Wargames

by David Bischoff

  “What?” David said, shifting uncomfortably in the battered seat.

  “Are you tannin’ off from your folks? I mean, you look kinda young.”

  “Ain’t that the goddamned truth!” David said. “I can’t get served anywhere.”

  They rode for a few moments in silence. The trucker glanced around, looking back at his trailer full of canned goods, then into his rearview mirror.

  “Cops!” he said suddenly.

  “What?” David said, startled.

  “Couple of cops pulled me over in Illinois. I swear they looked like they was in grammar school!”

  David leaned back, relieved.

  “How far you wanna go?”

  “What’s the next reasonably big city?”

  “Place called Grand Junction.”

  “That will do fine,” David said.

  The driver shrugged and slumped back into silence.

  On the radio, the DJ had just started playing “We Might as Well All Get Stoned,” by Mac Davis.

  “What city, please?” the directory operator asked nasally.

  David said, “Anderson Island, Oregon....The number for Dr. Robert Hume—H-U-M-E—on Tall Cedar Road.”

  David took a bite of his Wendy’s cheeseburger as he waited.

  The trucker had left him in Grand Junction, as requested. David shivered. There was a cold wind blowing outside the booth.

  The operator came back on. “Checking under Dr. Robert Hume, H-U-M-E, on Tall Cedar Road. I find no listing.”

  “Does that mean he doesn’t have a phone?”

  “I’m sorry, I am unable to find any listing,” the operator said impatiently.

  “Wait, try Falken, Dr. Stephen Falken—F-A-L-K-E-N—same address.”

  There was a pause.

  C’mon! C’mon, David Lightman thought, his square hamburger cooling, oozing mustard and ketchup in his tightening grip.

  “I find no listing for a Dr. Stephen Falken, F-A-L-K-E-N, on Tall Cedar Road, Anderson Island.”

  David Lightman hung up, and began to think desperately.

  Dance, dance, dance, I wanna dance all night, the record player demanded. Let’s do the dance of love, bay-bee, until the morning light!

  Jennifer Mack lifted her right leg up and down in time to the music. The exercise was called a “hydrant” because you got down on all fours and lifted up a leg as if you were a male dog doing a number on the local fire plug.

  Throbs of synthesizer funk-pop waved through the living room, giving Jennifer the motivating rhythms to move her limber limbs to. Her face glistened with the sweat she had worked up during a half hour of aerobics exercise, and her tank top was soaked with sweat. She preferred Prince’s “1999,” but this music would do. One of her friends in the aerobics class was urging New Wave on her, but Jennifer Mack tended to prefer the kind of music everybody else liked.

  The taped song segued nicely into a Donna Summer/Giorgio Moroder dance number. Jennifer hopped up and began prancing about in a free-form dance of her own devising.

  No one was home. Why not cut loose? Vaguely she wondered if David Lightman danced. Probably not. Jennifer sighed.

  She was really getting into a frenzy, when the phone rang. She let it ring for a few times. Maybe it would go away. What a time for someone to call, when she was really getting high on Donna’s rolling, insistent synthesized beat.

  “Damn!” she said.

  She danced over to the extension in the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Yeah?” she said, not able to keep the annoyance from her voice.

  “Jennifer, it’s me, David,” said the voice, with a fuzzy long-distance sound.

  “David?”

  “David Lightman.”

  “I know, I know. You sound funny.”

  “I’m in Colorado.”

  “I wondered why you weren’t in school today, David.

  You didn’t miss much in biology. Old Ligget—”

  “Listen, Jennifer, this is very important and it’s hard to ask but, well... can you loan me some money?”

  “Money? Sure. When you get back I’ll—”

  “No, you don’t undersand. I need you to buy me an airline ticket from Grand Junction, Colorado, to Salem, Oregon. I know it’s a lot to ask, and I can’t tell you why.”

  Jennifer paused, stunned. “What are you doing in Colorado? I went by your house and your parents were really weirded out, but they wouldn’t tell me why. What’s happening?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Jennifer,” said David’s voice over the phone. “I can’t talk right now. Will you do it?”

