Acknowledgements:
I’d like to thank my family and friends for encouraging me to pursue the dream of publishing. Special thanks to Sean & Kelly, my kids, whom I love, their mother, Janis with whom I spent 19 years and to my editor, April, who helped me find better ways to spell. To those I know in the aerospace industry where I make my living, apologies for taking liberty with technology and politics. Special thanks to John for help with the cover.
No character, living or dead, is portrayed in this book, but I’ve drawn on life’s experiences and my interactions with several key players I’ve known throughout the years to develop composite characters, some of whom are believable, some of whom are paper thin, but help move the story along. To those characters in my life who sparked this creativity, thank you. Finally, thanks to Dean Koontz and Stephen King whose creativity and story telling abilities, I totally enjoy, study, and try to emulate as best I can.
Copyright 2013 by William Hutchison
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
BOOK 2
CHAPTER 1 UNHOLY ALLIANCE
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
Postlogue
SIGMA ONE
by
William Hutchison
CHAPTER 1
Burt Grayson stared at the blinking prompt on the screen of his personal computer. With each flash, his concentration deepened. Almost imperceptibly the pulsating green light slowed its rhythm, matching Burt's heartbeat which was also slowing as he slipped into a state of semi-consciousness.
Suddenly, the prompt dimmed entirely and the screen went black. Simultaneously, Burt's heart stopped, his eyelids drooped and his head slumped forward slightly. Had he not been seated upright, it would have come crashing down onto the keyboard placed in front of him.
After the screen had sat vacant for ten to twenty seconds with no sign of life, the prompt magically reappeared. This time, however, it glowed steadily in the upper left hand corner of the screen, refusing to blink as it had just moments before. Burt sat motionless. His curly brown hair was drenched in sweat. His black, horn-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose and reflected the stubborn green pinpoint dash of light on the computer screen. The video camera which he had set up to monitor his experiment continued to record in the background, the lens pointed directly at him and his computer screen. Its dull, but soft whirr, as the tape reeled forward combined with that of the PC fan and disk drive, were the only sounds which could be heard in his dormitory room.
The silence was unusual this early at night. It was only eight thirty, October 25, 1990. Normally at this time the dorm would be filled with activity as other Cal Poly undergraduates ran up and down the halls borrowing books, blaring their stereos into the hall or just gathering in clutches bullshitting, and generally making it impossible for anyone to concentrate--especially Burt. The slightest noise would distract him, and he had had to put off running this experiment for three weeks as a result. Tonight, though, Phil Collin's free benefit concert had emptied the dormitory just as he had planned and the ensuing silence had allowed him to reach the state of deep concentration he needed to tune into the computer positioned before him.
Burt's eyes were slightly open--his pupils dilated as he stared into the monitor. The green phosphorous prompt continued to glow steadily and cast its eerie light on his face. Burt's fingernails were starting to turn slightly gray as the circulation in his body slowed.
Suddenly, the green dash on the screen began to glow bright and then dim again. A slight pulse was also being recorded by the electro cardiogram hooked to his right arm.
Burt opened his eyes wide and stared at the screen, letting out a deep sigh as he did. The prompt had returned to its normal blinking rhythm. His pulse was also registering 65 beats per minute beating, at every third flash of light.
Burt spoke. "All right. That's it! I've had it with you." His comments were directed toward the screen and the stubborn, blinking light which taunted him.
Burt continued angrily. "Move, damn it! Move!"
With this last comment, the green dash on the screen began to slowly move to the right a space at a time. As it did, Burt blinked his eyes. The dash stopped instantly. Opening his eyes again, Burt furrowed his brow. His concentration deepened and new beads of sweat appeared on his temples. Gritting his teeth, he thought to himself, "Move. Damn it. Move!"
The dash instantly glided to the right corner of the screen and then stopped--again not blinking.
Burt smiled at his singular accomplishment, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped forward, this time hitting his head on the keyboard with a dull thump. The video camera continued to record the entire event.
CHAPTER 2
Senator Radcliff poured himself another shot of bourbon and leaned forward on his desk thumbing the pages of the latest briefing book he'd received Parlier that day on the SIGMA ONE project. Staring at the graph on the second page he noted the x axis plotted relative investment in destructive power, measured in Megatons of Equivalent arr. On the vertical axis, relative effectiveness of various strategic options was plotted and various project code names reflected the data shown on the scatter diagram. By looking at the points, it was clear to see that the relative bang for the buck for all but one of the numerous options was fairly close, but that the one labeled SIGMA ONE clearly outperformed them all. He chuckled to himself, and his gray bushy eyebrows rose as he pondered the consequence of the chart lying before him.
