The gunner lifted the safety cover and slammed his fist down on the rapid-fire mode control switch. As the rapid fire enabled indicator flashed in his face, the gunner grabbed his twin pistol grips and squeezed both triggers like a vice. It happened so quickly, there was no time to be scared.
Squeezing off tens of shots per second, the gunner sat mesmerized by flashing indicator lights as green tracer lines rapidly covered his TV screen. For a few seconds, the DEWSAT drifted across the screen into a solid waterfall of green tracer lines. Then as suddenly as it began, it was Finished—one shot shattering her mirror, another rupturing her fuel tank. Racing across the sky, the orbiting fireball which resulted was visible from the ground.
Evacuate, 12/10/2014, 1451 Zulu, 7:51 A.M. Local
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
“We don’t have time to think; we just react!” Napper grimaced as another message from Scott appeared on his screen.
FLASH MESSAGE: Wed Dec 10 14:51:35 Z
2014
TOP SECRET
SAC EYES ONLY
TO: Supreme Allied Command Headquar ter s FROM: SDI Space Station Hope
SUBJECT: Evacuate the blockhouse immediately!
END OF MESSAGE
Sullivan, Napper, and Mason studied the message and guessed what had happened. For the first time, they recognized some pattern to this destruction.
Sullivan spoke first. “That DEWSAT must’ve triangulated on the Los Alamos radar and transmitted its position to Centurion.”
Napper nodded agreement and completed the assessment. “And Centurion ordered it destroyed.”
“Our armada doesn’t tolerate threats,” Mason observed with a grimace. Exhausted, Napper and Sullivan nodded. Lack of sleep was taking its toll on everyone, tired minds make mistakes. “How long do they have?”
Sullivan checked the wall clock, then looked at the blue ball. Another DEWSAT was approaching Los Alamos from the south. “Maybe four minutes. The DEWSAT’II wait until it’s over Los Alamos before .. .”
Napper ran to a computer terminal and clicked on an icon labeled ground fire. His computer connected him directly to the lab director’s radio phone inside the Los Alamos blockhouse. When the lab director answered, Napper identified himself immediately then ordered: “Kill the radar! Clear the area! Evacuate the building now!”
The lab director was caught totally off guard. Puzzled, but not overly alarmed, he inquired: “Evacuate? Just exactly where do you propose we go?”
“Get away from that building fast! Take a car, truck, anything that’ll move your people outta there! You’ve only got three minutes.”
“Three minutes? What’s the freaking rush? We can’t leave this sensitive optical equipment behind. I’ll need to clear this with my superiors.” The lab director could tell that Napper was upset, but Headquarters had jerked his chain, time and time again, for the last two days—too much hurry up and wait.
Napper stood silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts as he watched the DEWS AT approaching Los Alamos from the south. His brain ran in six directions at once. There was no time for common sense, no time for discussion. Overwhelmed, he had no sense of even temperament, every feeling was extreme, and he felt as if he were about to explode.
“Listen up and listen good!” he barked. “Get out now or die!”
The Golden Thread, 12/10/2014, 1454 Zulu, 7:54 A.M. Local
Ground Fire Laser Blockhouse Los Alamos National Laboratory,
Los Alamos, New Mexico
The lab director stared at the phone for a moment, then jammed it back into its holster.
Pointing to the open slot in the domed roof, the lab director yelled to one of the technicians, “We got a life-and-death emergency on our hands. Button down the hatch and kill the power! Move like your life depended on it; meet me outside by the bus.”
Not wasting any time, the director keyed his mike and spoke directly to the radar operator over the intercom. “We’ve got an emergency! Shut your radar off and move out to the bus—right now! We’re getting the hell outta here!” Finally, the director surveyed the blockhouse. He needed to move thirty people out of the building into the bus and he needed it done quickly. Fire safety is a concern at any government installation and Los Alamos was no exception. Fire drills were not the exception but the rule, performed routinely once a week. First, he turned on the PA system, keyed the mike, and ordered everyone to evacuate immediately. Second, he pulled the fire alarm and triggered the sprinkler system. Sprinklers should encourage them to move along, he thought.
