The sergeant checked his watch. Five minutes late for his radio check. Nothing to report. . . nothing ever to report. Daydreaming, he watched the office window buffet and listened to the fifty-knot wind howling outside. Suddenly, the window popped. Startled back into the real world, the sergeant snapped upright, blinked his eyes clear, then called headquarters.
“You’re late,” a harsh male voice announced over the radio speaker.
“So sue me!” groused the sergeant. “Nothing to report, nothing at all.”
Uploading the Trojan Horse, 12109/2014, 1510 Zulu, 8:10 AM.
Local
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
As Arecibo transmitted Livermore’s new programs to Freedom, Colonel Napper sat behind his console impatiently monitoring the progress of the upload. Once the transmission completed, a message on Napper’s monitor read:
ARECIBO STATION STATUS SUMMARY:
Program Upload Transmission Complete —
Zero Errors
Colonel Napper shifted his gaze to the video conference monitor linked to the Crow’s Nest. Here we go again, he thought when he saw Mason, Hinson, and Craven in another heated argument. Craven wouldn’t bend and Hinson supported him, of course. Napper decided to interrupt them anyway. “Generals, can I have your attention?”
No response—their argument continued.
Drumming his fingers on his control console, Napper gathered his courage. “Beg pardon, Generals. Generals, 1 need your attention!”
Either they didn’t hear him or they didn’t want to hear him.
He listened in on their argument. Craven insisted on ramming this change through immediately, bypassing established testing and safeguard procedures. Mason stood against it. Net result—no progress.
From his control console, Napper increased the volume of his voice inside the Crow’s Nest. They’d hear him now! “Generals, listen up—uh—with all due respect.” His voice boomed over the speakers.
Napper cringed when he heard his voice reverberate around the auditorium-sized War Room. He was over one hundred feet from the glass-walled Crow’s Nest towering overhead. He saw Craven and his staff covering their ears as the room hushed. Everyone in the Crow’s Nest stared silently at Napper on video.
Mason spoke first. “Sam—we’re listening, but could ya cut it down a little?”
Napper breathed a sigh of relief and turned the volume down. “Centurion’s upload’s complete—we’re ready to run.”
“Hope’s status?” asked Craven.
“Pasha’s bridged on, sir. He’ll hear everything we say. Scott, Gonzo, and Mac are outside pulling maintenance— antenna repair. About an hour till they button it up.”
“Good.” Craven smiled. “Comrade General, anything else?” He looked across the room at Russian General Yuri Krol.
“Hope is our hot spare—on standby if something goes wrong.” Biting his pipe tightly, the corners of Krol’s mouth turned down. “Centurion will maintain armada control while Guardian records test results. Exactly as you ordered, my General.” The words sounded as if they’d stuck in his throat. Clearly, Krol was not a happy soldier.
Craven looked at Fayhee on screen. “What’s Freedom's status?”
“Waiting your orders, General.”
“Jay—you and Depack ready to reload Centurion?” “We’re as ready as we’re gonna be. Centurion’s never run untested code before.”
“If there’s a showstopper with this load,” interrupted Hinson, “reload the program Centurion’s running now.” “Damn it, Hinson,” snapped Jay. “We’re not up here to make your ass look good. I sure as hell can handle this without your bullshit.”
Depressing his conference call mute button, Hinson spoke to Craven. “The team in the tin can’s running on a short fuse.”
Craven agreed. He studied the face of each commander for a few moments, then began. “This subject’s not open for further discussion. Centurion’ll run the new Livermore load this morning as planned.”
“Yessir,” replied Fayhee. “We’ll have Centurion reloaded in half an hour—by 1600 Zulu.”
“Good,” said Craven, checking his watch. “Hinson, bring your attack forces on-line as scheduled.”
“Yessir, General!” exclaimed Hinson, feeling exonerated. “We’re ready! The Stennis is in position. Dorito and XR-30 crews’re standing by at Edwards.”
“Good,” Craven said quietly. “I don’t want excuses—I want results. Before this day is through I want this stealth cruise missile threat behind us.”
