The President’s facial muscles twitched as he turned toward the picture of General Craven on screen. “General, you are relieved of your command. This has nothing to do with justice, it’s political survival.”
The President paused, took a long drink of water, then spoke to Craven again. “I understand you recommended General Mason as your replacement. Does your recommendation still stand?”
“Absolutely, Mr. President. He’ll do what he believes is right and get the job done.”
Satisfied, the President took a moment to collect his thoughts, then reflected, “We really put all our eggs in one basket with this SDI system, didn’t we?”
“I shortcut my own safeguards, Mr. President,” Craven said slowly with deep remorse. “I took a chance, gambled, and lost. If we’d used our standard testing procedures, we wouldn’t be in this trouble today.”
Somewhat rhetorically, the President asked, “Let me make sure I got this straight. Over Fifty thousand innocent people died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And there’s no air traffic anywhere because of some software glitch—nothing can fly without being blown out of the sky. And you’re telling me that we have only two alternatives that might—and I repeat might—pull our asses out of the fire. One’s an unproven lab prototype and the other’s an XR-30 crew onboard Hope."
“Your synopsis is accurate, Mr. President,” Mason replied without reservation. “In my opinion Major Linda Scott and her crew are our only viable alternative. We have only one prototype aircraft in the Black Hole program and it’s got a long way to go.”
“General Mason, what would it mean if both our alternatives fail?”
That answer was easy. “Global economic catastrophe. In all probability, some countries will take advantage of our dilemma.”
“General Mason, you are hereby appointed supreme commander of all Allied Forces. Exhaust every alternative. Resolve this matter with God’s speed and tell us how we can help. Above all else, do it right!”
19
Firestorm, 12/10/2014, 1855 Zulu, 1:55 P.M. Local
The White House Washington, D.C.
“Firestorm in Atlanta,” announced the CNN newscaster. “Live report coming up at the top of the hour.”
Atlanta burning? To the President of the United States, these words felt like a steel sword plunging deep into his chest, causing his knees to buckle. He sank into his chair, where he sat breathless for several moments, trying to make some sense of it all. Gradually, the color returned to his face and he turned once again to watch CNN Headline News.
The President sat spellbound behind his desk in the Oval Office, hypnotized by the news reports of aviation catastrophe flashing across his TV screen. As airline casualties from around the world continued to accumulate, the scene shifted to a live report from the top of Overlook Mountain in the northwest corner of Atlanta. A slow, sweeping panoramic camera shot of the Atlanta skyline showed boiling black columns of thick heavy smoke engulfing the city. Scattered across the city, inky black smoke plumes erupted from blazing aircraft wreckage, turning the sky a dingy shade of grayish brown. The TV pictures from Atlanta looked like the black-and-white newsreel footage taken in Europe during World War II—no color, just shades of black, white, and brownish gray. The President gazed on this horrific scene in disbelief.
During the day, there were about a dozen Secret Service agents on duty in this part of the presidential mansion, but professional as they were, their eyes were focused on CNN Headline News. For that matter, in all fairness to the agents, the eyes of the entire world, from Baghdad to Washington, were fixed on CNN. In addition to the Secret Service agents collected in the Oval Office, Clive Towles, the President’s national security advisor, and Dr. Mulcahy from Central Flow Control silently watched the news by the President’s side.
The President’s chief of staff and his glitzy White House press secretary lumbered slowly into the Oval Office reading the statement they’d prepared for the press.
“I don’t know what to do,” said the President with a sense of dismay. Shaken by the graphic news reports of the Atlanta firestorm, the President walked over to the mirror and looked somberly at his reflection. “Mulcahy, are you sure this is the way we should handle this?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Lay your cards on the table. If you don’t level with the press, you’ll only make an impossible situation worse. If you come before the people with your head in your hands, they can’t very well lop it off. Remember, the ...”
