Unshaken, al-Mashhadi continued. “The point is this, Excellency. We’ll likely get an opportunity to cripple the Allies’ killer satellite armada without firing a shot and without revealing our hand.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” scoffed the Iraqi President, checking his watch.
Al-Mashhadi explained. “The American Army showed The Bad Seed us what to do with the ECM (electronic countermeasures) work they did on computer viruses. The Zionists planned to plant battlefield viruses in our communications systems using their own radio transmissions. They buried this idea after they found their equipment was more susceptible to viruses than ours.”
Al-Mashhadi slowly extended his large hand in the direction of a dark small man, dressed in an Army uniform, sitting next to the view graph projector. Motioning for the man to rise, he continued with an introduction.
“Colonel Nassar’s the head of our ECM organization. Educated in America, he received his ECM training from MIT and the U.S. Army. He’ll give you a summary of where we stand.”
Confident, al-Mashhadi sat down as Colonel Nassar cleared his throat. “As some of you know, we had a significant breakthrough two years ago in the area of battlefield grade computer viruses. We created a virus code-named PAM—an adaptive computer program that exists only to survive.”
“PAM?” The name caught the President’s attention.
Nassar nodded thoughtfully. “The code name is intended to deceive, Excellency. The acronym stands for Perpetual Adaptive Monitor. It means nothing to most people.”
The Iraqi President gave Colonel Nassar an uneasy glance. “Survive. How?”
Nassar took a second to frame his response, then looked straight into the President’s eyes. “PAM is incapable of remorse and ruthless beyond belief. Once a virgin PAM program starts running, it cannot be stopped—PAM can’t be destroyed.” Nassar paused, allowing his words to linger, but showed no sign of fear or weakness. Allah would protect him. After working with PAM for two years, he knew in his soul what she was about.
“I am interested, Colonel,” the President announced, impressed with the intense little colonel.
Nassar continued with a tone marked by seriousness. “PAM’s a computer program—nothing more, but she looks like something she’s not. In that respect, she’s a Trojan horse—a program that does what she’s supposed to do, but unknown to the Allies, she’ll quietly perform our bidding. She’s also a snake, but her symptoms are subtle. She doesn’t crash a computer like an ordinary snake, she takes control and slows it down.
“Loosely speaking, PAM’s a bad seed. I mean she is born bad—bad from the moment she’s created. When threatened, she reproduces then protects herself. Nothing can be done to stop her—like nothing I’ve ever seen. Capable of lying dormant indefinitely, once PAM takes root, she and her children exist only to survive and propagate their own kind.
“PAM’s built around three separate pieces of software created by the American Army, Air Force, and CIA. Our breakthrough came when we modified this software using genetic programming. Darwin’s theory of natural selection provided PAM’s reproductive algorithm, and consequently only the fittest, most virulent strains survive. Originally, her heartbeat came from the Army’s threat analysis software. It evaluates threats around the clock. PAM’s eyes and ears were developed by the CIA—a program named Snoopy which monitors people and computer chatter. It keys on sensitive information like threats, security keys, and passwords. The secret of PAM’s survival and the software that makes her dangerous is her Weapon Systems Management program created by the Air Force. That’s where the action is—the software she lives by. PAM eliminates anyone or anything that threatens her directly. She monitors what’s going on around her and if she’s threatened, she’ll protect herself. Once PAM’s running on Centurion, she’ll control every killer satellite—their entire orbiting armada. PAM’s single purpose for existence is survival—she lives only to consume computer time. Nobody hurts her unharmed!”
After allowing the full significance of his last comment to sink in, the colonel concluded, “PAM’s ready. We’ve tested her for two years.”
Satisfied, the Iraqi President allowed the commanding The Bad Seed general of the Air Force to question Nassar. “Why did she take so long to test?”
“Two reasons. She’s complex and she moves.” The colonel went on to explain. “Her complexity pushes our testing capability to the limits, and when threatened, she moves from one computer to another. When we’d look for her, she’d move to another computer over a communication link. As I said earlier, her symptoms are subtle, never obvious.”
“Well—get to the point, Colonel. How do you plan to cripple their missile killer satellites?”
Nassar let out a long breath before answering. “What I reveal now must not leave this room.” Slowly, the colonel made eye contact with every man present. After everyone nodded agreement, he continued.
