by JT Kalnay
“Network logs?” Tim asked.
“It’s all right here on this disk. Have a look. See for yourself.” He slid the disk across the bar.
Craig leaned his head back to drain the last sip from the bottle. The bar stool titled back, to the edge of tipping. Tim sprang to his feet and righted Craig. Craig’s head fell forward onto the bar with a hollow thunk.
“He’s out,” Tim said.
“Yep. So what the hell was he talking about?”
“He thinks that plane crash where his girlfriend died was his fault. Thinks somehow his software and the Marauder code caused it to crash,” Tim said.
“Is that possible?” Frank asked.
“I sure as hell hope not,” Tim said.
“You don’t know?” Frank asked.
“No. But I’m damn certain going to find out.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Frank asked.
“He doesn’t need to know,” Tim answered.
Chapter
July 16, 1994
San Francisco, California
“This is pretty interesting stuff Craig. But I don’t know that it’s conclusive. It could all be a coincidence. I mean there were plenty of wrecks before all this,” Tim Ford said.
“Tim. Come on. Look at the data. Four hours of traffic to Turkey the day before the helicopters get shot down. My friend that I was playing Marauder with the night before works at the Air Force Base that launched the AWACS,” Craig said.
“I agree it’s fishy, but maybe your buddy spent so much time fooling around with the game that he forgot to service the part of the aircraft responsible for IFF processing.”
“Maybe. But what about the network flow to and from APSoft and Ancirik?” Craig asked.
“All the logs show is volume. They don’t show the type of flow. There might have been a bad connection and each packet got sent twenty times before it was received or timed out,” Tim said.
“That accounts for volume during play, but what about after we were done?”
“You told me you found a problem with how the guy closed his sockets. That it looked like he’d written the game for a single tasking operating system and didn’t anticipate the multi-tasking operating system producing a race condition between the modules in the game,” Tim said.
“Okay Tim. In isolation you can explain away Ancirik. But what about the B-52? And the two crashes in China? And Charlotte?” Craig demanded.
“Craig the network logs show nothing around the time of the B-52 or Charlotte,” Tim said.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. But here’s what bothers me and makes me think you’re right after all. It’s the China Air stuff. You send one email to your friend from college who works in Hong Kong. One little email. You don’t play the game or anything. But if you look at the network flow logs, you see the same type of activity as just before Ancirik, right after playing the game.”
Craig leaned in to look over the charts with his blood-shot, hungover eyes.
“Oh Geez,” Craig moaned. His hands went to his forehead.
“Don’t move too fast,” Tim chided.
“Screw you,” Craig said. He got up and limped to the kitchen.
“Just get your hangover potion and get back in here,” Tim said.
Craig eased back into the office, Alka Seltzer bubbling in his hand.
“Now here’s what you’ve got to look for,” Tim said. “You see these three graphs? Each one represents an unusual flow just before a crash. Ancirik/April 23rd, Nagoya/April 26, Hong Kong/June 5. See that? That little spike right there? And then that thing that looks like an upside down heartbeat?” Tim asked.
“Yeah,” Craig said. “I see it.”
“That’s what you’ve got to look for,” Tim said.
“Easier said than done,” Craig moaned.
“Hey. I thought you were the super programmer? And what about those neural network programs you are always talking about? I thought they were supposed to be pattern matchers? Isn’t this pattern matching?” Tim asked.
Craig took a sip on his Alka Seltzer. Then another, deeper drink. He squinted his eyes and puckered his mouth. “Ugh,” Craig belched. A vile taste of day after booze escaped him.
“Get any of that on you?” Tim asked.
Craig managed a weak smile.
“You’re right Tim. It’s a pattern matching problem. I can solve it. But it won’t do any good unless we can get it into every airliner and airport in the world. And into APSoft too.”
“You worry about writing it. I’ll worry about getting it where it needs to be,” Tim said.
Craig narrowed his eyes and looked Tim up and down. He clucked his tongue then sucked on a tooth.
“Should I ask?” Craig asked.
“I don’t think so,” Tim said.
Craig pondered the answer.
“So I write this program. You get it, distributed, let’s say. And we find out something strange is happening. Or is going to happen. What do I do?”
“I don’t know. Call in a bomb threat or something,” Tim said.
“Yeah I don’t know either,” Craig said.
The two men thought for a moment. In a football game the fans would feel the momentum slipping away from their team.
“I don’t know. But I bet I know who would know,” Craig said.
“Who?” Tim asked.
“Jean. Let’s get her down here. I don’t think we should admit to all my intended criminal activity over the phone, so let’s get her down here.”
“Think she’ll come?” Tim asked.
“Think so.”
“So let’s get her,” Tim said.
Craig thought he saw an indecent smile flicker across Tim’s face as he reached for the phone.
"Right. But first I have to do something. I have to go to Colorado for a while. So I'll call her when I get back.
Chapter
July 18, 1994
Weston Pass Road, Colorado
The radio announced that it was 98 degrees in Denver, 97 in Colorado Springs, and 95 in Buena Vista. Here, up higher, it was cooler, but still unusually hot. The knee deep snow drifts that had covered the road in spring were long gone. Craig eased the rented pickup truck forward over the rocks, ruts, and creeks that made the road more obstacle course than road.