Two technicians escorted the gunner outside onto the blue Air Force bus. Rounding up his laser support staff outside the blockhouse, the director herded them on the bus like a New Mexico cowboy; no explanation, just move. There was complaining. Most of the staff felt like cattle, but the loading moved along without panic and as quickly as possible.
After counting heads, the director slammed the bus door shut and signaled the driver to roll. The driver put his foot to the floor, popped the clutch, and the bus rolled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke and dust.
The staff members wondered what all the fuss was about as they sped away across the flat expanse of desert sand. Looking back at the blockhouse, someone blinked in disbelief and asked: “What do you think that was?”
They were about one mile away from the blockhouse when a thin golden thread of light, like a narrow ray of sun, burst forth from the blue heavens. It looked something like a meteor’s fiery track, but it was perfectly straight and lasted only a second or so. At first, no one was sure of what they had seen, but after some discussion they found nearly everyone on the bus had seen something. It looked as if the Ground Fire laser was in operation, but the blockhouse was empty and the dome had been buttoned shut.
Passing overhead, a DEWSAT executed a thermal scan using a broad invisible laser beam, scorching the area surrounding the blockhouse to better define its target position. The DEWSAT illuminated the Ground Fire radar antenna with its laser, then detected the heat, using it as a beacon. After locking on target, it destroyed the radar antenna using a golden thread of light which burned its way through the atmosphere.
Changing of the Guard, 12/10/2014, 1530 Zulu, 8:30 A.M.
Local
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
The Crow’s Nest video conference room was packed with the general’s staff—most looked like hollow-eyed zombies. Even though Mason and Craven were briefing the President, they’d been too exhausted to fully prepare. Their viewgraphs were hand-drawn sketches, not the computer-generated glitzy color visuals the President and his Cabinet had come to expect. Ordinarily, hand-drawn visuals presented in a Cabinet meeting would mark the end of even the most promising military career.
Craven lamented that officer promotions during peacetime had been reduced to a dog and pony show—no substance, just style and glitz. He laid his viewgraphs side by side on the white sheets of his Army cot inside the Crow’s Nest. He’d always organized his briefings this way, reviewing his story end to end, laid out over his sheets. Exhausted and bleary-eyed, he concluded that hand-drawn viewgraphs were appropriate for his presentation. His story’d been told—as supreme allied commander, he was finished.
In Washington, a dozen video cameras provided pictures to Cheyenne Mountain from inside the Cabinet meeting room. As usual, the Cheyenne Mountain general staff attended the President’s emergency meeting by video link. Mason watched a somber group of big shots crowding into the Cabinet room. The secretary of Transportation arrived first with the heads of the Federal Aviation Administration and Central Flow Control. Part of the FAA, Central Flow Control monitored all commercial air traffic across the United States. The secretaries of Defense and State arrived next, followed by the CIA and FBI directors, the White House chief of staff, and Clive Towles, the President’s national security advisor. NORAD and NATO attaches filed in behind Clive Towles, and finally, additional staff from Central Flow Control entered the room and stood along the outside wall
.
Mason looked over the drawn faces in the crowded room and sighed. A meeting of the big guns, he thought. Central Flow Control must certainly have something to say. Judging from their numbers, it looks like it’s their meeting.
To Mason’s surprise, no one spoke, no one said anything at all. Everyone avoided eye contact and felt uncomfortable making chitchat. Finally, the door opened and everyone stood as the President walked in. He found his place at the table, studied the faces on his video monitors, then sat down.
Clearly impatient, the President spoke directly to the head of the FAA. “Let’s get on with it.” His voice was a mixture of anger and anxiety.
The tension in the air was charged, nerves were frayed before the meeting began.
“Mr. President,” the head of the FAA began, “I would like Dr. Mulcahy to give you a summary of our air traffic situation. He works in Central Flow Control and knows more about our air traffic situation than anyone else in Washington. After that, we’ll do our best to answer any questions.”