  “David, I’m not rich!”

  “I know, and you might have to borrow the money from somebody else. But Jennifer you’re the only one I can trust to help me here.”

  “Of course I’ll help you in any way I can, David,” she said, surprised at how much she really meant it, astonished at the good feeling that swept through her when she said those words.

  “Oh, thank you, Jennifer.” David’s voice conveyed clearly his gratefulness and his relief. “Listen, when you buy the ticket, tell them I’ll pick it up in Grand Junction, but it’ll have to be under a different name.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jennifer said, reaching for a pencil and a pad from a nearby table. “I better write all this down.”

  “The next plane out will probably be tomorrow, so if you hurry, you’ll be able to get the ticket today.”

  “Right. Grand Junction, Colorado, to Salem, Oregon. Tomorrow.” Jennifer repeated the words she had written down.

  “And you can do it, Jennifer?”

  Jennifer smiled. “David Lightman, you’re going to be real surprised at what I can do.”

  The smooth, grim, earnest atmosphere of the Crystal Palace had slowly unraveled into a state of efficient, professional chaos, held together by intense concentration.

  A weary General Berringer, tie undone, sleeves rolled up, thought about having another coffee and rejected the idea. He was much too wired already. Only three hours of sleep last night. And now that goddamned kid Lightman had skipped out on them, giving the bird to the best military system in the world.

  He looked up at the big board. The symbols for Soviet subs lay in wait off the coast of North America. DEFCON 3, said the scoreboard.

  “Pardon, sir,” said a communications officer, coming up to Berringer. “We’ve just received a telex from the State Department.”

  “Read it, huh? I gotta save my eyes.”

  “Essentially, sir, it states that the Soviets are denying any increase in their submarine deployment. They want to know what the hell we’re doing provoking them.”

  “Well, they’re full of shit,” the general said, pointing up at the board. “What are those, commie whales? Our systems aren’t in simulation now, that’s for sure. We know they’re down there!”

  “Yes, sir,” the communications officer said, returning to his station after a salute.

  General Berringer sighed. Maybe he would have that cup of coffee.

  Meanwhile, on the floor of the Crystal Palace, seated at a row of terminals, Technician First Class Roland Moor studied the picture on his monitor.

  The screen snowed over with static. Immediately he reacted, cutting on switches, twisting dials. This shouldn’t be happening, he thought, alarmed.

  He turned to Ed Morgan, sitting next to him.

  “Hey Ed, check antenna alignment on 0-84. I just lost the picture,” he said.

  Ed was going through similar motions. “I’ve just lost mine, too.”

  “We better get word to the general.”

  He made the call to one of General Berringer’s aides, who turned to the commander and said, “Sir, we’re not getting signals from two of our early-warning satellites. It could be a malfunction... or they could have been knocked out.”

  Maybe I’m gonna need a shot of bourbon in that coffee, thought the general tensely.

  In the computer center the WORP machine dreamed its dreams and fought its microchi
p wars, its optical wires flashing, its machinery humming, its relays clicking softly, like Death snapping skeletal fingers in time to its number-one fave funeral dirge.

  Chapter Nine

  The seat-belt light came on.

  “We’re approaching the Salem, airport. Please fasten your seat belts and extinguish all cigarettes.”

  The captain spoke. It was a commuter flight and there was no stewardess on board. David Lightman buckled his seat belt.

  The small jet tilted down, swerving and jumping without the smoothness or stability that big airliners possessed. The abrupt movements made it feel as though they were dropping like a rock. David tensed.

  A hefty middle-aged man stubbed out his Tareyton in a nearly full ashtray and blew his last puff of smoke toward the window. “Yep, we’re in the Willamette Valley, son,” the man—a bulk dog-food salesman—told David. “Only place you can’t see mountains in Oregon. And remember, son. It ain’t ‘Wil-uh-met.’ It’s Willamette, dammit.” The man barked a hearty laugh and then turned to watch the descent.