"Don't think I'll need the tire chains today," he said.
Cradled in the seat beside him were Stacey's ashes. Her instructions had been clear. Though her family had been difficult, in the end they had acquiesced, knowing how much she'd loved the hills. Craig continued upwards towards the pass, trying to find the pullout on the left hand side under the steep slope they had climbed together in the spring. But it was all so different. He watched the odometer and kept crawling forward until the gauge told him he was at the right spot. Then he stopped and slowly began preparing to climb back up Ptarmigan Peak, alone but for a Frisbee, her ashes, and what he figured was enough food, water, and clothing.
#
Step by step he inched up the steep slope. At the start he'd gone a few hundred steps at a time before stopping to take a breath and have a sip of water. Here, near what he hoped was the top, he could only go a few dozen steps before having to stop and catch his breath. Just a few weeks of sloth had seriously diminished his springtime fitness.
"You'd be embarrassed for me," he said to Stacey.
And then he inched further upwards, finally gaining the pile of rocks that guarded the summit. Twenty minutes of scrambling up fractured granite boulders piled in confusing jumbles brought him to the peak. On the west side, the rock was scoured clean. On the east side, a heavy cornice of snow hung over a three thousand foot cliff. There was no sound, not a breath of air. Far off Craig thought he could see a herd of mountain goats grazing on fresh summer sprouts. As he looked around he remembered being in this exact same spot with Stacey in the spring. But it was different. The view to the east was blocked by smoke and smog from several large forest fires. To the south, a haz
e blocked his view of the San Juans. He could see west towards La Plata and Elbert and Massive, but when he finally looked north his view was completely blocked by Colorado's typical afternoon thunderstorms. A more experienced climber would have been back in town by now, would never have started so late. But Craig had come alone, and didn't know about the danger of being so high on a hot summer afternoon. He stared at the thunderstorms not fully comprehending the danger.
"There ought to be a good breeze in that thing," he said to her ashes.
Craig re-arranged a few rocks and sat down. He drank his last drinks of water, and changed into a dry shirt. Then he nibbled on some Doritos. The thunderstorm drew closer. After a while he began to see bolts of lightning traveling the very short distance from the cloud bottoms to the mountain tops to his north. While the thunder still sounded a long way off, it was drawing closer. A few more strikes and Craig sat up a little straighter.
"I wonder if you can get hit by lightning on a mountain?" he asked her ashes.
The calm air suddenly begin to stir. What had been a quiet afternoon began to change quickly into something Craig had never experienced quite so closely. In five minutes the wind had picked up to at least thirty miles per hour, with gusts blowing much harder. Transfixed by the approaching storm, Craig remained motionless, rooted to the peak, one hand on the jar that held her ashes.
A lightning bolt sparked onto a lesser peak a mile north, with the thunderclap booming only seconds behind. "I think I better get out of here," Craig said. He grabbed Stacey's ashes, lowered his head in a quiet prayer and fumbled with the lid, finally getting it unscrewed. Before he could toss the ashes, the wind pulled them out of the jar and carried them south then west then farther west and then away. Craig sat the jar down and began walking as fast as he could back down the hill.
Another lightning bolt split the sky, the thunder sounding almost instantly. Craig smelled ozone, and felt the electric charge in the air all round him. He started walking faster, stumbled, regained his footing, and tried to walk even faster. Huge raindrops splattered down in ones and twos, gathering strength, and intensity, until the rock was wet and slippery. Craig's cotton shirt was instantly soaked, and he felt a shiver, though he wasn't sure whether it was cold or fear.
"Stacey. What do I do?" he said.
He tried to run, but the slippery rock and the thin air made it hard to do. He looked back into the black storm and felt the sizzle of lightning building. A blinding flash exploded, consuming everything he could perceive. A suck of air preceded a taste of copper in his mouth before the thunder finally deafened him. He took another quick step and fell hard. He heard the bones in his wrist snap, felt his ankle twist beneath him, and vaguely sensed an eruption in his head as it cracked on a wet, moss-covered boulder. Lying in a heap, 13,800 feet above sea level, electricity zinging all round, in his last conscious moment, he thought he saw Stacey walking towards him.
"I love you," he said, and then his world went black.
Chapter
July 26, 1994
San Francisco, California
“So why did you drag me down here? Why all the secrecy? And what did you do to your wrist?” Jean asked.
“I hurt it when I slipped in Colorado, looking after Stacey's ashes. And we dragged you down here because we need your help,” Craig answered.
“We?” Jean asked.
“Tim and I. We’re pretty sure about what’s happening right before the crashes. We can identify a pattern in computer interactions with networks they’re connected to. Problem is we don’t have the first clue what to do once we know something is going to happen. I mean what am I supposed to do? Call in a bomb threat? We were hoping you could help.”
“Why is Tim helping?”
“I don’t know. But I’m glad he is.”
Jean pondered this development for a moment.
“What would you like to have happen when you notice this pattern?” Jean asked.