The President said nothing, but noted that Mulcahy was an Irishman, someone he could trust. His name, reddish hair, and ruddy skin complexion broadcasted his origin. Mulcahy was known as one who told the truth and didn’t waste words—an endangered species around D.C.
Without delay, Dr. Mulcahy moved to the lectern. He flipped a switch on the lectern, causing the lights to dim. Pointing a handheld remote at the TV/VCR mounted on the wall, he pushed play. The forty-inch TV screen showed a map of the continental United States, crisscrossed with thousands of white lines, each white line representing an aircraft in flight. The lower corner of the picture was tagged with a time stamp reading 09:50:00 a.m. Pressing the VCR pause, he took a sip of water, then began.
“Gentlemen, today between 9:50 and 9:55 a.m. Washington time, a catastrophe of unparalleled proportions paralyzed air traffic across the United States and around the world. This air disaster is unprecedented—over fifty thousand people are confirmed dead.”
Everyone in the room gasped. Few attending knew the full scope and magnitude of the disaster. Dr. Mulcahy reverently made the sign of the cross and all those seated around the Cabinet room followed suit.
The President’s jaw dropped. His face looked like a monument of silent agony. How do you comprehend the senseless death of over fifty thousand innocent people?
Dr. Mulcahy pressed the VCR play button, then continued. “The video you see was recorded by Central Flow Control earlier this morning and has not been edited. Three-thousand-six-hundred-forty-eight commercial passenger aircraft were lost over the United States alone.” Everyone in the room stared at the TV screen as the white traces began disappearing. Dr. Mulcahy watched silently and he didn’t rush. He’d seen this videotape twenty times, and still couldn’t believe it. In less than five minutes, every airborne aircraft over the United States had flown into the ground. He knew it would take some time for the full impact of his story to sink in.
Mulcahy studied the deadpan faces of his motionless audience—the Cabinet room reminded him of a morgue. Misty-eyed, Mulcahy had obviously been moved by the videotape, but he waited patiently for feedback, some sign of acceptance from the group. After the map of the United States was clear of white aircraft traces, the TV picture shifted to a scene of downed aircraft burning on the runways of Hartsfield International Airport. Charred, blackened aircraft wreckage graphically brought the problem home, placing it in everyone’s backyard.
“It’s by the grace of God that I’m alive,” Clive Towles said. “I was supposed to’ve been on the nine-thirty nonstop to L.A., but Continental canceled the flight after I boarded the plane.”
Mulcahy raised his eyebrows and nodded agreement. Satisfied his message was getting traction, he blinked his eyes clear and continued. “Although the exact figure will never be known, approximately 4,800 commercial aircraft were lost worldwide—over fifty thousand people have been confirmed dead and this total is conservative—it could be short by twenty thousand. Mr. President, this is nothing short of a catastrophe. At this moment, nothing’s flying.”
Stunned, not knowing what to say or do, the President was silent for a few moments, still absorbing the full scope of the disaster. Always the spin doctor, the President struggled to put a positive spin on this bad situation. There must be something good he could say about it, but nothing came to mind—he drew a blank. Even the grand master of spin doctors couldn’t make this situation sound acceptable to the American people. This was a catastrophe and he couldn’t hide it. He’d have to face this problem head-on until he could come up with a better alternative. “Survivors? What’s being done to help?”
“We’re doing all that can be done, moving medical staff and supplies where they’re needed most, but ground and sea transportation takes time,” the secretary of Transportation replied.
The President’s concern turned to anger as he eyed the Secretary of Defense in the subdued light. His eyes looked wild, like those of a mad dog. He wasn’t going to take the rap alone. In a stone cold voice he said, “Gentlemen, I assume you’re going to tell me what went wrong and how to correct this situation.”
General Craven spoke next over video link from Cheyenne Mountain. “Mr. President, General Mason will explain what happened and outline our alternatives. He’s closest to the problem and the solution.”