“Do you take me for a fool?” interrupted the White House press secretary as his blood pressure shot through the roof. “First of all, nobody would believe the truth, and second, we don’t have all the facts yet. I have trouble believing it myself, and our story may change. Besides, they’ll ask some tough, finger-pointing questions and expect answers we don’t have. We don’t know who sabotaged the SDI software or how it happened. Do you seriously believe that the President of the United States should stand before the world and admit that we don’t have a clue?” The press secretary raised both eyebrows and cut a glance across the room, making direct eye contact with the President. “Should the President publicly acknowledge that we’re held hostage by our own technology? I don’t think so! Who’d believe that a software glitch, some computer virus, could account for all this chaos, and who do we blame?”
No one in the Oval Office spoke.
“Hell—we don’t know,” the press secretary scoffed. “But we know whoever screwed us chews Juicy Fruit gum. Yeah—right. I tell you, Mr. President, we’ve been caught with our pants down and we’ll look like incompetent fools if we let this story out. General Mason believes their solution to this problem could be weeks away. John Sullivan doesn’t think they’ll ever find who’s behind the virus. What if they’re right? I say we stall until we can generate a cover story that’ll cover our, err—years of government service. Say we’ve had a serious sabotage problem with the SDI system and we’re working the situation, united as Allies. All the details are wrapped up in national security. Just read your prepared statement.” The press secretary handed the President the statement and concluded, “Stall, Mr. President. Stall.”
The President didn’t know what to think, but in the final analysis, this problem was his to face alone. He had to respect the man in the mirror after he woke up from this nightmare. He’d always relied on others for advice and then used his own judgment. After some somber thought, he turned to his national security advisor. “What do you think, Clive?”
Clive Towles and the President had worked through some lean times before in the business world, but none so grave or life threatening as these. Clive respected the press secretary for his skill at maneuvering the press, leading them where he wanted them to go—however, on this occasion he believed the press secretary was wrong. “Considering the global magnitude and scope of this problem, I don’t believe the people will accept anything less than the absolute and complete truth—as you know it. If you stall, you’ll get caught. This story’s too big to imagine otherwise. Our back’s against the wall, Mr. President. Your integrity is the only thing you’ve got; it’s all that matters. If you piss away the people’s trust, you’ll never get it back.”
“No compromise?” the President asked cautiously.
“No compromise, Mr. President. Nothing less than the absolute truth will do. People aren’t mushrooms. Don’t shovel shit on ’em expecting to keep ’em in the dark.”
The President nervously bit his lip as his stomach began to knot. He’d gotten Clive’s message, but felt that giving advice was easy, taking advice was the hard part. The President sighed, then looked at his press secretary. “Okay, let’s get on with it. How long till show time?”
“Twenty minutes, Mr. President.”
The President sighed, again. “I’d like some time alone,” he lamented. The Oval Office quickly emptied, leaving the President alone and staring at the portrait of Dwight David Eisenhower hanging on the wall.
Altar
to Allah, 12/10/2014, 1920 Zulu, 12:20 p.m. Local
Return Drive From Shripod Addams’
Apartment To Cheyenne Mountain,
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Wrangler rented a small U-Haul van, the same size vehicle used by Federal Express for small business deliveries. He drove to the Mountain View apartments, arriving just before noon, then parked next to Shripod Addams’ empty parking space. Following in the car, Toni loaded his ski bag in the rear of the U-Haul once they reached Shripod’s apartment.
Inside his ski bag, Toni carried the device which would cause Shripod’s accident, the milepost assembly. Earlier, Toni’d completed the finishing touches on the assembly; now he needed only to install it underneath Shripod’s Honda.
The assembly was deceptively simple, consisting of three parts—a four-foot length of metal post, a short six-inch section of transparent nylon fishing line, and a small electronics module about the size of a bar of soap. One end of the post was torn and sharp, the other blunt. Near the sharp end, Toni looped the nylon line through a slot in the milepost. Using epoxy, he planned to attach the line to the bottom of Shripod’s car. On the blunt end of the milepost, Toni attached his breakaway electronics package. Wrapped in clear cellophane, Toni’s electronics included a six-Volt battery, a tiny radio receiver, and a custom-built electromagnet. Built of a pressed powder ferrite material, the electromagnet would crumble to dust when run over by a car. Toni could control the electromagnet from ten miles away using a transmitter he’d mounted inside Wrangler’s car. All was in readiness awaiting Shripod’s arrival.