“As you know, SDI programs are built and tested at the Lawrence Livermore Lab. What you may not know is that we have strategically placed an agent—a computer security specialist—inside Livermore. Two years ago, he played a crucial role in PAM’s development by providing us SDI source code. Today, he has a copy of PAM on site and is prepared to plant our bad seed.”
“What about their software testing and quality controls?” asked the general. “They’ll detect PAM during their testing.”
“We have reason to believe their normal software testing cycle may be bypassed.” Nassar was quietly positive. “High Ground, the Allied stealth missile detection project, is over two years behind schedule and over budget. Our source inside Cheyenne Mountain believes the survival of the High Ground project depends on the results obtained during their next few days of testing. If they have problems, there will be enormous pressure to shortcut their time-consuming quality controls. Our best information indicates that they must show success or place the High Ground project at risk. The odds are shifting in our favor, Excellency.” Colonel Nassar paused, again looked the President directly in the eyes, then spoke clearly in a quiet voice. “If we get confirmation their testing will be bypassed, I propose we include PAM in the Star Wars program build.”
Thoughtfully gazing at the ceiling, the Iraqi President put both hands behind his head. “I understand your proposal, Colonel. I’d like you to answer a few direct questions for me. First, can PAM be traced? Could Iraq be held accountable or implicated in any way?”
“Impossible. PAM resulted from theoretical work first funded by the U.S. Army before the turn of the century. I expect that’s where the Allies will lay blame. Virus programs like PAM are difficult, if not impossible, to trace.” “What if our agents are discovered?”
“Inshallah—(God willing)—the Chief of Military Intelligence responded. “They will die as martyrs on the altar of Islam.”
“Allahu Akbar,” al-Mashhadi added somberly. “Stalin sacrificed ten million souls to preserve the Bolshevik revolution. Iraq is prepared to do likewise.”
“And strategically? Are we keeping the pressure on?” “We’ve got two Kilo-class subs parked within range of Washington and New York.”
“The Allies know this?”
Nassar allowed a thin smile. “The infidels stalk our missile drills.” The Russian Kilo-class submarine was an older diesel-electric and easily detected unless running off battery.
“That is good,” the Iraqi President concluded. “What should I expect when you plant your bad seed?”
Slowly, clearly, Colonel Nassar responded. “I can make no promises, Excellency, but we expect to plant PAM in Centurion. PAM behaves more like a program cancer than a virus. When threatened, she’ll spread like wildfire. She’ll infect every computer on Freedom, then the Allies will lose control of their satellite armada.”
“What does it mean—to lose control of a satellite armada?”
“I’m sure of one thing—the Maronites (enemies of Allah) will wish they’d never been bom.”
The Iraqi Pre
sident nodded and accepted this not for technical reasons, but because Colonel Nassar believed it. “After PAM—what about our stealth cruise missiles? Will they fly undetected?”
“Inshallah but 1 cannot promise this. Once PAM takes over, she’ll control their orbiting death machines—their DEWSATs. Their SDI testing will be delayed until they eliminate PAM. The infidels must eliminate PAM, but she won’t allow anyone or anything to approach her. She won’t allow anything through the Star Wars layers of warhead satellites—nothing launched from earth can penetrate their deadly DEWSAT layer. She won’t allow anything near Space Station Freedom. To eliminate PAM the Allies must disconnect Centurion. To disconnect Centurion, they must board Freedom. PAM won’t let it happen—she won’t tolerate threats. PAM will turn the Zionist technology of death against the infidels.”
Colonel Nassar paused. Looking around the table at the Iraqi party of God members, he saw the glimmer of revenge in their eyes. He felt exhilaration knowing his place in history was about to unfold. Revenge for the Persian Gulf War was within their grasp. Nassar looked at the faces of each Cabinet member and recalled that each had suffered loss during the infidel invasion. With Allah’s help, he had reached into the depths of their darkened souls and uncovered their reason for living. They sat thunderstruck, their tongues still, their jaws slack.
“Let me be clear on this point,” Colonel Nassar concluded. “1 believe the PAM virus intractable—a problem without solution.”
“A problem without solution,” the Iraqi President repeated quietly. “What do you mean exactly?”
