To date, every military project for which Jackson had The Day of Reckoning significant responsibility had been considered successful. Unknown to Wild Bill, Jackson was in over his head with this Black Hole prototype and needed time.
Lieutenant Colonel William Boyd climbed down from the catwalk to the top of the test chamber and worked his way to the center of Jackson’s penthouse lab. Jackson had just completed a series of radar tests on his Black Hole prototype and was poring over stacks of data when he noticed Wild Bill walk in.
After carefully studying the test results, Jackson felt doubt, an upwelling of disbelief. These results couldn’t be correct. This had never happened before, it couldn’t be happening now. He groped for possible explanations: either there had to be something wrong with the test equipment or that cockpit canopy was one hell of a big problem. Then he looked up. Wild Bill was looking at him casually, his eyes clear.
“How’s she look, Jackson?”
For a moment, Jackson felt as if his jaw had suddenly fused shut. He was aware that Wild Bill was looking at him with something like puzzlement in his eyes, but it didn’t matter. He ordered his tongue to say what he felt he must and almost choked on the words. “There’re always problems when you do anything for the first time, but I’ll work through them.” Jackson paused, handed Wild Bill a graph of his test data, then continued. “You won’t like these results.”
Wild Bill read over the data with a puzzled expression at first. After a few moments, puzzlement was replaced with concern, deep concern. The test results read like a pilot’s death warrant. Wild Bill was no radar expert, but he didn’t need to be to sort through this story. “Are these results repeatable?”
“Yes,” Jackson uttered the single word. It underlined his sense of urgency. His eyes did not change. He blinked once and then turned back to his test controls.
“Then there’s no instrumentation error.”
“Could be. I don’t believe this data. It doesn’t feel right. The problem is either the test equipment or that damn gold dome.” The Plexiglas cockpit canopy of the Black Hole prototype had been impregnated with gold to keep radar energy out of the cockpit, but the canopy reflected radar energy much like a curved mirror.
“Whataya plan?”
“Seal that cockpit completely, button it up tight as a drum, cover it with absorber and eliminate it once and for all”
“Are you serious?” Stunned, Wild Bill looked at Jackson in disbelief. “Black it out completely?” Jackson planned to put him under the bag, have him take off, fly, and land relying totally on instruments. As a test pilot, he could do it if it was necessary, but he didn’t like it. Sensitive DEWSAT radar technology combined with the physics of time and distance dictated requirements for a stealthy aircraft which no pilot could love.
“From now on, the Black Hole flies on instruments only.” Jackson looked at him without emotion. “Better log some simulator time under the bag.” Jackson’s distinctive New England accent bore into the southern man’s consciousness.
Wild Bill’s jaw tensed, his mind focused, his nerves steeled. “So what are my chances?”
The silence that ensued lasted almost sixty seconds.
Without emotion, Jackson scribbled some notes over his test results. He guessed where his data would fall once the stealthy cockpit canopy had been installed. “No better than fifty-fifty.” His voice was opaque, pitiless.
Wild Bill’s teeth clenched together, the muscles at the back of his jaw tightened into hard knots. Months ago, he had volunteered for this assignment because he believed it important. Today, the SDI virus made this work more important than then, but he didn’t volunteer to die. He had stayed alive this long by keeping the odds in his favor.
Jackson continued talking, his nasal-like voice reaching back into his consciousness. Now his voice was talking about the probability of detection, the chances for error. A fascinating problem, he was saying.
“It’s my life we’re talking about here,” Wild Bill snarled with baffled anger. Looking at the equipment clutter scattered about the penthouse, he continued. “This whole operation feels jury-rigged to me. You fix one problem and another pops up.”
Jackson made a sound. It was a low, primitive grunt. He paused, then after searching for the right words, he resumed speaking. This time his voice was so slow that each word seemed to dangle. “As you know, Colonel, we are caught in a desperate situation. Don’t concern yourself needlessly. I will mask your aircraft using equipment which mimics the DEWSAT radar signal. It displaces the radar return and makes your aircraft look like a thousand moving targets.” Gesturing with his hands, Jackson’s eyes gleamed as he described this gadget.
Wild Bill watched him with a jaundiced eye. He’d thought for a long time that Jackson had some kind of weird affection for all that damn equipment. It just wasn’t natural.
“I presume you have experience with this device?” Wild Bill asked skeptically.
“We use the same device in the Phantom Hawk cruise missile.” Jackson spoke with convincing authority. He was wrong in this case, but nevertheless, he was completely confident. It was true that the radar masking equipment was used in the Phantom Hawk. But it was also true that the masking equipment triggered the DEWSAT’s burn-through mode. Jackson had been isolated the last two days and had not read the latest reports from Cheyenne Mountain. The DEWSAT would not allow itself to be overrun by false targets. Satisfied with his own response, Jackson nodded his head in approval. “I’d suggest you get some simulator time under the bag.”
“Don’t patronize me, Jackson,” Wild Bill snarled. “You do your job, I’ll do mine.”