  David tried to smile. He felt terrible. He’d slept, or at least tried to sleep, at that Colorado airport last night, sitting upright in the waiting room. Breakfast sat uneasily in his stomach, awash in too many cups of airport coffee.

  The small runway rose up to meet the wheels of the commuter jet, and the craft eventually taxied to a halt. A ladder was extended to the concrete, and David made his way woozily out, having to walk the last twenty yards to the tiny terminal building.

  Now that he was here, he supposed he’d have to hitchhike the rest of the way to Anderson Island. He hadn’t thought to ask Jennifer to wire any money. He supposed he should just be happy that the ticket was waiting for him at the booth. Good old Jennifer. If he got through this on the right side of the jail bars, he was going to have to do more than just take the girl to an arcade.

  How much time did he have, he wondered as he made his way through the clear spring Oregon day to the sun-flecked glass doors of the terminal. Only until tomorrow. He prayed that even now, the goofs at NORAD had somehow stopped Joshua. The world still existed in much the same way as before—no nuclear craters in Oregon—so he supposed that the brilliant program had not tricked them into launching any missiles yet.

  David shivered at the thought. Unbelievable! Even now the concept was too huge to get his mind around. It was—

  As he moved through the doors, David saw the policemen immediately, standing by the airport ticket booth. His legs stopped moving. They didn’t see him yet. Which way should he go? What should—

  A hand grabbed his arm.

  He jumped, almost letting out a yelp.

  Wide-eyed, he swiveled around. Standing there, looking fresh and pretty as usual, was Jennifer Mack.

  “Hi!” she said. “Oh, I’m so glad you made it!” She gave him a warm, sisterly hug. “We were worried you wouldn’t make your connection. Aunt Alma tried calling the airline. She’s been cooking all day and I’ve been stuck with our awful cousins from Klamath Falls. You know, the ones who always wear gym clothes and smell so bad.”

  “Yeah, well I’m probably not a real rose right now myself.” He guided her to an exit. “C’mon, let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

  “My car’s the other way, David,” Jennifer said.

  “We can walk around the building. I want to keep my back to the cops. I’m in real trouble, Jennifer “

  “I know, David. They came around last night and questioned me! Said they were from the FBI and the FBI could do stuff like that, drag people out of their aerobics exercise and question them.”

  They stepped through the automatic doors

  “You shouldn’t have come, Jennifer “

  “What do you mean I shouldn’t have come? Is it because of that thing you did with my grade?”

  “No—I’ll explain it to you. You must have driven down.”

  “Yeah, early this morning. I’m so grateful my father’s such a good guy. He let me. Of course, I told him I’d be visiting my aunt and uncle and—”

  “But you’ve got a car. That’s great. And a map, Jennifer?” David said as he followed her to a blue Volvo station wagon. “You have a map?”

  “Sure. Where are we headed?”

  “A place called Anderson Island.”

  “Why, David?” She unlocked the door for him.

  “I’ll tell you on the road,” he said and got in.

  Later, as they traveled through the Oregon countryside, David tried to explain to Jennifer what had happened.

  “I was wrong, huh?” she said. “They did find out that we were fooling with that game program. But it wasn’t on purpose, David. I know that! I’ll tell them that!”

  “Thanks, Jennifer, but it’s a little too late for that. They don’t know anything about you, and that’s the way I want to keep it,” David said as the car cut through the farmland toward Anderson Island on the coast.

  “You didn’t tell them that it was my idea to nuke Las Vegas?” she said. “Thank you, David.”

  “If I told them, they’d have you, right?”

  “But they don’t have you.”

  “Like I said, I escaped. God, if I was a trained Russian spy, they’d been in real trouble,” said David, exasperated.

  “You... a Russian spy! Give me a break.”

  “I’m not kidding. That guy McKittrick I told you about. He really thinks I’m a pawn of the commies. He just doesn’t want to admit that his machines messed up.”

