “This, my friends”—in a very proper British accent, of course—“is the ultimate computer “

  What a genius the man had been, venturing into marvelous worlds decades before anyone else. Falken would have understood. Falken had known what drove David Lightman—the fascination with such intricate toys, these fusions of metal and glass and plastic and energy, slaves to the magical chants of algorithms. No one else understood—not his parents, nor Jennifer, nor even Jim Sting—what the step-by-step mastery of these machines meant to David. In their world was reason, justice, fairness, order. If you worked hard enough, you understood... not like life. There were rewards for accomplishment... not like normal life. Mastering programming was like nothing David Lightman had ever known before.

  David touched the picture with regret. “I only...” he said softly. “I guess I just wanted to get to know you better,” he told the dead man in the picture.

  Then he tore it from its thumbtack and threw it in his overflowing trash basket.

  The stacks of books were by the door, ready to be carted out, when David’s phone rang.

  Was that Jennifer again? She was the only one who had his secret number. The thing was an extension of the Lightman residence phone not registered with Ma Bell. With the help of Jim Sting, David had fixed it up so that he had direct access to the phone company’s computer—including free toll calls.

  Hesitantly, he picked the phone up.

  “Jenn—?”

  A high-pitched computer tone hummed. Hmmm. Maybe another hacker had found him. This could take his mind off this awful business.

  He slipped the receiver into the modem, turned on his system, and went back to work.

  “Greetings, Professor Falken,” the voice synthesizer said.

  David froze. He spun around. On the screen were the words GREETINGS, PROFESSOR FALKEN.

  He walked to the console and sat. “Oh God.” Almost of their own volition, his hands rose up and typed in an answer: I AM NOT FALKEN. FALKEN IS DEAD.

  The synthesizer said, “I am sorry to hear that, Professor Yesterday’s game was interrupted. Although primary goal was not achieved, solution is near”

  On the monitor the words and numbers flitted:

  GAME TIME ELAPSED: 26 HRS. 12 MINS. 14 SECS.

  ESTIMATED TIME REMAINING: 52 HRS. 17 MINS. 48 SECS.

  David’s heart seemed to stop. Or, no. It wasn’t over yet! The monitor continued:

  ... ALTHOUGH PRIMARY GOAL NOT ACHIEVED...

  David hit the “break” button, and typed in: WHAT WAS THE PRIMARY GOAL?

  The monitor supplied the answer instantly:

  TO WIN THE GAME.

  David ripped the receiver from the modem and slammed it down onto the phone cradle. He suddenly realized that his hands were trembling. Quickly he went back to work wiping out the evidence in his room.

  The phone rang several more times that night. David Lightman eventually had to disconnect it.

  He had a hard time sleeping when he finally went to bed.

  That night he dreamed he was Slim Pickens, riding a nuclear bomb shaped like an arcade game down to oblivion.

  Chapter Seven

  “What’s up, Lightman?” asked the black guy behind the 7-Eleven counter. “You playin’ hooky again or somethin’? It’s almost ten, man.” The clerk rang up the prices of David’s blueberry muffin and carton of milk on his cash register. “Don’t suppose you got time to give me a go on one of them machines, do ya?” The clerk nodded his head at a couple of electronics games in the corner of the store. “I’m gettin’ pretty good on ’em all, what with the nightshift hours I been doin’.”

  “Overslept,” David said, handing over a crumpled dollar bill and some change. “Gotta get to school, Chauncey. Thanks anyway.”

  “You know, you got youself a mean rep for them games. Maybe you oughta enter one of them competitions, win some bread.” Chauncey slipped the money into the cash drawer, then picked up a cigarette and took a drag. “Guy come in this mornin’, askin’ ’bout you—said he heard you were a damn fine player. Watcha think? Think he come to challenge you?” Chauncey scratched his beard. “Shit, if so, I’m laying my bread on you, brother”

  David Lightman stopped unwrapping the muffin. The thick stench of newly brewed coffee and the cigarette smoke suddenly made his stomach turn. “There was a guy-asking about me?”

  “Yeah! You gettin’ famous! Now then, how about you playing me a game of Donkey Kong. I’ll whup yo’ ass!”

  “What did he look like?”

  Chauncey shrugged. “Hell, I dunno. Young guy. I told him you should be in school now, but you ain’t, are you? Hey, where you going? I got the quarters, man!”