The Orbiting DEWS AT Armada, 12/0912014, 1550 Zulu
Altitude: 115 Miles In Circular Polar Orbit,
Onboard A DEWSAT
Ready to strike in a fraction of a second, orbiting 115 miles above the earth along lines of longitude, seventy-two DEWSATs methodically scanned the entire earth’s surface searching for fiery missile plumes.
The orbiting DEWSAT armada continuously scanned the globe for infrared, optical, and radio frequencies, ready to strike when their decision circuits voted in favor of the kill. Within limits, DEWSAT telescopes and radar could detect anything that could fly. Likewise, anything it could detect, its laser could destroy.
At 1550 Zulu, the DEWS AT armada received its heartbeat (keep alive) signal, an encrypted radio signal from Centurion which read:
set laser power output = max
Each DEWSAT tested itself: its electrical systems, optics, radar, infrared telescope, and laser. After passing every test, each DEWSAT acknowledged the message with an encrypted radio transmission to Centurion which read:
DEWSAT ack: laser power output = max
Fully operational, the orbiting DEWSAT armada was lethal, armed, and dangerous.
Waiting for Safe Laser Clearance, 12/09/2014, 1535 Zulu,
7:55 AM. Local
Cockpit Of Hailey’s Comet,
South Facing Runway,
Edwards AFB, California
Slightly reclining, with fist clenched tight, Major Art Hailey stared motionless into the blue sky above Edwards’ vast south facing desert runway. Surrounded by explosive fuel, engulfed by engine noise, sitting on top of the fastest air and space lane ever created, Hailey wasn’t impressed. He felt angry, but didn’t know who to hit. His leave canceled without explanation in exchange for a dicey game of laser tag.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Hailey carefully read Scott’s test flight plan and Hell Fire's, damage report for the third time. His flight plan was identical to Scott’s and she’d nearly lost Hell Fire. “Loosen up or you could be dead soon,” he thought out loud. Five minutes and this bird’ll be off the ground.
Isolation, 1210912014, 1556 Zulu
Space Station Freedom
“Depack, you ready to go?” asked Colonel Naper. It was unusual for Headquarters to monitor Freedom operations, however, considering the circumstances, it came as no surprise. Depack’s fingers moved over Centurion’s keyboard faster than Napper’s eyes could follow.
“Yep—uh—sir. If there’s a problem, we can back outta trouble faster than we got into it.” Since Centurion provided the brain, heart, and soul of the SDIO satellite network, any problem with Centurion’s new program would mean more delay.
“We’ll take it from here, Colonel,” announced Fayhee. “Load on my mark.” Fayhee’d hoped for the best, but planned for the worst. ‘Three, two, one, mark.”
Depack and Fayhee simultaneously rotated large red turnkeys. Centurion never took his eyes off Fayhee as the new program loaded at the speed of light. Fifteen seconds later, the bad seed took root.
“So that’s all there is to it,” quipped Centurion.
“Now we test,” said Depack.
“I knew that.” Centurion displayed a page filled with test instructions.
“Go for it, Depack. Ring him out.”
Depack nodded agreement. “Centurion—make ready to alter DEWSAT behavior.”
“Very well.” Centurion paused for an eternity in computer time, then responded. “De
pack.”
Seconds passed without an additional comment from Centurion. It was unusual for Centurion to pause so long.
Depack felt anxious.
Centurion’s talking head began moving with a jerky, blocked-tile sort of slow motion. Finally, he muttered, “DEWSAT behavior records have been retrieved and await modification.” His voice dropping in tone, his speech slowed.
A cold chill crawled up Depack’s spine. He feared the worst, but quickly purged his mind of panic. Depack moved posthaste around the control room to Jay’s console, turning his back on Centurion’s camera eye.
“Jay, come here—I need you.”
Startled by Depack’s ghost-white complexion, one glance told Jay all he needed to know without an additional exchange of words.
Returning to Depack’s console, Jay gazed at a slow-motion picture of Centurion on screen. Depack spoke in an emotionless voice, reading from his test script.