During lunch, Shripod Addams drove the five-mile journey home to his apartment as he did every working day. It offered him an escape during the day which he looked forward to most of all. After driving into the parking lot, he maneuvered his car into its regular space, parking between the curb and a small U-Haul van. As Shripod rushed around the corner of the building into his apartment, he thought only of lunch and feeding his Fish. He knew something had gone wrong in the Crow’s Nest this morning, but he didn’t know any details.
Once Shripod entered his apartment, Toni quickly slid his milepost assembly out of the U-Haul van and onto the dust-covered asphalt underneath Shripod’s Honda. As planned, the U-Haul van blocked Shripod’s view of the car from his apartment in case he decided to look, which he didn’t. The most critical part of Toni’s operation was the installation, but he was confident. A master craftsman, his hands were steady and he knew exactly what to do. He’d practiced the installation a dozen times already this morning underneath Wrangler’s Accord. Working with all the skill and precision of a trained surgeon, Toni slid his shoulder alongside and underneath the driver’s side of Shripod’s Accord. He’d refined the installation procedure to an efficient sequence of simple steps with no wasted motion. The complete installation required only five minutes. By now, Toni didn’t need to see what his hands were doing, he could operate by feel and know when the installation was done right.
Lying on his back sandwiched between the body of Shripod’s Accord and the U-Haul van, Toni went to work.
The body of the Accord was so low to the ground that he couldn’t slide underneath, but he’d anticipated this. Toni built Shripod’s milepost assembly with wide tolerances so that it would work even with a sloppy installation. Feeling underneath the driver’s seat, Toni found four bolts holding down the seat rails and used them as a position reference. The spot Toni was looking for, the sweet spot, was centered underneath and slightly in front of the driver’s seat. He positioned the sharp end of the milepost on the ground directly below the sweet spot, then aligned the post front-to-back. Next, he lifted the blunt end of the milepost off the ground and, using the electromagnet, he attached it underneath the front of the car, next to the engine. At this stage, the forward blunt end of the post was attached to the metal frame of the car but the shaip rear end of the post remained on the ground. Only one installation step remained and the job was done. Toni coated the ends of the nylon line with epoxy, then positioned the sharp end of the post against the sweet spot. Should put it between his legs, Toni thought with a sardonic smile. After holding the line against the underbody of the car about two minutes, the epoxy set and the installation was complete.
The nylon line would function like a hinge, holding the sharp end of the post in place against the car body when the blunt, front end of the post dropped onto the road.
After less than four minutes’ installation time, Toni dusted off his clothes, walked to Wrangler’s car, and drove down the street to the Loaf ’N’ Jug. A few minutes later, Wrangler drove the U-Haul van to the Loaf ’N’ Jug and joined him for lunch. Together, from a window booth inside the dining area, they watched Cheyenne Meadows Road and the Mountain View Apartments, waiting for Shri-pod Addams’ return to work.
Shripod pulled out of his parking space about ten minutes till one. Toni walked outside to Wrangler’s car, cranked it, and entered the left turn lane immediately in front of Addams. After traveling a little less than one mile on Highway 115, Toni drove past the leaving Colorado springs city limits sign with Shripod Addams following six car lengths behind him.
Driving in the shadow of Cheyenne Mountain, Toni pressed the only button on his radio transmitter as he passed the city limits sign. It wasn’t marked, but he knew what to expect.
Shripod Addams was traveling about sixty miles an hour when the electromagnet let loose and the front, blunt end of the milepost dropped down, striking the asphalt hard with an ear-piercing scraping sound. The violent impact of the milepost slamming against the asphalt disintegrated the electronic module into tiny fragments and scattered them over the highway. Immediately, Shripod lifted his foot off the gas, but never made it to the brake. Before Shripod could slow his car, he felt the floorboard vibrate followed by the ear-piercing sound of metal shredding beneath his feet. He never knew what hit him. The instant he drove over the raised seam in the road, the sharp end of the post violently erupted through the floorboard as the forward end of the post lodged in the bump. Acting as a lance, the milepost thrust its way upwards through the hole in the floor, slicing a gaping tear through the car seat, rocketing up between Shripod’s legs, impaling him through the rib cage and exiting his neck below the ear. In a fraction of a second, the motion of the car caused the milepost to pivot forward about the hole in the floorboard, hurling Shripod’s body upwards off the seat into the ceiling, breaking his neck, and pinning his limp body against the steering wheel. He was dead before his car rolled to a stop in the dirty snow on the shoulder of Highway 115.