“Get all the planes out of the sky and keep them out,” Craig said.
“For how long?”
“Until they can shut down, clean up and isolate their networks, double check the plane’s software, I guess,” Craig said.
“That all?”
“And maybe reinstall software from before a critical date.”
“Can’t you write some program to do that?” Jean asked.
“Maybe in a million years. And I’d probably be breaking a thousand laws if I ‘distributed’ that software,” Craig said sharply.
“Hey I was only trying to help,” Jean said.
“Sorry. I’m really happy you came down. Thanks for coming down here. Let’s get back to my place and think this over. With you and me and Tim we’ll come up with something good. I just know it,” Craig said.
“Tim’s over at your place now?” Jean asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason,” Jean said. She pulled a little mirror from her bag and made a few dabs with a lipstick and a blush.
“We don’t have time for that,” Craig said.
“There’s always time for that,” Jean said, winking at Craig.
#
“We need a break,” Tim said.
Craig leaned back on the couch in his home’s office. Neck bones popped loudly. He rolled his head left and right.
“Yech,” Jean said, wincing at the popping noises.
Craig looked at his watch.
“And that’s after only three hours. You should hear it after an all nighter,” Craig said. He got up and stretched his back. There were more cracks. “I’ve got to go for a run. Get the juices flowing. I always think better when I run,” Craig said.
“You can run with that broken wrist?” Jean asked.
“And that ankle?” Tim asked.
“Alright, I’ll go for a shuffle.”
“Have fun,” Tim said. “I think I’ll have a nap.”
Jean looked over at Tim and gave him a little smile that Craig didn’t see.
“Or maybe I won’t. How long are you going to be gone?” Tim asked.
“About an hour,” Craig answered.
“Okay. And then let’s get something simple to eat. I’m hungry,” Jean said.
“Great. It’s all set. See you in an hour,” Craig said. He walked over to the front door and tried to stretch his calves. “Ouch” he said, reaching for his ankle. “Maybe it’ll be a real slow shuffle,” he said. “And oh yeah. You two use the guest room alright? I just washed the sheets in my room.” Craig ducked the pillow Jean fired at him and headed out the door.
#
“Have a good walk?” Jean asked.
“Yeah I did,” Craig answered. “Where’s Tim?”
“Sleeping,” Jean answered. She blushed. “Don’t ask.”
“Uh huh,” Craig said.
“Did you get any ideas about the code while you were walking?” Jean asked.
“Not really. I was thinking more about Stacey."
"You think about her a lot?"
"All the time."
"I think that's probably a good thing," Jean said.
"Sometimes it is, and sometimes I think I think about her too much."
"Too much?"
"Yeah. Like in Colorado. I was sure she was right there with me."
"How so?"
"Well, you're probably going to think I'm delusional or something if I tell you."
"With what you've been through, you're entitled to a few delusions."
"Okay, well here it is. I climbed up a mountain we'd climbed last spring. Apparently there's more to climbing than just walking uphill. Stacey knew all about it, and I just kind of followed her. But last week, when I went up there to spread her ashes, I found out it's kind of dangerous."
"You fell, right?"
"Falling isn't the really dangerous part, unless you're doing something stupid. It's the weather, and dehydration, and not knowing what to be scared about." Craig drifted off for a minute.
"So where did Stacey come in
?" Jean prodded.
"I got caught out in a thunderstorm. Annoying at sea level, potentially fatal when you're actually IN the thunderclouds. The lightning and thunder were right on top of each other, and you could feel the electricity in the air. I don't think I got hit, but I came pretty close. And it got really windy and rainy and then cold. It must have been ninety down in the valley, but up high, in the wind and rain, it couldn't have been more than fifty, maybe forty with the wind-chill and everything."
Jean felt the cold with him as he continued his story. Her skin practically goosed up.
"So the path got pretty slippery in the rain, and I wasn't really paying the best attention, since I was thinking about her, and I tripped. I turned my ankle, then broke my fall with my wrist and my head."
“Then what happened?”
“I’m not sure. I must have hit my head pretty hard. When I woke up it was dark.”
"What'd you do?"
"I had a few things that Stacey had made me carry when we went up in the winter, some tape, an elastic bandage, a whistle and whatnot. So I wrapped up and taped up the best I could then started picking my way down very very slowly. About every five minutes I'd do an SOS on my whistle. I made it about two thirds of the way down, and then some people who were scouting mountain goats up high heard my whistle. They came and helped me the rest of the way down."
"I thought you said you had a hallucination or something."
"Well, here's the crazy part. When I was picking my way down, I couldn't really find the path. So Stacey helped."
"Helped how?"
"She took my hand and lead me down."
"You saw her?"
"And felt her. She was as real to me then as she'd ever been. I knew it wasn't real. Well, mostly I knew it wasn't real. A couple times I thought I'd died and was being lead somewhere by her angel, but I knew it had to be my subconscious or something helping me."
"Craig? That doesn't sound delusional at all."
Chapter
July 27, 1994
San Francisco, California
"Hey Jean, what if I figure out how to just shut everything down? I mean they’d have to ground their planes right?” Craig asked.