Wargames

by David Bischoff

  A burly Air Police sergeant pushed the door open. “Here you go, sir. We’re keeping him in here just in case.... I dunno, he seems harmless enough to me.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said another, older man. A corduroy jacket with elbow patches and a knit tie gave him a friendly, casual look. A well-clipped mustache, as brown as his eyes, rode neatly between smile lines. Well, thought David, at least he doesn’t have a whip or a cattle prod.

  The new arrival looked at David appraisingly for a moment, unable to conceal his surprise, as though thinking to himself, This skinny little shrimp was the guy who almost started World War III?

  “Hello, David,” the man said. “I’m John McKittrick. I run the computer facility here.”

  David opened his mouth to speak, but realized his mouth was too dry and his voice would probably come out sounding like a frog’s croak. He let a nod suffice.

  “Sergeant, would you come in please and get these cuffs off him?”

  “Sure, Mr. McKittrick,” the man said, jangling some keys as he strode forward and expertly released David’s hands of their restraint.

  “David,” McKittrick continued in a smooth voice, “I called your parents. I told them you’re fine and that we haven’t filed any charges yet in this unfortunate business.” The man frowned thoughtfully. “But I also said we’ll need a little time to sort this whole thing out.”

  “How much time?” David managed to rasp.

  “That, David, depends on how well you cooperate.”

  The handcuffs were gone. David rubbed the circulation back through his wrists. Pins and needles!

  McKittrick addressed the guard. “Tell the O.D. I’m taking him for a little walk.” He turned to David and smiled. “Come on, David, we’ll be more comfortable in my office.”

  David hesitated, wondering if he wasn’t safer here.

  “C’mon, fellow! We’ll have a good chat. Lotta interesting stuff out there I can show you. You’ll like my office much better, I promise you.”

  “How thoughtful,” David said, surprised at his potential for sarcasm even in this situation.

  “Aren’t I, though?” McKittrick smiled and put a fatherly arm around David as he guided the boy toward the computer facilities.

  Wait a minute, David thought. McKittrick. John McKittrick!

  “You used to work with Stephen Falken, didn’t you?”

  David couldn’t help but let the awe creep into his voice. “I started out as Falken’s assistant. Who told you that?” “I read the article you wrote together on poker and

  nuclear war”

  “The one on bluffing?” McKittrick seemed genuinely impressed. “Yeah, that upset a few people.”

  “He must have been an amazing guy.”

  McKittrick seemed to be a bit bothered by that thought. “I made a few contributions to his work... quite a few. Stephen Falken was brilliant, certainly, but he was a flake. He never really understood that his work could have practical uses, that it didn’t have to exist in some ethereal never-never land, that it could be used in the real world. I’m the one who made the changes and adaptations, David. I’m the hardware man.” He opened a door for the boy. “Ah, here we are David. The computer center We’ve been remodeling. State-of-the-art stuff here.”

  David caught his breath. Beautiful, so beautiful... streamlined metal and glass, pulsing with power and knowledge... what genius danced within these machines stretching to a vanishing point in the distance? What magical secrets? Pools of blue and green light defined occasional work areas where teams of white-coated technicians huddled like sorcerer’s apprentices. As they walked through the corridor of machinery, a frisson moved up David Lightman’s spine.

  They strode past a row of squat red cylinders sitting on foam cushions.

  “Jesus,” David said. “That’s a Cray 2!”

  “Ten of them,” McKittrick said.

  “I didn’t know they were out yet.”

  McKittrick almost preened. “Only ten. Come on, I want to show you something.”

  McKittrick stopped by an old-looking machine attached to arrays of more modern peripherals by glowing strands of optical fibers. Across the faded green housing were the letters WOPR. Three smoked-glass panels partitioned it from the rest of the center.

  “This is the machine that run’s Falken’s game program.”

  David blinked. “Joshua’s in there,” he murmured. He looked up at McKittrick. “You still use the original hardware?”