  David Lightman slammed through the glass doors and ran through the parking lot. On the sidewalk he slowed down. Wait a minute, he told himself. You’re getting paranoid, Lightman. You are well known for being great on video games, and your reputa
tion has been spreading, so maybe the guy asking about you was legit. You gotta take it easy, he told himself, or you’re going to be a walking bundle of nerves all your life!

  On the road a green van passed him. Up ahead a pair of burly joggers were trotting his way.

  Yeah, you gotta get a grip on yourself, or you’re going to get no sleep, and you’re going to think that every goddamn jogger heading your way is packing heat!

  He laughed at the notion, and strode along with renewed self-confidence. Like Jennifer said, if they didn’t have him now, they probably wouldn’t get him. In a few days it would be all over and forgotten. Yes, he’d learned his lesson, all right. No more snooping into places he shouldn’t go.

  David Lightman considered himself a reformed character.

  The joggers were nearer. He moved onto the grass to let them pass—they were a hell of a lot bigger than he, and they didn’t look particularly happy.

  Instead of passing him, however, the joggers trounced onto the grass, too, each grabbing an arm. “Lightman!” one said, with a look of intense satisfaction. David was hurled onto the grass. Before he knew what was happening, one of the guys was forcing his mouth open and staring into it. “Don’t see any cyanide devices,” he said.

  The other had his knee pinning David to the ground. “You little twerp,” the guy said.

  “Hey, get offa me!” David screamed. “Help! Police!”

  The van had returned and stopped by the curb. A crewcut man in a suit and tie was walking toward them. He pulled out a wallet and showed David a badge. “We’re FBI, Lightman. Will that do?”

  The joggers emptied his pockets, then handcuffed him. “Get him in the van,” the man in the suit said. “We’ve got a few people who want to talk to you, Mr. Lightman.”

  David Lightman was hustled into the green van, stunned, bruised, and scared out of his mind.

  When the world came to the verge of World War III, John McKittrick had been visiting his mother-in-law.

  Now, on the afternoon of the day after the screw-up with his machines, he was back in the Crystal Palace.

  “Why wasn’t I called immediately, Pat?” he demanded upon arriving at the facility. He and his wife and kids had driven back from Denver early that morning. “It’s my goddamned responsibility.”

  “Richter and I thought we had it all under control, John,” said Pat. “We thought...”

  “Pat, it’s my ass in the sling!” McKittrick said. “I’ve got an immediate order to report to General Berringer.” He threw the memo down on his desk. And he’d been feeling so good about everything. The trip to Denver would appease his wife long enough so that he could spend a few late evenings with Pat... the evacuation of missile commanders was going as planned. Everything had seemed rosy—until this business. “Well, I guess I’d better face up to it right away.” He stood and put his arms around her. “I guess, though, that this means there are going to be some evenings when we really have to work late.”

  “Alas,” she said, kissing him gently.

  In the Crystal Palace, Colonel Conley was showing around a tour group of a few men, their wives, and a few teen-agers, all dressed nicely. As McKittrick passed them, Conley was saying: “... This operation is on constant alert here twenty-four hours a day so your constituency and your homes are always safe. For example, last week we had the governor of New Jersey up here with his people. He wanted to know why we were at DEFCON 4, as we are now....”

  McKittrick turned to Pat. “Why are we at DEFCON 4?”

  Pat answered in a businesslike manner, but her eyes betrayed a spark of fear. “The Soviets saw our bombers scramble with their own satellites. They went on alert themselves. We’ve told them it was an exercise, but we’re waiting for them to relax their posture before we do.”

  McKittrick shook his head wearily. “Tour groups. I’d outlaw them in this place. Especially right now.”

  “You know, John, you’re a real pain when things don’t go your way,” Pat said.

  “People think my machines came within an inch of starting World War III and you wonder why I’m in a black mood!”

  “Nobody thinks it was your machines, John. They know it was that kid.”

  “But it was my machines that let him in, and it’s my neck in the noose, so, Miss Healy, if I have your permission, I’d like to remain in my black mood for the time being.”

  “It would just be a lot more pleasant if you weren’t such a tight-ass.”

  “You’re taking advantage of our relationship, Pat. Remember, I’m still your boss.”

  Pat did not comment on that. She strode along with him quietly.

  “Well, don’t clam up, Pat. Everytime we have a minor locking of horns, you act like a goddamned iceberg.”

  “Drop dead, Mr. McKittrick.”

  Oh, God, McKittrick thought. Another cold war. It was almost as though they were married or something. McKittrick didn’t like the idea of domestic-type problems at work, which put him in an even fouler mood.

