by Doug Beason
Hujr relaxed back on the couch as Montoya groped for the intercom. The coup was going as planned, and things couldn’t be better.
U.S.S.S. Bifrost
Space was the perfect place for the CRAY-Omega quantum computer. Like its younger brother—the much smaller and less sophisticated CRAY-Beta on Earth—the CRAY-Omega was fast. Very fast. So fast, in fact, that if the CRAY-Omega were on Earth, the entangled qubits that made it so powerful would be affected by the local gravitational anomalies created by trucks roaring on roads two hundred meters away. Vibrations from those same trucks would cause the 1.2 million qubits of the CRAY-Omega to disentangle, and the computer would yammer like a moron.
So the only place the CRAY-Omega could operate with the isolation it needed was in space. Surrounded by two meters of water to absorb cosmic rays, it was housed in a module five hundred meters away from BIGEYE’s main body, connected by a slender, graphite-composite tube.
Originally developed for the scuttled anti-ballistic missile program, the CRAY-Omega had been built by Seymour Cray’s disciples to process exabytes of “all-source” information in order to generate real-time simulations of every possible war scenario—and calculate optimal win strategies on a running basis.
So without the anti-ballistic missile program, the quantum supercomputer—a cryogenically cooled single unit using molecular spin for memory … a device no larger than an old-fashioned calculator … a computer that could only work in the isolation of space—did not have anything to do.
So the U.S. Air Force put the CRAY-Omega to work on board BIGEYE, processing the information that it gathered from earthbound, stratospheric, and satellite sensors. In addition, any unusual EM transmissions were screened by the CRAY; bits and pieces of radio calls from dope smugglers were analyzed right along with eavesdropping on unfriendly, and sometimes even friendly, governments. A machine that can process and integrate vast amounts of disparate information might as well be put to use.
Lieutenant Colonel Frier was using only a minuscule fraction of the CRAY-Omega total computing power running a combat simulation game when the terminal burped at him. Frier frowned and moved closer to the three-dimensional screen. The status board indicated that no sensors were activated, but something had triggered the warning. Frier made hand movements in front of the motion-sensitive screen.
As he ran through the options he hummed an old song—the words wouldn’t come back to him, but the melody was still as clear as it had been twenty-three years before when he was an IP at Laughlin. Sometimes he could still feel the breeze off the lake and smell the dry desert. Those were good times; he was young, so he did not have anything to worry about except his students. It wasn’t until years later, right before the crash, that things had started to wear on his nerves.
Why did he always have to let his thoughts drift back? The memory stayed with him: an already-dead student, soaked with JP-4, bursting into flames as Frier dragged him out of the cockpit; then Frier swatting at patches of fire that tried to catch his Nomex flight suit; falling down and not being able to get up—and finally watching his legs burn away. The worst part was the charred flesh.
No, it was the smell he couldn’t shake. And when they told him he’d never use his legs again, of course the opportunity to command the Bifrost was something he couldn’t turn down. What else did he have to live for? And pass up a chance to be productive again? There just wasn’t any question about it.
He shook his head and concentrated on the screen. The spook satellites were shown graphically in order of altitude from earth. Frier checked HERK-3’s position. The satellite was a polar bird, as was BIGEYE, but was nearly two hundred miles closer to the Earth than BIGEYE. Its lifetime in orbit was exponentially shorter than BIGEYE’s, but at that altitude, HERK-3 could practically tell you the color of someone’s eyes.
HERK-3 was southeast of the Mediterranean at the time. Usually things were pretty quiet there, but something must be going on. The satellite was picking up data and dumping it, via the AFSATCOM, into the CRAY’S memory. The CRAY-Omega had put something together—a combination of several seemingly unrelated facts—and had thought enough of it to warn him.
Frier did not like what he saw, so he decided to correlate the information with different sensors.
