On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  "You are the best," Morrison whispered. "You rule. Whatever you want from here on out, either of you, just name it. I mean it, guys. Now and forever."

  ***

  It was just before midnight when Terry Arkham logged onto the development server with the SysAdmin password. Once again, he positioned to the Simulation working account and studied the array of files.

  I gave them too much time to recover. Who'd have thought two weeks would be enough? I won't make that mistake again.

  He knew he couldn't pull his original trick a second time. Svenson had said several times that they were keeping copies of everything on removable disks. It would have to be something subtler, something that would leave them no choice but to accept his help.

  The bitch thinks she's good. Yeah, maybe. But is she good enough to find a randomly varying memory fault in a program this size? With maybe a day to do it?

  He thought over his demo, and the possibilities it offered for triggering a fault in the simulator at run time.

  The demo plan ran through three stages, each of which was a larger and more exhaustive test of the flight software's capabilities than the previous one. The flight software was designed to identify flying objects from their radar signatures, classify them as friends or foes, and then take appropriate action to destroy the foes, according to their known capabilities. The flight computer that ran the program was supposed to have enough power and memory to identify and track a large number of airborne targets: two thousand at peak load.

  The simulator would be called upon to produce simulated targets for the flight software to identify and destroy in progressively greater numbers. The first phase asked for a mere twenty-four targets, each one belonging to its own category of enemy aircraft, to demonstrate the flight software's ability to handle widely varying radar signatures and performance profiles. The second phase required two hundred simultaneous targets, one hundred hostile and one hundred friendly, to demonstrate the flight program's ability to discriminate between them under stress. The third phase required a full laydown of two thousand targets, to prove that the flight computer and software had the requisite capacity or a little extra.

  Christine had been trained by Louis Redmond, and dynamic allocation had been Redmond's favorite trick. If it had been Redmond who wrote the simulator, Arkham would have expected to find a central target generator that simply grabbed some unused memory and built a new target in it whenever one was needed.

  His eye lit on the name of a likely-looking file. He opened it with the editor, started to read through it, and soon found exactly what he was looking for.

  Okay. Now to corrupt the generator just a little. Not enough to show at low numbers of targets. It mustn't kick in until there's a heavy load, and the corruption should be as close to random as I can make it.

  He thought through his changes, put his fingers to the keyboard, and began to type. He was immediately jarred by an alarm bell and an overlay window.

  *** Access Denied ***

  What the -- ?

  He dismissed the window and tried again. It returned.

  How can I be denied? I'm the Goddamned System Administrator!

  He dismissed the window a second time and tried for a third to make his changes. A new window appeared.

  Persistent little bugger, aren't you, Terry?

  We don't want your kind in this account.

  Go find someplace else to play your games.

  The window hung there mocking him for ten seconds before the system logged him off without further ceremony.

  ***

  An alarm had sounded on Christine's terminal as Arkham began his incursion. She and Rolf watched the Tactical group leader's session on a monitor window.

  "We've got him."

  "Yup."

  ====

  Chapter 47

  Demo Day, Monday the fifteenth of April, dawned bright, clear, and bitterly cold. At 7:45 AM, a fleet of cars bearing U. S. Government license plates began to stream through the front gates of the Onteora Aviation campus. They parked en masse in the visitors' area of the OA Development Center parking lot, and discharged a host of uniformed men, ranging from lieutenant commanders and commanders, through captains and commodores, to a Rear Admiral, all resplendent in the dress whites of the United States Navy. Roger Morrison greeted them at the facility's front doors and ushered them inside.

  Rear Admiral Benjamin Wickenheiser could have led the procession himself. He knew the way to the labs quite well, having attended many demonstrations in that building, though none with the potential impact of this one. He allowed Morrison to shepherd them to the laboratory area, noting in passing that the project director's habitual stream of irritating chatter was absent on this occasion.

  As was customary, the portion of the lab that was to be used for the demonstration had been partitioned off from the surrounding volume by thick fabric curtains. A stock fighter cockpit mockup took center stage. It was connected by a thick bundle of cables to the ton and a half of electronics that drove the controls and displays. Conspicuous by the bulk of their armored housings were the venerable tactical computers the Navy had favored for more than two decades.

  At the side of the huge pile of electronics stood Rolf Svenson and a beautiful young woman the Admiral failed to recognize. Svenson looked awkward and uncomfortable in a pinstriped gray suit. The young woman was attired in a navy blue suit and high-heeled pumps.

  "Where's Arkham?"

  Morrison cringed, and for the first time that day the Admiral saw the project director's fatuous plastic smile.

  "Terry called me last night, Admiral, and said something urgent had come up. He asked me to express his regrets at not being able to run the demo for you. But you'll see the same demo he would have run."

  Morrison's glanced toward Svenson and the young woman. "Before we start the actual demonstration," he said, voice rising in volume, "I have a remarkable story to tell you. Over the weekend of March thirtieth and thirty-first, we had a computer calamity here that completely wiped out the battle simulator. We lost more than eighty percent of the work that had been done on it to date -- more than forty thousand lines of code -- and were without the facilities we needed to run this demo."