  McKittrick nodded and leaned against the housing. “Falken created a new programming language for the game player. He designed this machine for the program. It still works, beautifully. We’ve increased its power and memory by a factor of ten thousand.”

  “And let me get this right... this just plays the games.... How does it influence what goes on in the rest of this place?”

  “The generals I work with,” McKittrick said, “base every decision they make on what comes out of this machine. But they don’t understand it. They’re a little afraid.”

  “But what goes into the machine?” David wanted to know.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  McKittrick led him past an open circular area where several workers in white jumpsuits sat at a console before large screens. As they began walking up a metal stairway to a mezzanine level overlooking the cavernous Crystal Palace, David watched the screens with absolute fascination. A sequence of computer-enhanced images flashed on the screen, each showing greater detail... gradually revealing the outlines of a city... even buildings... until a busy urban intersection could be made out. An overturned donkey cart caused a traffic jam.

  McKittrick paused and looked at the images. “Beirut, I think, David.”

  “Incredible.”

  “You’ve heard the Pentagon joke that our satellites can read the license plate of a Volga from a hundred miles up, or tell which Russian soldiers shaved each morning? Well, it’s not far from the truth.”

  “The technology....”

  “KH-11 digital imaging satellites. The Big Bird satellite. The Close Look satellite. And the Chalet... among others. They’re all watching the world, David, and all the information transmitted from them goes through our computers, including Falken’s WOPR, and then onto our screens. Falken’s game program is a vital focus... and your intrusion shifted that focus, apparently, so that games it kept to itself were thrust up on the screen, confusing us.”

  “God.”

  McKittrick shrugged. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen again. You did quite effectively point out a weakness none of us was aware of.” McKittrick looked around him. “The whole world may become dependent on computers... but it will certainly therefore be dependent on the people who know computers.” He looked at David. “I think you’ve felt it, David... alone in your room... crashing systems, breaking codes, accessing other worlds... you’ve felt the power, haven’t you, David?”

  “Yes,” David said. “1 guess that’s a part of why I did it.”

  “Imagine how we feel here.” McKittrick continued on up to the mezzanine. “Now, David,” he said, pointing to a sign. “See that sign there? That’s our current defense condition. It should read DEFCON 5... that indicates peace. But because of your little stunt, we’re still on DEFCON 4. If we hadn’t caught onto the fact that what we were seeing was not an attack but a simulation, we might have gone to DEFCON 1, and that would have meant a world war.”

  David had no comment. He felt empty inside... it was too much to take in all at once.

  “Now, you broke in,” McKittrick continued, “because you wanted to play a game, right?”

  “That’s right,” David said.

  “My office is right up here.”

  David followed the man into a well-appointed office with a view of the Crystal Palace. A monitor glowed in the darkness of indirect lighting.

  “Have a seat.”

  David sat, as McKittrick went to an icebox.

  �
�Coke? Root beer? Mountain Dew?”

  “Coke.”

  McKittrick popped the top of the can and handed the drink to David. David gulped. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

  “Why, David, after you saw what had happened on the news... why did you break in again?”

  David choked. Fizz spumed up his nostrils.

  McKittrick kept on. “You knew how serious it was, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t do it again,” David insisted. “I even threw the phone number away!”

  “I know. We found it in the trash.”

  “Joshua called me back.”

  “David, you can pull that on some FBI asshole... don’t try it on me.”

  “But it’s true—it still thinks we’re playing a game.”

  “A game.” McKittrick sat down and perused some notes. “David, who were you supposed to meet in Paris?”

  “Paris?” Then he remembered. Jennifer had wanted that romantic trip. He’d booked it and had forgotten to cancel. “Oh, no... you don’t understand....”

  “You made reservations for two. Who else knows about this, David?” McKittrick said in a soft voice.

  “Nobody,” David replied. I don’t want to get Jennifer into this, he thought.

  McKittrick suddenly cut his act and eyed him coldly. “Why don’t I believe you?” The look sent chills through David.