Frier reconfigured the screen and ran the CRAY through the “tell-me-three-times” routine to make sure the machine hadn’t slipped a bit. When the answer came up the same, he let out a single word:
“Crap.”
Frier didn’t say anything more until he set up a scrambled transmission direct to NSA, bypassing the CSOC downlink. The first few mnemonics of the coded sequence read: “XVW XVW XVW …”
National Security Agency Headquarters,
Fort George Meade, Maryland
The computer screen flashed on-off-on-off in a red and blue contrasting sequence designed to alert the operator. A beeper emitted a high-pitched warbling for the same purpose. There were four computer consoles in the room. Three of the consoles were manned, and the fourth, a training console, used exclusively by the on-duty supervisor, was idle. As the middle of the three active consoles warbled its warning a young, good-looking woman in a wheelchair jabbed at the interactive screen, silencing the alert.
The woman glanced up at the clock. “Twenty minutes and I’ve won the pot. Ready to pay up?”
The two operators flanking her grumbled good-naturedly but handed over the pot of money kept at the supervisor’s console. The first alert normally didn’t come until at least halfway through each shift. To win this early was certainly an omen.
The woman swung her wheelchair around after glancing at the screen. She waved her hand at the terminal, and the coded message appeared as a high-resolution hologram floating in front of her supervisor, who stood behind her. “What do you think?”
“I think those damned field operatives are using the XVW too often. You’d think they’d save the hot labels until they’ve got something substantial.”
“BIGEYE isn’t your run-of-the-mill field operative.”
Her supervisor raised a brow. “You’ve got a point.” He pushed at the hologram and it disappeared. “Ship it off to the NECC and let them decode it—you do the honors.”
“Right.” She tapped at her terminal. As the message was transferred the woman counted the pot of money she’d won. It was just enough to take her colleagues out for drinks after work.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
“Mr. Woodstone.”
The Vice President waved him quiet.
White House Chief of Staff Baca knelt in the dark viewing room at the Vice President’s side. “Mr. Woodstone, this is urgent.…”
“What is it?”
“We lost contact with the President’s plane fifteen minutes ago.”
“Could his radio have gone out?”
“Impossible. There are too many backups on board. Besides, we lost his IFF along with radar contact. Air Force One has disappeared from sight.”
G. Percival Woodstone made his first major decision acting as President of the United States of America: “Turn off the film.” He stood abruptly and started for the exit as the house lights brightened. “Now, what’s going on? I want to be fully briefed on this matter.” He turned for the Oval Office.
Baca stood in the hallway. “Mr. Woodstone, I recommend we use the vault.”
“Eh?”
“The National Emergency Command Center, sir. You’ll be able to keep in touch with our intelligence sources there.” To Woodstone’s blank stare he added, “We have a direct link with our satellite sensors and other operatives in the NECC.”
“You’re right, as usual. I’m not used to taking over in times like these.” Woodstone whirled and followed the chief of staff to the elevator that would take them to the basement. “What else do you know about this?”
“I’ll be able to brief you in depth once we’re in the vault, sir. I’ve only got a smattering of the original message myself. I though
t it was more important for me to inform you now than to have you surprised later if the entire message took too long to verify.”
“Right.” Woodstone kept in step with Baca’s strides. Though a shorter man, Baca kept the Vice President hopping right along.
Woodstone felt an involuntary rush of adrenaline pound through his veins. The excitement of something big happening grabbed him. Kissing babies, dedicating libraries, opening manufacturing plants, and speaking to groups of little old ladies bored him to tears. As Vice President, he thought he would have a little more say in running the country—but he was really only a figurehead. He knew he’d have to be a PR man for Sandy Montoya when he agreed to take the job, but enough was enough. Sandy didn’t even trust him to run things on his own.
The President had left his chief of staff to help run the show when he went to Europe. So he knew he couldn’t flub this one. Here was his chance to have a real part in making a Real Big Decision.
They passed the ubiquitous Secret Service man guarding the entrance and entered the command center. An air force colonel met them inside.