“Turn down the power and disable hot TDM operations on every DEWSAT laser over the test zone. Track and tag targets for the next four hours—don’t destroy them.”
“Depack,” Centurion replied, followed by a protracted silence.
Normally, Centurion’s silence would have made Fayhee a happy man. Silence meant he was occupied with something, but for now they didn’t know what.
“Take a look,” Jay said, pointing toward Centurion’s globe. “Something’s wrong. Everything’s moving in slow motion.” The earth’s hologram now moved with a pulsating, jerking motion . .. like watching a VCR one frame at a time.
“Centurion’s sick,” Depack said grimly. “This load’s got a clinker in it—some sort of slow-motion bug.”
As Jay and Depack talked, PAM created her list of threats, including anyone or anything who could reload Centurion or damage the satellite armada.
Next, PAM created her defense resource list, including every satellite in the orbiting armada.
Finally, PAM modified the program she would run when threatened—a script file listing where to run, where to hide, and what to do when cornered.
“Let’s move fast before things get worse!” ordered Jay. Strain crept into his voice. Returning to his console, he planned to reload Centurion’s original program. “Reload on my mark.”
* * *
Programmed to survive, PAM made a copy of herself then moved into each of Centurion’s subordinate computers at near light speed.
The bad seed took root then spread like a cancer throughout Freedom's central nervous system.
Optical glass communication pipes connecting Centurion to his three subordinate computers glowed brightly with a frenzy of computer chatter.
“I don’t know why, but I don’t like it!” exclaimed Depack, rubbing his hand over the glowing communication links. Normally, Depack would have intuitively known why by watching the glowing comm links. Onboard Freedom, the why was important because Centurion ran their life-support systems. Before running this new load, Depack would have known which programs were talking, what they were talking about, and why—but these patterns of light had changed. He couldn’t read them, they looked different. “We’re losing control.”
“Three, two, one, mark.” Depack and Jay rotated the large red turnkey, loading Centurion again.
“We have a problem!” Centurion announced immediately. “Subordinate computers in alarm, off-line, out of service. Cause of failure: degraded performance. Response time exceeding preset alarm limits.”
Jay and Depack looked perplexed. Jay bolted quickly to Depack, turning his back on Centurion’s monitor. “Whataya make of it?”
“Centurion’s OK.” Depack thought for a moment, then asked Centurion a few questions using his keyboard. “Centurion’s back to normal, but the slave computers are running slow .. . real slow! This sounds crazy, but I’d guess they caught something from Centurion.”
“That’s all we need!” Jay rolled his eyes. “So Centurion’s slow bug’s contagious? Recommendations?”
“Reload ’em all.”
Centurion’s communication pipes glowed again with a frenzy of computer communication as PAM moved back into Centurion.
Jay rushed to his console and red turnkey, but it was already too late.
Centurion now had two separate and distinct personalities: one visible, another hidden. Centurion’s visible personality was unchanged, but his hidden dark side was dominated by PAM.
Hidden and operating independently, Centurion’s dark side issued her first operational orders. An encrypted radio signal which read:
Tues Dec 09 16:10:58 Z 2014
To: Any DEWSAT
put Arecibo Earth Station on kill stack put Roaring Creek Earth Station on kill STACK
In his early stage of neurosis, Centurion didn’t know anything about his dark side. PAM was split off from his consciousness so they never talked to each other.
Although PAM shared Centurion’s electronic brain, sensors, and satellites, she was totally unaware he existed. Two distinct personality programs inhabiting the same brain, each unaware of the other—an electronic form of viral-induced hysterical dissociation neurosis.
In time, irreconcilable memory conflicts would result because Centurion and his dark side shared an optical brain which could never forget. Eventually PAM, the controller/taker personality, must emerge dominant to survive.
“We have a problem,” Centurion observed in a detached tone of voice. “Please stand by.”
Jay and Depack agreed, then waited what seemed an eternity—fifteen seconds in real time.