  He put the Coke on the desk and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything until I talk to a lawyer “

  McKittrick stood up and bent over the desk. “Forget that lawyer crap. You’re not going anywhere until 1 get the truth out of you. A snot-nosed kid just doesn’t do this to my machines, you understand? It can’t be just you. You’ve got to be working with somebody!”

  “How many times do I have to tell you!” David said despairingly. “I did it as a challenge. I just got lucky... !”

  “David, this isn’t high school. Your actions have consequence.. far greater than you might imagine. Now I’m trying to help you—”

  “Look, I told them ten times, I broke into the system to play a game. It’s not my fault your guys can’t tell the difference between a simulation and a Russian missile attack.

  The phone rang. McKittrick picked it up. “Yeah?”

  A look of alarm invaded his eyes. “What?” he said disbelievingly. “Right. I’ll be down.” He put the phone down. “You don’t move. Understand? You stay right there.”

  “Where could I go?” David said. “I just want to get this straight with you guys.”

  McKittrick wasn’t listening. He hustled out of the room. David went to the window. He watched as McKittrick almost ran to the command balcony, where a bunch of military bigwigs were conferring. A heated discussion commenced that had enough body English to win a bowling tournament.

  David watched the people who ran the systems that could destroy the world, and he shook his head in disbelief.

  Below him, McKittrick took a deep breath. His forehead was damp, and he felt as if little fires had been lit here and there in his body.

  He barely noticed Cabot approaching the command balcony.

  “What’s going on?” Cabot demanded in a style that was used to getting immediate answers.

  Paul Richter looked like McKittrick felt. His tie was off now, and there were sweat stains under his arms. “There’s just been a very serious penetration into our WOPR execution order file.”

  “Huh?” Cabot said. “Tell me that again. This time in English!”

  Even the normally stone-faced Berringer was clearly rattled. “I’ll give it to you in English. Somebody’s gotten into this boy’s system and stolen the codes that can launch our missiles. Simple enough.” Berringer was clearly past all need to be polite to government figures. He looked as if he were about to have a fit of apoplexy.

  Time to cool things down here, McKittrick thought. “I’d like to point out there’s no immediate danger. The system won’t accept the launch codes unless we’re at DEFCON 1.”

  Cabot, however, would not be appeased. “Who did this?”

  McKittrick fielded that question before anyone else had the chance. “We don’t know yet. That kid must be working with someone on the outside. But I can change those codes in less than an hour

  “I don’t’ know what they’re trying to pull here,” Berringer said, “but I don’t want our bombers on the ground when it happens.” He turned to Colonel Conley, stationed at the communications line. “Get SAC. Let’s go to DEFCON 3.” He turned to Cabot. “The goddamned Soviets are up to something. Using a kid! Unbelievable.” He turned to an aide. “Get me immediate updates on Soviet submarine deployment. I want to see what those bastards are up to!”

  No good, as usual, thought McKittrick. So much for the START agreement.

  Orders were executed. The scoreboard switched from DEFCON 4 to DEFCON 3.

  David Lightman looked down at the military and civilian folk on the command balcony, clearly not in great moods. Obviously something was up. Something big, something serious.

  The Russians had nothing to do with this and David Lightman knew it. But those idiots didn’t believe him. They were acting crazy.

  He had to prove it to them.

  As soon as McKittrick had led him through the office door David Lightman had noticed the computer terminal. Like a dog to a bone... David could almost sense its presence even now.

  It gave him an idea.

  Quickly he sat down at the terminal. Nice. Modern. Now, where was the “on” switch. Ah!

  The screen came to life. Immediately after, a command surfaced, like a message floating up from a fortune-telling eight ball.

  LOG ON.

  David typed in: JOSHUA5

  He prayed they hadn’t changed the code word. He hadn’t told them what it was, but they did not know that he had gained access through a back door and—

  The letters appeared quickly: GREETINGS, PROFESSOR FALKEN.

  HELLO, David typed desperately. ARE YOU STILL PLAYING THE GAME?