“A technical problem without technical solution. Once PAM spreads to Centurion’s subordinate computers, we can’t postulate a plausible technical solution. We can’t figure any way to disconnect Centurion because Freedom's a fortress built for Centurion’s protection.”
“Any possibility of random destruction? Any danger to our people?”
“Possible—but not likely.”
The Iraqi President studied the faces of each Cabinet member. Each party of God member nodded in agreement, quietly repeating, “Allahu Akbar. ” Revenge against the infidels would be sweet.
“We’ve nothing to lose,” the Iraqi President observed with a look of satisfaction in his eyes. “Very well, Colonel, if the opportunity presents itself, plant your bad seed.”
6
Takeoff, 1210712014, 1040 Zulu, 2:40 AM. Local
Hull Fire's Cockpit,
Sooth Facing Runway,
Edwards AFB, California
Sitting forty feet above the runway with Hell Fire's brakes locked, Scott individually throttled each scramjet engine to full military power while her flight computer monitored fuel consumption and power output. After the last engine had been checked, Hell Fire's flight computer flashed a green AH Systems Go message across her flat panel display. She looked up, gazed out of the cockpit down the vast expanse of runway stretched out before her, and felt satisfied that Hell Fire was airworthy. Sealed inside her fully pressurized flight suit, she felt a trickle of perspiration running down her throttle arm. Scott adjusted the air-conditioning in her suit, read the time from her cockpit clock, then thought the action should begin soon.
While Scott checked the power plant, Gonzo checked the Global Position System against the reference position posted on a sign standing by the side of the runway— everything looked good.
“Hell Fire, you’re cleared for takeoff,” echoed Edward’s control tower.
“Mac, Gonzo—you ready?” Scott asked, advancing engine one’s throttle to full military power.
“Backseat’s go.”
“Ready down under,” replied Mac from his recon seat in Hell Fire's nose—forward and below Scott.
Scott slowly moved her five remaining throttles forward to full military power. As she watched Hell Fire's thrust readout build on her instrument display, the thunderous sound pressure level inside Hell Fire became deafeningly loud. Although Hell Fire was a later model and had been improved, the sound pressure level directly over the power plant in the early X-30 prototypes had been sufficient to kill humans. As Hell Fire's six-pack reached full power, she shook violently against the brakes. Scott locked the throttles together, released the brakes, then synchronously advanced all six engine throttles into afterburner. Hell Fire, a 250,000-pound plane about the size of a DC-10, bolted down the runway propelled by over 300,000 pounds of thrust. When Scott cut in her afterburners, the thunderous noise level inside Hell Fire approached the threshold of pain and the crew couldn’t communicate over the intercom. Each scramjet engine in Hell Fire's six-pack output 50,000 pounds of thrust—more thrust than that which powered the ocean liner Queen Mary.
Accelerating down the runway, Hell Fire was engulfed in a swirling cloud of condensation. Trailing behind the cloud streamed a long fiery tail of intensely bright burning hydrogen. In the daylight, the plane’s profile looked much like the head of a giant white shark with its jaws open wide, gulping air.
Roaring down the runway, Scott’s helmet pressed hard against her molded seat.
As Hell Fire's ground speed passed 225 miles per hour, Scott depressed an ignition switch which fired the Rocket-dyne engine in Hell Fire's tail. Instantly, the roar of a controlled explosion shook Hell Fire as an additional 100,000 pounds of thrust kicked in, pinning Scott to her seat. She gently pulled back on the stick, rotated Hell Fire's nose up, and they were airborne pulling a three-g climb. Hell Fire climbed higher and higher, belching smoke and flame in her wake, illuminating the black desert sky like a flare.
“You fellas all right?” Scott asked. In one swift motion, she raised the gear, cut the Rocketdyne engine, and killed the afterburners.
“I’m glad to be alive,” quipped Mac, smiling, happy his pulse rate and breathing were returning to normal. Mac’s forehead glistened with sweat, causing the visor in his pressurized helmet to fog.
“Roger, Scotty. Come to heading one-eight-five,” added Gonzo. “Headquarters will take over in about an hour.” Scott leveled off at 40,000 feet then gazed overhead at the vast canopy of stars twinkling against an ink-black sky. Tonight, for a while at least, with control stick in hand, Scott was a pilot.