“Mr. Vice President, we have a briefing ready for you, sir.”
Colonel Welch led him to an overstuffed chair in front of a long table. A large screen took up the front part of the room. Myriad terminals manned by men and women with headsets were crammed into the back. The room was air-conditioned; Woodstone swore he could detect a hint of piñon wafting through the room.
Woodstone settled into the chair. “What’s the story?”
“Fifteen minutes ago, 1949 local time, air controllers lost contact with Air Force One over Turkey. The President’s plane is equipped with an Identification Friend or Foe transponder as well as the usual radar transponders. They are all routinely monitored through satellite relay. All contact with the plane ceased at the same time. The only conclusion we can reach at this time is that Air Force One met with an unforeseen ground obstacle.”
“You mean it crashed.”
“As far as we can tell, that is correct, sir.” Colonel Welch pushed a button; the screen lit up with a view of Turkey and the Middle East. “The President’s route is marked in red.” The screen flashed to a close-up of the Turkish border. “We lost contact with him close to where the red line terminates.” The colonel flashed a bright red arrow up on the screen using a laser pointer. “As you can see, the Taurus Mountains start here and extend down to here—which is south of where we lost contact with the plane. We didn’t know Air Force One’s exact position, so it’s possible that the plane was ahead of its schedule and crashed.”
“We’ve scrambled an air force unit to scout the area and look for the wreckage. Plus, in addition to our overhead national assets, we have a reconnaissance plane equipped with IR cameras flying down from Crete. With any luck we should be able to find the plane within a few hours.”
Woodstone shifted his weight in the chair. “So what now? What do we do?”
Awkward silence filled the room.
Baca spoke up. “Colonel, are you absolutely certain the plane went down?”
“Well, sir, of course we can’t be one-hundred-percent sure until we locate the wreckage, but we’ve got a backup search plan. We’ve got an AWACS forward based in Saudi Arabia that can get a radar fix on anything moving within five hundred miles, but it will take some time to get there.”
“So you think there’s a possibility the plane might not have crashed.”
“It’s possible, but not probable, sir.” Colonel Welch put down the pointer. “Mr. Vice President, every electromagnetic signal emanating from Air Force One stopped at the same instant in time. If that occurs, then either the plane has lost all of its electrical power and the aircraft has crashed, or the units on the plane were deliberately shut off. Now, I can’t imagine that anyone would shut off everything on the plane. Even in combat our planes keep their IFF transponders working.”
Woodstone settled back in his chair. People spoke of the immense weight they shouldered while President, but he could only feel elation. It was hard to keep it to himself. He had an overwhelming desire to inquire about how Johnson took over after Kennedy’s assassination. Only how could he approach the subject without appearing callous—or eager, as he was?
His thoughts were broken by chief of staff Baca’s voice. “Mr. Woodstone, may I offer a few words of advice, with my background as an attorney?”
The words did not come as a request, but as a statement. Woodstone nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. Vice President, since we are out of contact with the President, you legally hold the power of the presidency. However, I think it would be wise to keep this information from public dissemination until the whereabouts of Air Force One may be ascertained. There are two reasons for this: first, you must be sworn in as President if the plane has indeed crashed. This must occur without any warning to the public, for although we are aware of the hierarchy of authority, the public’s faith in our system must not be shaken. We must ensure the logical transfer of legal power in an expedient manner.”
“Second, if the President’s plane is not found, we must assume that the plane has been hijacked. You would still be legally in charge, assuming authority as if the President was found to be incompetent. But whatever happens, I cannot reiterate strongly enough that the public’s faith must not be shaken.”
Colonel Welch interrupted before Woodstone could answer. “What do you mean, Air Force One could have been hijacked?”
“You said yourself, Colonel, that you couldn’t imagine why anyone would turn off all the plane’s communication systems. Well, I just threw out a possible scenario for you. If the plan was indeed hijacked, that could happen.”