The briefing was given to him earlier on his request by Dr. Patterson Huxley, project director for SIGMA ONE. Curing the briefing, Pat had made it very clear indeed that continued funding was an absolute necessity. "A great investment!" he had said pointing to the same chart Radcliff was staring at now. The chart certainly seemed to indicate that. But of course, Pat would say that. This project was his gold watch and as the project director, it was his duty to defend it. And he certainly was a polished briefer. Senator Radcliff remembered thinking that if he had control of all the agencies' budgets that were feeding this gigantic project, he'd be more than glad to cut lesser programs out, just to continue this one hopeful panacea for mankind. But he didn't have that control, and if continued funding was to be forthcoming, - it would be an uphill battle. That's why he'd asked for the briefing in the first place. If he were going to champion Pat's cause, he'd need data. The other Senators on the hill and their staffers would be asking some pretty tough questions now that the federal, deficit was getting so much attention from the press. A few might even try to grandstand and get the project cancelled completely just to feather their own nests by funding their own pet programs with the "fallout" funds from SIGMA ONE. (He grinned at his choice of words and went back to studying the data.) He knew that if he didn't have the answers in the committee meetings, his cr
edibility, the project's future and indeed, any chances he might have for re-election would be in jeopardy.
SIGMA ONE was being pursued by the National Security Foundation, a private agency, not government controlled, and had been since its inception in 1979. This was done to minimize public scrutiny into the actual total funding it was receiving, which by now, in fiscal eighty-eight dollars, approached 5 billion dollars. It was also set up as a private enterprise to minimize the risk to the numerous governmental agencies which were taxed each budget cycle to support it, rather than identifying it with one agency. If it failed, the political consequences of such failure could be shared. Also, with so many agencies participating, the total fiscal risk to any one was minuscule.
Still, the senator noted as he flipped to the next chart that funding had increased some twenty-five fold in the last ten years since the project's inception, and if he had to stand up and defend the outlays in terms of the accomplishments that the NSF had made, he would be hard-pressed to point to any astonishing breakthroughs.
The appeal of SIGMA ONE was simple enough: use thought control to destroy enemy computer data bases and then force the aggressors into surrender, without ever firing a shot. It sure beat blowing hell out of innocent civilians, and there were no known countermeasures to such an assault; if such an assault could be made. And that's what the NSF was to research and find a solution for.
Radcliff poured himself another slug of bourbon and continued thumbing through the briefing. The first five charts were physics mumbo jumbo to him; fraught with equations and pictures of micro-circuit manufacturing jargon. He didn't understand them at all and he doubted that his senatorial counterparts would either. He made a mental note to tell Pat that he'd better come up with a better way to introduce the main idea behind SIGMA ONE.
He did understand the pictures, though. Micro-circuits controlled everything. And micro-circuits were programmed by people. (Isn't that what the picture of the man sitting in front of the keyboard was- trying to say?)
The next chart was even easier to understand. It showed a cut-away view of a Russian missile guidance system. It was beautiful, with every part shown in fine detail. (He wondered how we got a hold of this one.) Each part was expertly labeled and a blowup of the inner workings of the computer showed exactly which parts contained the critical guidance information. Reside this blowup were the words, "with the proper bits of information reprogrammed, this missile would be launched, rise to a height of 900 meters, execute a 180 degree pitch over, and return to its point of origin, wherein it would explode rendering the nuclear payload harmless."
The next chart showed another picture of a Soviet missile; this time deep in its buried silo. Again, another blowup picture centered on the launch control complex and the launch control computer central processing unit was shown. Next to the blowup were the words "reprogramming of this part of the computer would cause engine ignition twenty seconds before outer door opening, causing the missile to collide with the doors and, hence, self-destruct without leaving the silo."
Radcliff compared the two alternatives in his mind. The first might release radioactive material into the atmosphere. He remembered Chernobyl and the pitiful pictures of the effects of contamination on the reindeer in Lapland and decided this would not be a good choice.
The second alternative with the missile exploding in the ground would cause the deadly material to be entombed for eternity. Sure, the nuclear waste disposal teams might have a difficult time, and the ground water might be contaminated in the future, but the effects would be far less immediately harmful to mankind. He liked this choice better, grinned and took another slug of bourbon.
In his mind, he formulated a question he might get asked tomorrow at the hearings: "And how does this reprogramming get accomplished?" He pondered this and tried to imagine some answers while the bourbon took effect.
He scratched his chin and thought, "I know, we'll get moles into the Soviet Rocket Forces and have them accomplish the reprogramming, and then announce the results to Moscow." He shook his head: Not very feasible. The screening process for Strategic Rocket Force duty was too stringent and the risks too great if the moles were discovered.