  “So anyway, go on. Why are we going to Anderson Island?” Jennifer asked.

  “Well, when I was in McKittrick’s office, I got a chance to work his computer... he’d been called out.”

  “And just left you there!”

  “Must have been an extreme emergency... anyway, I talked to Joshua again. You know, it’s funny, if I hadn’t answered that phone, I’d be okay—the phone call from Joshua calling me back.”

  “Why did you answer, David?”

  “I thought it was you.”

  “You mean a dozen other girls don’t have your secret phone number?” she asked, a smile in her eyes.

  “No, Jennifer, just you.”

  “And Joshua.”

  “And Joshua. So Joshua tells me that Falken isn’t dead! And he gave me an address. The Anderson Island address. Before I called you, I tried to call him, under his new name—Robert Hume. Unlisted. So, you know the rest.”

  “But why would the obituary say he was dead?” Jennifer wanted to know.

  “I guess it was a cover-up. Yeah, a convenient cover-up. Falken left. When these brilliant scientists leave and know too much, they give them new identities. Anyway, that’s what Joshua says.”

  Jennifer said, “Yeah, but the military’s got to know what’s going on. It is in their system.”

  “That’s just it,” said David. “They don’t know Joshua. Falken knows Joshua. And he’s the only one who knows what that program can do. It’s trying to win the game we asked it to play—trying for real. Do you believe me, Jennifer?”

  “Yeah... it’s too crazy not to believe. But why can’t you tell Joshua that if it starts a war, millions of people will be killed.”

  “It’s not programmed to be aware of the niceties.”

  “But you say it’s programmed to learn.”

  “It’s just a machine—a machine full of war games. And its biggest desire right now is to make those war games real.”

  “So you think the only one who can stop it is its daddy—Stephen Falken.”

  “Who knows... maybe they’ve stopped it now. But the maddening thing is that those assholes won’t listen to me. They don’t realize what their own machines can do to them. They’re so uptight, they’re ready to believe that the Russians are doing this. It’s almost like they want the Russians to be doing this. It’s insane!”

  “Self-fulfilling prophecy,” Jennifer said, “we learned about that in psychology.”

  “Exactly,” David returned. “And you know
, Jennifer, it makes you really think about the way this world is run. We both grew up just sort of accepting that a few countries who hated each other had the power to wipe out everything. I don’t really think we understand what it means. I tell you, I’ve been thinking about it lately, though. Plenty.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got to protect ourselves. Russia wants to take over the world.”

  “That’s what they teach us,” David said. “Of course, poor Russia is also dealing with the only country crazy enough to use a nuclear bomb on people—twice. Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “So you’ve got the two major world powers, scared silly of each other, each with the capability of destroying each other—and much of the rest of the world—a dozen times over. Now other countries have nuclear capability—it’s a real tinderbox. And I just lit a fuse.”

  “You didn’t know David. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “Shouldn’t I? Where does the responsibility stop?”

  “The fuse was just lying there, waiting for someone. Better you than a real Russian spy!”

  “That doesn’t take any of the responsibility off my shoulders, Jennifer. I was the one who started all this in motion, and I’m the one who’s going to have to help to end it. I was just a little shit who stuck his hands where they weren’t supposed to go.”

  “I don’t think you’re a little shit, David. I like you.”

  David smiled softly. “Thanks, Jennifer. You don’t know how much that really helps.”

  It was late afternoon when they finally got there.

  Anderson Island was the largest of a group of tree-covered islands just off the Oregon coast; large enough to be serviced by a ferry.

  Jennifer opted to park by the dock, because she didn’t have all that much money and it was cheaper to cross the channel without your car. That was fine by David. He just wanted to get over there any way he could.

  They almost missed the last ferry; it was only Jennifer’s please that convinced the ferryboat captain to wait for them.

  That was another one he owed her, David Lightman thought. He would definitely have to take the girl out to dinner.

  They stood by the railing. Gulls swooped and hovered. The air smelled strongly of the sea. The sun was just dipping toward the horizon.