And then it happened.
Video from Cheyenne Mountain began breaking into tiles as the signal faded. Snow blanketed the picture of Colonel Napper, and the audio began to crackle.
“We’re losing Arecibo,” announced Centurion. “Communication link failing due to severe signal fade. Wait. The signal is breaking up, garbled.”
Inside Freedom, the video screen from Cheyenne Mountain went black.
Thirty seconds after her first order, hidden from Centurion and Freedom's, crew, PAM transmitted two additional orders to her armada in less than one one-hundredth of a second.
Tues Dec 09 16:11:28 Z 2014
To: Any DEWSAT
put all known ASATS on kill stack put all known mines on kill stack
Almost immediately afterwards, she issued orders to Guardian, Centurion’s computer counterpart onboard Space Station Hope.
Tues Dec 09 16:11:32 Z 2014
To: Guardian let face = red, yellow, black, and white then do until done set face airlock safety = off set face airlock inner door = open set face airlock outer door = open done
Immediately, bright red alarm lights flashed on every console inside Cheyenne Mountain, Freedom, and Hope. The alarm board inside Cheyenne Mountain covered an entire wall and lit up like a Christmas tree. Computer systems inside Cheyenne Mountain designed to automatically analyze alarms began to fail due to overload. After the alarm systems failed, operations on the War Room floor shifted to a hectic frenzy.
The great blue ball inside the War Room froze motionless.
In less than thirty-four seconds, Cheyenne Mountain’s lifeline to Freedom had gone belly-up, and more.
Inside Freedom, a blinking message on Centurion’s screen read:
WARNING: Critical Alarm FAILURE: Arecibo LOS (Loss Of Signal)
condition exists-
CAUSE: Unknown—To Be Determined
Depack slammed his hand down on the alarm cutoff switch and the flashing red lights went dark.
“So what’s causing the problem?” asked Depack at the threshold of panic. He thought it strange that they should experience a major communications failure coincident with running this new program.
Centurion paused as if he were carefully crafting each word. “It is impossible for me to isolate this problem without your help.”
Jay spoke next. The tension in his voice broke through. “Clarify!”
The more anxious Jay and Depack became, the cooler Centurion
seemed to respond. This was normal and they knew it. When Centurion sensed tension in the crew’s voices, he’d been programmed to back off and respond with an overstated calm tone in his voice.
“Jay, I understand you and Depack are upset over the testing delays, but I’m confident we can restore ground communication within the hour. We have any spare parts we could need. It should be a routine repair procedure for either you or an Arecibo technician. As I said, I cannot isolate this problem without your help, but that is no cause for concern. Arecibo could have a problem with their transmitter or the problem could be with our receiver.”
“Recommendations?” asked Fayhee, searching for alternatives.
“A process of elimination.” Centurion paused much longer than usual.
“Clarify!” Jay barked angrily. “Testing’s on hold till we’re back on the air.”
“First, isolate the failure. Make sure the problem is on our end, then eliminate the obvious.”
“Doing something beats doing nothing,” Jay quipped. “Continue.”
“We have two replacement approaches to consider— slow and sure or shotgun.” Jay took Centurion to mean that they could replace individual receiver subsystems one at a time or swap out the entire receiver system.
“Hell, let’s replace them all,” Jay concluded. “Shotgun approach should be faster.”
“Ready, shoot, aim,” Depack observed.
Jay cringed. He knew shotgun repair wasn’t efficient, but they were in a hurry. Stealth missile testing was on hold until they got back on the air. Hailey’s Comet, Cowboy’s Dorito, the Stennis—all depended on Fayhee to deliver. He had to do something fast.
“We need ground communications ASAP!” Jay exclaimed. “Don’t isolate the problem, just replace the receivers.”
“When it rains, it pours! Whataya want me to do?” Depack asked.
“Just swap those radios.” Jay pointed to an eleven-foot-tall frame filled with rack mounted radio receivers and test equipment. “Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. I’ll swap the antenna amps. Whatever you do, keep those radar transmitters off.”
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