He thought again of another answer to get the reprogramming done. "By selectively letting the Soviets buy key software technology from the United States for micro-circuit manufacturing through a third party, we could let them think they were putting one over on Uncle Sam? All the while we could make sure the software they would be buying was defective and secretly modified with critical bugs such that when they went to make the layouts for their own microcircuits the bugs would result in the production of defective parts which could be reprogrammed by the US via satellite microwave links after they had been installed!"
He shook his head again.
Hardly likely. How would we know the Soviets wouldn't find the bugs and fix them? He wrinkled his brow as he pondered this question.
He flipped the next chart. Pictured here was the same Soviet Rocket complex, the same blowup picture of the CPU, but outside the picture was a picture of a person dressed in (you guessed it) the old red white and blue. Squiggly waves were shown emanating from his head and were being focused at the CPU. The words next to the blowup of the CPU now read "US personnel selectively recruited and trained to mind meld with computers could dynamically reprogram Soviet Rocket Forces without ever leaving US soil. Selective "launch accidents" could be planned and announced in advance, proving the omnipotent potential of such technology, thus forcing the Soviet Union into complete surrender."
He liked this idea far better, but his head was becoming groggy as he finished the last of the whiskey in his glass. He then closed the book, went to his safe, locked it and left his office for the night.
He had all the ammunition he needed. Who could argue such a brilliant concept? "Hell, what's another 2 to 3 billion in investment?" he said to himself as he walked out of the building.
CHAPTER 3
Patrick Huxley had followed a varied career path, both in and out of the government. Graduated from Annapolis as a midshipman in 1969 at the age of twenty-two, he had served his nation in only one military campaign-the evacuation of the United States embassy in South Vietnam in March 1972. That conflict changed his life.
There, during that brief encounter with his first live firing incident, his Corsair took three stray bullets from the rooftops as he flew in low over the huddled shacks south of the city. His plane's oil pressure dropped dramatically just seconds after the first of the rounds pierced the oil lines and as he turned his head he could see dark smoke pouring out from under his left wing. He had had to abort, even before he was able to fire a shot at the enemy. That had pissed him off.
Somewhere out in the Gulf, he jettisoned his ordnance and wing tanks to minimize the risk of an explosion thinking he would be lucky enough to limp his aircraft back onto the decks of the Coral Sea. Before he hit the release, however, he squeezed off a couple of hundred rounds and watched as the bullets riddled the choppy waters in front of him. His anger increased as he realized no one was receiving his twenty millimeter greeting cards.
He cursed his foul luck at not being able to complete his mission.
Just as he lifted his finger from the trigger and prepared to radio in, his plane shuddered violently and started to lose altitude. His altimeter slowly wound down as he watched. Because he was only at 10,000 feet, he knew his rate of descent would put him a good twenty miles away from the aircraft carrier when his plane finally augured in.
Forgetting his procedures momentarily, he raised the nose of the plane slightly to diminish his rate of descent and applied what little power he had left. The aircraft shuddered again, and the airspeed indicator slowed as did his rate of fall as the engines generated what little thrust they had left. He hoped it would be enough to allow him to climb to flight level two zero zero (20,000 feet). At that altitude, then, even if his engine quit, he'd be within line of site to the Coral Sea and could radi
o his position to them before punching out and burying his 20 million dollar machine in the sea. Hell, he might even have enough to land if the engine could just hold on for a few more minutes.
He waited and watched as the altimeter began to indicate he was in a slow and steady climb. His heart raced and his hands began to sweat as he gripped the throttle and the stick. His plan almost worked, but as he passed through twelve thousand feet, the engine gave one last violent shudder and then quit. The oil pressure dropped to zero, and his momentary upward progress was suddenly halted. The Corsair pitched over and began to fall from the sky. His initial reaction was to try and restart the engine, but with only twelve thousand feet between him and the deck, he knew that he would be wasting valuable time--time he would need to call in; time for one of the helos in the area to respond to his call so that he wouldn't be left to fend for himself in the shark infested waters. He also knew he would need time to steady the craft before punching out so his ejection could be made safely.
He instinctively lowered the nose to pick up airspeed and avoid a stall. Fortunately he reacted in time and only seconds before he ejected he was able to contact his ship and give them his position. Had it not been for getting his parachute lines tangled on the way down, all he would have had to show for his accident would have been an oblique entry in a previously flawless military service record. But he wasn't that lucky and a fouled parachute line caused his fall to be severe and uncontrolled. When he hit the water, his right leg was bent backwards and the impact caused him to dislocate his hip. That injury ended his flying and caused him to now walk with a permanent limp. It also shortened his military career.
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