Meet the Press, 12/10/2014, 1930 Zulu, 2:30 PM. Local
The White House Situation Room,
Washington, D.C.
Everyone stood when the President entered the White House Situation Room followed by Clive Towles, Dr. Mulcahy, and his personal bodyguards. Even in the dim light, the President’s face revealed that dark rings had formed under his eyes.
Only minutes before this meeting was scheduled to begin with the press, the Secret Service had moved the meeting location and shifted the reporters into a dimly lit, blast-proof room deep inside the White House basement. This last minute change was an attempt by the Secret Service to limit any physical threat to the President during his press conference. This weary herd of reporters had been corralled into the stuffy, gloomy room, then packed shoulder-to-shoulder, like cattle in a stockyard awaiting slaughter.
After stepping behind his pulpit, as he liked to call it, the President deliberately ignored the TV cameras and silently examined the collection of anxious faces in the audience. Some people here may have lost family, he thought. The President looked down at his press release, sighed, then looked up again directly into the eyes of his audience. He was silent for a protracted period, still spellbound by the graphic news reports of this horrible, high-tech catastrophe. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he said slowly in a quiet voice. “Before I begin, there’s something I’ve got to know.” The President’s th
roat was parched. He took a sip of water from a glass on the podium, then continued. “How many of you knew someone who died this morning?”
Nearly everyone in the room raised their hand. Their response seemed to knock the wind out of the President for a few moments and his face turned ashen. The mood in the cramped, damp basement room beneath the White House could best be described as morose.
The President found it easier to count those who did not raise their hands. Twenty-eight out of the thirty-two reporters present knew someone who had died. Glassy-eyed, the President asked, “How many of you lost someone in your family?”
Two women and four men raised their hands. Overwhelmed, the President couldn’t control the tears streaming down his face and his knees began to weaken. His shoulders slumped forward as he slowly sat down on a small metal chair by the podium. Holding his head in his hands, the President recalled Clive Towles’ advice: Integrity is all you’ve got—it’s the only thing that matters. He would not, he could not lie to the immediate families of those who’d suffered loss. He guessed the older reporters might have lost children, but dared not ask for fear he would break down.
The President held his head upright. “I’ll tell you everything we know about what’s happened, but understand that we’ve got a long way to go before we put this nightmare behind us.”
For the next hour, a dumbfounded White House press secretary, as well as the entire world, remained silent, thunderstruck, as the elected leader of the United States explained why their airplanes could no longer fly. As best he could, he explained how the world was being held hostage by their own Star Wars technology orbiting overhead, 115 miles above the earth. Flashbacks of the Atlanta Firestorm constantly entered the President’s thoughts; he couldn’t forget those pictures of Atlanta burning. At the end of his monologue, he concluded with a tone of dismay. “I’m not going to lie to you. Our back’s against the wall and our Allied Forces know it. We had a man-made catastrophe today and we’d better learn from it. Today, we’ve got more questions than answers, but in time, we’ll turn this situation around because we must. We don’t know who sabotaged our SDI software, but if they left any trail along the way, we’ll track them down. We don’t know what to do to restore the status quo, but believe me, we’re exhausting every alternative we’ve got. Right now, we’re spending all our time trying to outsmart our own machines, but we won’t rest until we get this situation under control.” Pausing for several moments, the President looked around the room once again and studied the faces of his audience. The room was absolutely silent except for the quiet, muffled sounds of sobbing. Most reporters sat glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, aghast by the story they’d heard. Some faces in the audience reminded the President of lost sheep, others displayed rage frustrated by having no one to blame, but most revealed an overwhelming sense of profound sadness. Wearily, the President asked, “Are there any questions?”
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