  Boy, would he like to get his hands on that kid. It was all that little bugger’s fault!

  They walked in silence through the briefing room door. Paul Richter, looking even more burned out than usual, stood by a blackboard filled with program specifications and circuitry schematics, chalk dust all over his sweater.

  The room smelled of coffee and cigarette butts.

  Seated at the table were the head honchos, dressed up in their best professional frowns. Berringer was staring daggers at everybody. Dougherty, Cabot, and Watson waited patiently for Richter to finish his lecture, their glazed expressions indicating their lack of comprehension. A man McKittrick did not know sat beside them in rumpled civilian clothes with eyes that looked like they’d been open for a long time.

  Richter sat down and sighed dramatically. “... Mr. Cabot, you’ve got to believe us, it was a one-in-a-million shot—there was an open line at our space division in Sunnyvale. The phone company screwed up.”

  Richter glanced at McKittrick. Relief flooded his face.

  Cabot said, “John, good to see you. This is George Wigan. George is with the FBI. As you might have heard, they’ve brought the boy here for questioning.”

  McKittrick extended his hand; Wigan took it, reluctantly and coldly.

  “How did it happen, Paul?”

  Richter said, “Well, he penetrated the war-game subsystem using a password left in by the original programmer. No one knew the password was in there.”

  Wigan shook his head. “The kid claims he was looking for a toy company!”

  General Berringr snorted. “Likely story!”

  McKittrick leaned against the table, assuming his very best professional veneer, combined with a dash of weary authority. “Paul, I want you to find that password and remove it. Put a tiger team on it—and beef up security around the WOPR.”

  “A little goddamned late for that, don’t you think?” Berringer said belligerently.

  Cabot glanced at McKittrick. “Yes, John. There is some real concern about a breakdown in security here.”

  McKittrick tried to keep his nervousness out of his voice. “Well, gentlemen, I think we’re being a bit naive here.... I mean, you don’t really think some high school punk could just pick up the phone and do this on his own, do you?” He banged the table with his fist and met Cabot’s eyes dead on. “The kid’s working for somebody. He’s gotta be!”

  Wigan coughed, and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. He flipped through some notes. “Well, he does fit the profile perfectly. Intelligent but an underachiever... alienated from his parents... few friends.... We got a lot of help of this from the vice-principal from the boy’s school. Guy by the name of Kessler. Fine fellow. We all agree that this David Lightman character is a classic case for recruitment by the Soviets.”

  McKittrick said, “I’ll be able to determine that, I think. Just let me have a talk with the boy.”

  Cabot smiled. “Terrific. But we need some answers, fast, John. The President wants blood�
��and if it’s commie blood—well, let’s just say that we’ll all come out looking a lot cleaner “

  “But what if he’s not associated with any Soviet intelligence efforts?” Watson said, looking over at Wigan. “Any insight yet on why anyone—especially a bright boy like this—would jeopardize the lives of millions?”

  “No, sir.” Wigan’s cynical gaze swept the room. “The little prick says he does this sort of thing for fun.”

  John McKittrick thought, I’d like to show the kid some fun!

  Ve haff vays of making you talk, Herr Lightman! the voice said ominously in David’s head as he nervously glanced around the infirmary room, waiting for something to happen. As soon as they’d brought him to this subterranean place, they’d locked him up here in the sickroom. Probably because it was the only room in the NORAD facility that had a lock. Still, as David looked at the white cabinets around him, uncomfortable images of scalpels and syringes filled his head.

  As though he hadn’t been scared enough already. The handcuffs biting into his wrists.. The hulking ex-football linebackers the United States used for agents, looking as though they’d as soon chew him up with their Pepsodent molars as take him to their bosses.... The jet plane... The helicopter... And worse, the terrible images that his imagination was conjuring up!

  Good day, Mr and Mrs. Lightman! I’m from the FBI. We have your son in custody, and he’s due to fry in the chair tomorrow morning for treason.

  Good riddance, his father would say.

  Oh wonderful, his mother would cry, I can sell my story to the National Enquirer!

  Well, he was in the right place, anyway. David Lightman felt like throwing up.

  And he had thought “Kaiser” Kessler was bad.

  David sat on the examination table. The sanitary paper covering it had torn from David’s scrunching around. He felt like crying, but he was too scared to do anything but stare at his handcuffs.

  Beep, beep, beep...

  David started. The sounds came from the door. The unlocking codes. David Lightman waited, his heart in his mouth, thinking about that story they had just read in his English class, “The Lady or the Tiger?” Which would walk through that door now?