  OF COURSE, Joshua answered. I SHOULD REACH DEFCON 1 AND LAUNCH MY MISSILE IN 28 HOURS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE SOME PROJECTED KILL RATIOS?

  A series of numbers flashed, but David hit the override button.

  The screen cleared.

  IS THIS A GAME OR IS IT REAL? he said.

  WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE? replied the Joshua5 program.

  David was stunned. Of course! The computer program had no concept at all of reality. It didn’t know that if it continued, civilization would end, millions of people would die. It only knew that it was supposed to play a game, and to play that game, it had to launch those missiles!

  GAME TIME ELAPSED: 45 HRS. 32 MINS. 25 SECS.

  ESTIMATED TIME REMAINING: 27 HRS. 59 MINS. 39 SECS.

  YOU ARE A HARD MAN TO REACH. COULD NOT FIND YOU IN SEATTLE AND NO TERMINAL IS IN OPERATION AT YOUR CLASSIFIED ADDRESS. ARE YOU ALIVE OR DEAD TODAY?

  Hey! What was this?

  STOP PLAYING, David typed. I’M DEAD.

  IMPROBABLE, the computer responded. THERE ARE NO DEATH RECORDS ON FILE FOR FALKEN, STEPHEN W., AND NO TERMINAL IS IN OPERATION AT YOUR CLASSIFIED ADDRESS.

  This could really be something, thought David. If I could get a hold of the man who...

  WHAT CLASSIFIED ADDRESS? David typed in. The monitor responded immediately.

  DOD PENSION FILES INDICATE CURRENT MAILING AS:

  DR. ROBERT HUME

  5 TALL CEDAR ROAD

  ANDERSON ISLAND, OREGON

  “He’s really alive,” David said, excited. “Stephen Falken is alive!” He bent back over the computer to see if he could pick out anymore information, but was interrupted by the opening of the door.

  “For Christ’s sake, get him away from that thing!” a voice squawked. David flicked the machine off, before anyone could see what he was up to. He turned and saw that the federal agents who had “escorted” him there, Wigan and Stockman, were moving through the door like a couple of runners sprinting from a starting line. They grimaced
angrily as they grabbed David and hauled him away from the monitor.

  “You’d think they’d know better than to leave him in here alone,” Stockman said, his hold around David’s bicep quite a bit stronger than necessary.

  “Just checking out the equipment, guys!” David said. “No harm done. Look, can’t I please talk to Mr. McKittrick?”

  Wigan pulled out a set of cuffs. “I told ’em to keep the bracelets on!”

  David gestured down to the Command Balcony. “He’s right down there. It’s an emergency! It’ll take just a minute, please!”

  Wigan’s face was death on ice. “David Lightman,” he said, “I’ll be escorting you to federal authorities in Denver, where you’ll be placed under arrest pending indictment for espionage.” His thin lips seemed frozen in a scowl of contempt.

  David’s heart leapt. “Espionage? No! There’s something weird going on here, and it’s got nothing to do with espionage! I can explain it to Mr. McKittrick if you just—”

  Wigan pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and thrust it into David’s face. “Lightman, this is a Miranda. It informs you of your rights. Read it over. Then if you’ll just sign it for me.” He smiled maliciously as he picked up a pen from the desk. “Please.”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “The man asked ‘please’ real nice,” said Stockman, increasing the strength of his grip. “Now, are you going to make me ask ‘please’ not so nicely?”

  David groaned. “Okay, okay!” He accepted the paper and looked at it. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right... God, it was just like on Hill Street Blues!

  “I’m telling you guys,” he said as he signed, “the system is screwed up. The WOPR is playing a game... it’s trying to start a nuclear war as a game!”

  “Come on. Stockman. We’ll stick him where we had him before, and this time he’s off limits to that McKittrick fellow.”

  “I just had a thought, Wigan. You think maybe the Russkies got through to him via his computer? We better put a check on this.... Half the hackers in America may be potential Soviet agents!”