For the next thirty minutes, Mason related the sequence of events that led them here. Exhausted, Mason’s presenta-
tion wasn't crisp, but it was clear and cut to the central core of the problem—technical problems take time and understanding to resolve. As Mason proceeded, he watched the President’s eyes grow wilder. Finally, when he looked as if he was about to pounce on his prey, the President bolted out of his chair. His voice exploded over the videophone speakers. “Unbelievable! Fifty thousand people dead and for what? This damn catastrophe was man-made. It should never have happened. We’re held hostage by our own machines.” There was no sorrow in his voice, only rage.
“Reality often proves stranger than fiction,” Clive Towles observed somberly. Clive stood and chatted quietly with the President.
After a brief exchange, the President regained his composure and plopped back down in his chair, demanding, “Alternatives—talk alternatives. We’ve got to turn this situation around, but fast.”
Mason spoke gently but Firmly. “Sir, I’d like to discuss two alternatives, but they both will take time.”
“How much time?” barked the President.
“Weeks. There’s no quick cure and we don’t have any secret weapons. Both these alternatives come with high risks, but we can improve our chances by understanding what we’re up against.”
General Craven interjected, “That’s correct, Mr. President. If we’d taken the time to better understand this problem, in the first place, this disaster might not have happened.”
Perplexed, the President scratched his head and looked directly at Craven. “But that’s your job, so why didn’t you? Why didn’t you take the time to do it right?”
“I wanted this virus situation resolved quickly.” Craven’s tone conveyed profound regret. And so did you. If you’ll recall, Mr. President—you insisted.”
Mason saw fire returning to the President’s eyes, but the old Craven was back. He was speaking like the courageous leader and visionary Mason had always admired, the one he used to know.
“However,” Craven continued slowly, “the final respon-The Day of Retribution sibility was mine and mine alone. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of one fundamental truth. We cannot change nature. It takes nine months to have a healthy baby and, like it or not, we can’t speed it up. We learned this same lesson from the space shuttle Challenger disaster. The laws of physics always prevail above our political will.” Craven paused somberly in retrospect. “Politics drove some of my technical decisions, not good physics, and over fifty thousand people are dead as a result.
“I wanted a simple cure to a complex problem,” Craven lamente
d in a whisper. “To understand this virus will take weeks, perhaps months. We can solve this problem, but we absolutely cannot fix it fast—you can’t have it both ways. More money won’t help, more people won’t help, you’re gonna have to wait. The solution to this problem requires clear thinking, resourcefulness, and courage. Political hype won’t deliver the goods.”
The President shook his head angrily. After several seconds of silence, his eyes glowed like smoldering embers and he spoke with venom dripping from his voice. “General. This disaster should never have happened! Furthermore, I want this situation turned around fast and I want it done right! And by God—I’m going to get it.” The President was emphatic.
Craven took the heat head-on. “Mr. President, I assume full responsibility for this unprecedented loss of life. I estimated the chances for disaster were acceptably low based on my best available information. I took a gamble, the odds were stacked against me, and I was wrong. We will give you our very best effort, but you will not see this air traffic situation resolved quickly. I don’t expect you to like it, sir, but I’m telling you the truth. You may have my resignation at any time you wish, but I would like to resolve this matter.”
“General Craven,” seethed the wild-eyed chief executive, “it will be necessary for you to resign.”
“Hold everything,” interrupted Clive Towles, slamming his hand down on the table to get the President’s attention. “The consequences of this software sabotage have been unbelievable! Fifty thousand dead! No one would have imagined this destruction in their wildest dreams. Replacing General Craven doesn’t solve anything and second-guessing his decisions will only make matters worse.”
The President replied bluntly. “Frankly, Clive, I don’t have any choice in the matter. I’ll be lucky if the American people only impeach me. Fifty thousand people cry out from their graves for justice and heads must roll. You know it as well as I do—there’s no other way. General Craven must stay on as an advisor until this matter is resolved, but as supreme allied commander, his job is done.”
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