  The Admiral's eyebrows rose. "Are you saying you don't have a theater-of-battle simulator to run against, Roger?"

  Morrison smiled again, but this time it was genuine. "Not at all, Admiral. Because of these two people right here. Step over here, Rolf, Christine. Admiral, I believe you've met Rolf Svenson, our Simulation Group leader?"

  The Admiral nodded his recognition to the tall, gaunt engineer. Svenson nodded in return.

  "Right next to him is the most remarkable software talent OA has ever had the privilege to employ. Admiral, may I present Miss Christine D'Alessandro?"

  The young woman held out her hand as if unsure of what was proper. The Admiral took it and clasped it.

  "In the thirteen day period from April second through yesterday, Rolf and Christine recreated the battle simulator from ground zero. Rolf reconstructed the requirements and design, Christine did all the coding, and they tested it together. Yesterday, we ran the demo script you're about to see against it, and came out with a one hundred percent level of success."

  Morrison fell silent. The Admiral's wondering eyes were joined by every other pair in the room.

  Two engineers. And she's hardly more than a girl. Is Morrison blowing smoke up my ass? If not, these two ought to be forced into uniforms and guarded as national treasures. Navy uniforms. My treasures.

  "You know I have to ask if you're being perfectly straight with me, Roger. What you've just described is patently impossible."

  Morrison nodded. "I thought so too, before they did it."

  The Admiral scrutinized the two engineers for a long moment more before turning back to the project director.

  "I'd like to see some substantiation of this absurd claim after we've finished here, Roger."

  Morrison nodded
again. "And you will, Admiral. Meanwhile, shall we get started? I'll be running the tactical system, and Rolf will be guiding the simulation."

  The project director seated himself at the center of the cockpit mockup. Christine turned down the lights. All the Navy personnel turned to the cockpit displays.

  "Our first scenario will be a laydown of twenty-four heterogeneous targets, to demonstrate the modified flight program's ability to discriminate among widely divergent families of enemy aircraft..."

  ***

  Roger Morrison glanced at his watch. It was five minutes past ten. The assemblage of Navy officers was engrossed in the tale being told by the cockpit displays. He cleared his throat and gestured to Christine, who turned up the lights.

  "Well, gentlemen, I hope you've enjoyed this little demonstration. As I said earlier, Terry Arkham would have liked to conduct it personally, and he did send his regrets at not being able to do so. But I think you'll agree that his people in Tactical Software have outdone themselves once again."

  The perfect silence, for two hours broken only by Morrison's voice, was shattered by thunderous applause, far too loud to come from so few hands. Every Navy man in the group, Admiral Wickenheiser included, was clapping wildly. Most were cheering as well. It went on for quite a while.

  Roger Morrison, for twenty-eight years an employee of Onteora Aviation, veteran of demonstrations and stagings beyond numbering, many of which had been far more overtly dramatic than this one, felt tears well in his eyes as he absorbed the message of approval from his audience that day. Lest he lose his self-control, he went to Rolf and Christine, gathered one in each arm and pushed them forward for their own moment in the sun.

  The applause crescendoed, seemed to become twice as loud. It might have been his imagination. He hoped not, and added his own hands to the thunder.

  ***

  Rolf Svenson returned to his cubicle and slumped into his desk chair. Morrison and Admiral Wickenheiser had a lot of schmoozing and dickering left to do, but even if he'd wanted to be a part of it, he hadn't the strength.

  Now I know what exhaustion is.

  He tried to conjure up an agenda for the day and the week, and failed. For two weeks, he hadn't been able to think beyond this moment. His prolonged concentration had left him unable to shift gears and move to a new problem.

  It will pass, but I'm going to be useless for a while. A few days, at least. Maybe it's time for a few days off.

  That was a possibility he hadn't considered since Anna left him. He wondered if he was ready to face the challenges of leisure. The idea seemed attractive at first, but became less so as he thought about it.

  I'd have to leave Chris here unprotected. She can't have any vacation time accrued yet. The sharks would be after her before the door hit my ass.

  What the hell am I worried about? She's tougher than I am. She needs protection like I need a second nose.

  It's not that, Svenson. Be honest with yourself. You don't want to be away from her.

  He knew it was true. He would never have wished such a disaster on them as they'd just survived. Yet he had looked forward to each day of the past two weeks with an undeniable eagerness. Being continuously near Christine, working together in perfect coordination, as mentally intimate as two people could get without telepathy, had been like bathing in the Fountain of Youth.

  You have to break this, Svenson. And now, before it becomes any stronger. She's twenty-five. You're fifty-one. She's got the world before her. All you could do is hold her back. It's flat out wrong. Even if you had a chance with her, it would be wrong.

  His attempt at renunciation caused adrenaline to flood his bloodstream. His muscles tightened and his heart began to pound. No woman had affected him this way since he had first met Anna. Certainly none since she'd left him.

  I'm caught. I don't know what to do.

  The sense of insoluble contradiction made his anxieties spiral higher. He could not move, and could not sit still. He sought frantically for a convenient distraction, anything at all to divert his thoughts, and found nothing.

  "Rolf?"