The Home Team, 12/0712014, 1045 Zulu, 3:45 A.Al. Local
Allied Forces Command Headquarters,
Crow’s Nest Overlooking The
Strategic Defense Initiative Organization (SDIO) War Room,
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
Generals Craven, Mason, and Krol entered the Crow’s Nest. Their bird’s-eye view of the War Room never failed to impress Mason. Image and sonar sensor data collected from all over the world was displayed in real time on the walls. Rigidly suspended sixty feet above the auditoriumsized War Room floor, the glass-walled Crow’s Nest served as the Supreme Allied Commander’s headquarters. The Crow’s Nest was technically impressive, optimized for reliability and function, but from a human perspective, it struck Mason as austere. Divided into a video conference room and two redundant control rooms, the Crow’s Nest provided the reliability required for around-the-clock operation with virtually zero downtime.
A long rectangular steel table dominated the video conference room with straight back gray chairs arranged in a row down one side. Behind them—a glass wall overlooking the War Room sixty feet below. Across the table, video cameras and TV monitors lined the opposite wall.
Entering the video conference room, General Mason surveyed the faces present and on screen. Here was Craven’s inner sanctum. Everyone was present—four military commanders via video link and two civilians seated at the far end of the table.
One civilian, John Sullivan, came from the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory and had overall DEWSAT responsibility. As a rule, whatever John Sullivan said. Mason agreed with. If he gave advice, Mason took it. Mason thought Sullivan a gentleman, one of the few remaining in this cutthroat business. He admired Sullivan and remembered him as a man with a large family—six grown children who still loved him. In his early fifties, Sul
livan carried himself like a thirty-year-old. He was an active man who’d play basketball and tennis full-time if he didn’t have to work for a living. Although his hair was thinning and silver-gray, his appearance was youthful, his eyes sparkled, and his complexion was a ruddy Irish red.
Thomas Jackson, seated next to Sullivan, was from MIT’s Lincoln Lab—impossible to read, as Mason recalled, but the best radar man in the business. A slovenly walrus of a man, in face-to-face meetings Jackson simply blended into the background. Mason didn’t like the man but did respect him. Jackson’s radar reference handbook, intuition, and technical triumphs were legendary. In effect, Jackson’s book had become a piece of the technical furniture, a standard reference cited by everyone in the electromagnetic sciences business. As a result, Jackson had become a very rich, widely sought after technical celebrity of sorts. In his official government capacity, he led two SDI technology development teams. The first team developed the DEWSAT’s new radar; the second created invisible, ultra-stealth prototype aircraft.
On screen, Mason saw an impressive subset of Craven’s commanders. He smiled, musing to himself that he’d hate to pay the bill for this meeting.
Both space station commanders, Jay Fayhee and Pasha Yakovlev, attended via video link. Pasha Yakovlev was unquestionably the group’s space station expert. An engineer by training, he knew Hope and Freedom from the inside out. He knew their strengths, their capabilities, and their limitations better than he knew his own children. Although he never allowed it to show, the one thing Pasha shared in common with Jay Fayhee was a deep and inescapable sense of loneliness. From an altitude of 22,000 miles above the earth, Pasha’s dreams revolved around his wife and three small children as he remembered them from nearly a full year ago.
Colonel Sam Napper, the SDIO defense force commander, went back a long way with Mason. Old hometown friends and college roommates, the two of them had been friends over twenty-five years. Napper provided Slim a real-time sanity check, and he trusted him in any situation. Over the years, wherever Mason had gone, Sam Napper had not been far behind. And this had worked well for both of them. Together they’d learned that life’s ups and downs were easier to face with friends. Their friendship had grown to the point where each was godfather to the other’s children and more. Much to their delight, Slim’s middle son had married Sam’s only daughter. Through it all, their adventurous outlook on life never diminished. When Mason looked at Sam Napper, he remembered himself as a younger man. He remembered his roots—the kindness of his grandparents, the small town he came from, the man he used to be. Sam provided Mason a sense of well-being that comes from knowing your own heart. As Mason had grown older, he learned with some sadness that who you are is an easy thing to forget. Mason liked to be reminded, and often.
Virus Page 4