Hope and Confrontation, 12/11/2014, 1545 Zulu, 8:45 A.M.
Local
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
Mason looked across the video conference room at Hinson. For a moment, he debated whether or not he should deal with this personnel matter, but because of the urgency of the situation he decided to meet it head-on. Mason planned to lop Hinson from his War Room staff and ease him out of the service. He believed his self-centered ambition had gotten him as far as he should go. Mason called him over to his console. He thought Hinson looked almost apprehensive as he sat down.
“We need to talk,” Mason said plainly. He would talk to Hinson face-to-face, not through another person. In addition to Hinson’s blind ambition, Mason had lingering doubts about his integrity. When the chips were down, he couldn’t be trusted. The man would lie looking you square in the eyes. The problem was to get Hinson off his staff in the least amount of time, then quietly move him out of the service, so he could not do any more damage. “I want you off my staff effective immediately and out of the service.” He spoke quietly but bluntly. His voice was a mixture of pity and hard-bitten reality. Mason paused for a moment to watch Hinson’s reactions. As usual, the wheels turned round in Hinson’s head, but his face revealed very little of what he felt inside. “It’s time you got into another line of work.”
Hinson had expected this, only it came sooner than he’d planned. If he could buy a little time, maybe a week or two to get all his transfer ducks lined up, he’d be history. Guys like Hinson might stumble, but they never got hurt. They always landed feetfirst on top of somebody else. “Sir, as you see it, what are my alternatives? I think you’d agree, this is coming rather suddenly. And the timing, this crisis. We haven’t even discussed my options.”
Mason furrowed his brow and looked Hinson straight in the eyes. As always, his objective was to be direct. “My immediate interest is my staff and this virus. I only work well with people I can trust, people who say what they think and are up-front about their motives. As far as your options, I’d like you out of the service. You know I can’t bust you because you’ve done nothing illegal, but consider yourself notified. I plan to put you at risk. When our yearly force reduction comes next fall, you’ll be gone. Make your plans now. I don’t want you in a position where you can do any more harm. Any questions?”
“Abo
ut my—uh ... transition.”
“What about it?”
“Can you give me two weeks? I’d train my replacement to ease the transition.”
Mason’s knee-jerk reaction was to say no, but he held his tongue and considered Hinson’s suggestion. After all, Hinson was competent and a capable liar. Mason knew he couldn’t be trusted, but he wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. His head said no, his heart said yes. “You understand you are relieved of your duties as CSOC commander as of this meeting?” Mason’s voice sounded concerned.
Hinson hesitated. His reply was polite but edged with ice. “I understand, General.”
“Your single remaining responsibility here would be to train your replacement.”
Hinson nodded.
I hope I don't live to regret this decision, Mason thought. Hinson could be a conniving little prick. “Very well, do what you can to bring your replacement up to speed as fast as possible. That is all.” Mason stood, ending the meeting, and hoped this issue was resolved.
He felt an undefined and nagging discomfort when suddenly Colonel Napper burst into the Crow’s Nest video conference room waving a fax over his head, quivering with excitement. The few men in the room who were talking fell silent. Even those outside the conversation strained to hear Napper.
Hinson remained impassive, but Mason leaned forward in his chair, anxious, hoping desperately for some good news.
“They’ve found it. Livermore’s got their hands on the source code. They’re verging on a breakthrough.” His voice was heavily persuasive, but it didn’t need to be. He’d said what they wanted to hear.
“All right, talk to me, Sam. Tell us what you know.”
“They’ve found the virus source code and expect to know what makes it tick within twenty-four hours.”
Colonel Napper paused, rubbing the stubble on his face. The heavy beard he’d had since puberty was growing rapidly, but he couldn’t take the time to shave it today. “And another thing, we wrote the virus, the United States government, I mean.”
“Why the hell would we do that?” Mason asked, frustrated by a sense of one step forward followed by one step back.
“I don’t know for sure, sir.” Napper paused, and then went on, his voice now unconvincing. “But as I understand it, the Army did some work on battlefield grade computer viruses back in the mid-nineties. As far as I know, they shelved the idea when they found out that our equipment was more susceptible than our enemies’. The virus Livermore found is built of three parts; each part was contracted separately by the Air Force, Army, and CIA.”
Mason put his head facedown in his hands for a few moments, then looked up at Napper. “Is it possible that we brought this on ourselves?”
Colonel Napper paused. Then his voice gained confidence. “No, sir, the odds against this are so high it’s impossible.”
“All right,” Mason said. “I don’t want to solve this here and now, but I want it solved before Livermore builds another software load. Tell Dr. Roberts to bring in any experts he needs, but retrace exactly how that virus gained entry into our software. No matter what, we cannot ever allow this to happen again.”
“What do you make of it?” Mason invited Hinson’s comments, but his tone said “keep it short.”
Hinson plugged back into the conversation. “What about Shripod Addams? Any connection to Livermore?”