  Christine's soft voice caused Svenson to start. He turned to see her at the entrance to his cubicle. She was holding a slip of pink paper.

  "Who's Floyd Holloway?"

  He took a deep breath and tried to collect himself. "He's the VP for this division, Chris. Why?"

  She waved the note. "Says here he wants to see me." She glanced at his desk. "Maybe he wants to see you, too."

  He followed her gaze to a matching slip of paper wedged into his keyboard. He'd managed to sit down without seeing it. He plucked it from its resting place and unfolded it.

  TO: R. Svenson.

  FROM: Floyd Holloway

  DATE: 04/15

  Please report to my office at the conclusion of the customer demonstration.

  FAH/rc

  He passed the note to Christine, who glanced at it and nodded.

  "Same as mine. What do you think it's about?"

  Svenson shrugged. "Probably just a pat on the back for the past two weeks. Holloway's just an administrator, doesn't really know what we do here, but he never misses a chance to grab a piece of anything that's going well. I'm kind of surprised he wasn't at the demo himself." He rose and shook himself. "Come on, let's get it over with."

  He led her down the corridor and up the stairs to Mahogany Row.

  ***

  Holloway's secretary glanced up from her crossword puzzle and waved them toward the closed door of the VP's office. Rolf turned the knob, opened the door, and stopped in confusion.

  "Come in, Mr. Svenson, Ms. D'Alessandro. And close the door."

  Floyd Holloway's face had always reminded Svenson of an animated lemon. The vice president's jaundiced, deeply lined skin combined with gray Mephistophelean eyebrows, suspicious eyes, and a tightly pursed mouth to make a face that many people would cross the street to avoid. Whether sitting or standing, the old man held himself ramrod straight at all times. It was difficult to imagine him bending over. Svenson had never seen him do it.

  Before the VP's desk stood Roger Morrison, a saga of pain written across his features. At Holloway's right, radiating triumph, stood Terry Arkham.

  "Mr. Svenson," rasped Holloway, "Mr. Arkham has just brought me evidence that Miss D'Alessandro here has compromised the integrity of our computer systems for her own personal purposes. Are you aware of any activities along those lines?"

  Svenson stared at the corporate officer for a long moment before turning toward Arkham.

  "What have you done, Terry?"

  Arkham bared his teeth and said nothing.

  "Mr. Arkham has done exactly what any responsible employee of this company should have done when he became aware of a breach in our security." Holloway's voice became sharp. "I understand Miss D'Alessandro is your subordinate?"

  "Yes, she is. And I am incredibly proud of her."

  "Oh? Really? For corrupting the systems administration programs on our computer system?"

  Svenson strained to put steel into his voice. "Miss D'Alessandro acted in defense of the Simulation Group, after discovering that Mr. Arkham had tried to destroy the fruits of six months' of our work. You may have heard about how well our rescue mission turned out."

  Arkham laughed and shook his head at Svenson's foolish goal-line stand.

  "Control yourself, Mr. Arkham. This is a serious matter." Holloway's contemptuous stare made him want to flinch. "Mr. Svenson, if there were even a shred of truth in that accusation, you could have brought the matter to me before taking matters so completely upon your own shoulders. Did Miss D'Alessandro do what she did with your prior knowledge and approval?"

  "My prior knowledge, no. But Miss D'Alessandro has my full and unqualified approval for everything she does, Mr. Holloway. She is the best person I know."

  Christine gasped. Morrison cringed and turned away.

  "I can't say much for your judgment, Mr. Svenson. And your attitude is unacceptable for man
agerial personnel in this company." Holloway's eyes moved briefly to Christine. "Mr. Morrison has given me to understand that Miss D'Alessandro is an exceptional talent, one that the company simply can't afford to lose. Nevertheless, she must be disciplined, and after I've had some time to think about what would be appropriate, she will be. You, on the other hand, are far too senior to be carrying the convictions you've expressed. Your services are no longer needed here. Gather any personal items from your work area, and leave your badge with Richard Orloff before you go."

  Svenson had thought he was braced for anything. He was wrong. Morrison darted to catch him as his knees buckled, and lowered him into a guest chair.

  Christine moved forward, pulled the Onteora Aviation badge from her lapel and tossed it onto Holloway's desk. She walked with measured steps to where Arkham stood and stared down at him with loathing.

  "I don't think this can wait for tomorrow."

  With a single thrust, she drove the heel of her pump through his left instep, then pulled it free. Terry Arkham burst into the shrill scream of a pig being castrated. He stood still an instant more before crumpling in shock.

  Holloway snarled and reached for his telephone.

  Morrison's hand landed on it first. "You withered obscenity, if you lift that thing I'll tear your arm off and beat you to death with it."

  The vice president recoiled into his chair. Morrison straightened up and cast a contemptuous glance at Arkham's collapsed form.

  "We'll be going now, Floyd. Best of luck getting along with your new head boy."

  Morrison nodded to Christine. She moved to where Svenson sat, pulled him upright, and shepherded him out of Holloway's office with an arm around his waist.

  "Was that what you meant by him 'getting his,' Chris?"

  "More or less." She looked straight ahead and kept them moving.

  God, I wouldn't want to get in the way of that temper.