“But that’s impossible! Everyone on that plane had at least a Top Secret clearance and was personally investigated by the FBI.”
Baca answered dryly, “And we still have insider-threats and spies in our government, too, Colonel. I don’t think we can rule anything out until the President’s plane is located.” He turned to Woodstone. “Mr. Vice President”—the word vice was faintly stressed—“again I recommend that this matter be kept quiet until the situation is cleared up. Until then, I suggest that you keep to the White House and run business as usual.”
Woodstone’s spirits soared, but he hid it well, keeping it to himself. “You’re right. Colonel, excellent job—and keep me posted on any news. I want to hear as soon as you find out anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Colonel stood as Woodstone and Baca left the room. Woodstone allowed Baca to hold the vault door for him but vowed that Baca would be the first to go when the President’s dead body was found. Hijacked indeed!
Air Force One—Over Iranian airspace
Hujr sat watching the President. The door to the rest of the plane was still barred by the couch, and the only light in the chamber was from a small lamp by Hujr’s side.
Hujr had it easy. All he had to do was to watch Montoya and make sure he followed directions. At the other end of the plane Du’Ali was doing the real work. He’d be watching two directions at once: inside the cockpit at the crew, and out, toward the back of the plane.
The last time Hujr had spoken to Du’Ali—not two minutes before—everything was going as planned. Du’Ali reported over the intercom and let Hujr know every two minutes that everything was well. Their communication code was simple: Du’Ali spoke in Do’brainese and each time said a new number to Hujr. The last time Du’Ali had spoken, the number had been eighteen. If the number nineteen was not repeated next, Hujr would know that something had happened. Du’Ali might have been forced to make his two-minute report, but no one would know their little code. Not in Do’brainese, anyway.
All communications gear had been destroyed, smashed by Du’Ali with a heavy iron pan. The plane’s running lights were turned off as well. Armed with only a kitchen knife, Du’Ali had been able to take over the cockpit. And once the crew had gained knowledge of Montoya’s capture, they offered no resistance.
Now Du’Ali watched both the cockpit and the rest of the plane armed with a Secret Service man’s Uzi. He was in absolute control. For even if there was someone on the plane who still had a weapon, all would die from Hujr’s bomb if they attempted to thwart the plan.
The knowledge put Hujr at ease. He allowed himself a slight smile with the anticipation of greeting his ALH brothers with the ultimate hostage.
Taurus Mountains
“Blue one, this is blue three—I’ve got a negatory visual on that IR spot.”
“What was it, three?”
“Looks like some goats … or some other type of wildlife. It’s not a plane, though.”
“Roger that, three. Stand by.” Captain Jimmy McCluney pulled his F-15C out of the banking turn and allowed the fighter to cruise level for a while. Playing mother hen to the rest of his flight at twenty thousand feet did not appeal to him. He was a wild weasel, a member of the new generation of fighter pilots who’d never seen combat, even in the Mexican Intervention, but who still loved to fly low and fast.
Knocking out enemy SAM and radar sites was his specialty. He was given grief by the air-to-air pilots who thought that the only thing that mattered was being an ace in combat. But Jimmy didn’t care for that. It was zooming along the deck at one hundred feet with his official altitude reported as three hundred, and “Bitchin’ Betsy”—the voice-actuated warning system—screaming for him to pull up! The excitement of rising over a ridge and just dodging a tower put his life squarely in the fast lane. There was nothing else like it. Let the air-to-air weenies play up in the clouds. It was down on the ground that he loved.
But here he was overseeing his flight for this make shift reconnaissance mission. If his flight hadn’t of been in the area, heading back from Bahrain to Torreon, there would have been no one else around to help out. And now that he was a senior captain, he had to direct the whole operation on the fly instead of flying close to the ground with the rest of the boys. That’s what he didn’t like about the air force. As soon as he became the best in his field, they booted him upstairs as a manager to oversee the rookies.