“Yes, it’s all in this fax,” Napper replied as he handed out copies to everyone in the video conference room. Mason studied the document intently. His nagging discomfort returned.
“All right, let me sum it up,” Mason said. “We don’t know the organization behind the sabotage, but we’ve got the source code. We should know how the virus behaves by this time tomorrow.”
Napper and Hinson agreed.
“Sam, get this in the President’s hands immediately, and one other thing. Goose up our satellite surveillance, especially over the trouble spots. Things are going to get worse before they get better. I learned a long time ago that the truth is a two-edged sword. It may set you free—but it costs. It stands to reason. When the police pull out, chaos takes over—happens all the time. Somewhere, some pigheaded barbarian is planning to exploit this situation. It has to be. We need to know about it before it happens.” Mason clinched his teeth so hard his head throbbed, but he knew in his gut he was right.
Two-edged Sword, 12/11/2014, 1600 Zulu, 11:00 a.m. Local
The White House,
Washington, D.C.
The office he had aspired to occupy all his life seemed like the loneliest place on earth to the President. Gazing at presidential portraits around the Oval Office, he reflected on the struggles of those who had occupied this office before him. Recalling something Kennedy had said following the Bay of Pigs incident, he lamented. “Success has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan.” He hadn’t slept well, his mind raced in circles agonizing over their predicament and what to do next. He felt good about his decision to tackle this problem head-on, but apprehensive about the future. He needed a plan. In the past, he had come here seeking advice and today was no exception.
The President’s concentration was broken when his hollow-eyed national security advisor walked into the room clutching the latest reports from Livermore and Cheyenne Mountain. “Pour yourself some coffee, Clive, and have a seat. Mason’s coming on-line any minute.” Clive Towles sat down on a small sofa facing the wall lined with video cameras and TV monitors. Before Towles had finished stirring his coffee, Supreme Commander Mason’s picture ap-
peared on their TV monitor. Anxious and impatient, the President cut to the crux of the matter. “General, I need a damn good plan that’ll get us out of this mess or a miracle.”
“Apparently you’ve got the right connections, Mr. President.” Mason smiled, but only slightly. “Have you seen the latest from Livermore?”
The President’s national security advisor interrupted before the President could respond. “Here’s a copy of the latest Livermore fax, Mr. President. It’s still warm; picked it up on my way to your office.”
The President read the message but seemed unimpressed. He squinted his eyes and looked up at Slim on his video monitor. “What does it mean in English?”
Mason summarized the Livermore findings for the President and concluded by saying, “Livermore believes they found the virus source code. This could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for. We’ll know what we’ve got within twenty-four hours.”
“Know what?”
“Know why the virus behaves as it does and what we must do to isolate it. The source code could be the key to solving this problem. It should allow us to fully characterize the virus and, hopefully, eliminate it.”
“What do you mean, hopefully?” the President asked impatiently.
“There are no guarantees, Mr. President. Conceivably, we may leam of some viral characteristics that we cannot counteract.”
There was a long pause on the line, then the President spoke. His voice boomed over the loudspeakers in Cheyenne Mountain. “Don’t play word games with me, General. Say what you mean clearly in English. This is no time for misunderstanding.” The President paused, studying the pictures of his general staff at Cheyenne Mountain. He then continued, deliberately slow. “I want to ask you one question.”
General Mason had a premonition of doom. He knew the question.
“General Mason, after studying this virus, could we leam The Day of Reckoning there’s nothing we can do? That we have no cure? That we can’t end this crisis?”
Mason hesitated, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wanted to see where his team stood. Napper, Sullivan, Krol, and Craven somberly and unanimously agreed, then Mason spoke without apology. “Yes, Mr. President, it is possible.”
There was a swell of tension in the room as the President quickly came forward in his seat. The President’s eyes widened, but he decided not to press. His silence was ominous enough. The silence drew out until the Pres
ident leaned back in his chair once again.
Craven felt a flash of admiration for Mason, a sense of pride combined with a kind of helplessness. When the chips were down, Mason would put his career on the line every time and do what he believed was right.
General Krol handed Mason a handwritten note.
“Anything else?” the President asked.
“Yes. General Krol reminds me that he has a massive analysis effort running around the clock in Kaliningrad. Progress is slow, but sure. The work is tedious. Hundreds of scientists and engineers are reconstructing exactly what happened from our computer logs. Once complete, we’ll have a better detailed picture of the conditions onboard Freedom. ”
“Good,” the President said. “Although I’m not technical, a detailed picture of what you’ve got sounds damn important to me.”
“It’s our Freedom road map, Mr. President. We won’t get there without it.” Mason’s eyes were clear, his voice sure.
“Very well, General Mason. I need a plan from you and I need it fast. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need. As it stands, I’ve got no visibility. I want to see what’s being done to turn this thing around. Get me a plan, one with some contingency, then together we’ll follow it through.”
“We’re working the plan, Mr. President.”
“Well then, what’s our next step? What should I do to improve our chances?”
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