PLAYING A LOSING GAME
by
M.F. Bishop
Preface
I wrote most of this story in 1990, setting it in 1999. I made some minor revisions incorporating GPS in 1995, but for the most part this is my view of 1999 politics and technology from 1990.
Prologue
A deserted stretch of coastal highway on the island of Osaka in Japan dips to within a few feet of the waves, then climbs steeply toward the top of the cliffs. The lights of three trucks carve sharp pieces from the predawn darkness as an 18-wheeler sandwiched between two vans grinds slowly up the grade. The engine sounds blend with the roar of the surf. Near the crest of the hill the road narrows, pinched between the stone of the cliff wall and the sheer drop to the ocean. The trucks slow even more and swing close to the cliff. A thundering explosion drowns the engine and surf noise as a Claymore mine blows the lead van off the road. As it tumbles down the cliff, uniformed soldiers are flung from the flaming wreckage. A hail of machine gun fire echoes the mine explosion, smashing the cab of the semi and killing the driver. The truck stalls and stops.
The last truck also stops, and more soldiers leap to the road, unslinging machine pistols and assault rifles. They fire up the cliff, aiming at muzzle flashes. Their quick reaction brings down two of the attackers, but the defenders never know it. Trapped between the drop on one side and the stone of the mountain on the other, they are shot down in minutes.
A sharp command to cease fire brings silence back to the hills. Several figures in dark clothes, wearing night goggles and carrying submachine guns, check the bodies. Four dead men. Moving fast, the attackers cut open the doors of the semi trailer with a welding torch. Their lights reveal several large wooden crates. Each crate is neatly stenciled in line after line of Kanji.
"Bingo!", a voice mutters softly. Three of the dark figures leap into the trailer and buck the crates to the door. Another man directs a small truck backing down the road.
In minutes, the crates are transferred from the truck to two cargo helicopters. They fly out low and fast, touching the tops of the waves washing over the wreckage and bodies at the foot of the cliff.
Within hours, the crates are on Guam. Within days, they are on the banks of the Potomac.
Chapter One
John Jacob Holtzman believed he would have another drink. "A man's got to believe in something," he muttered, and chuckled. Maybe he was drunk enough, if that was funny. "Marilyn!" He called and clinked the ice in his glass. No Marilyn. "Bitch," he whispered, then said it louder, "Bitch! Bitch!" The house felt empty enough to echo, but the hangings, thick rugs and soft furniture muffled his voice. Definitely no Marilyn. Not a sound. John Jacob Holtzman put his head in his hands.
After what seemed a very long time he looked up, over the sofas and divans and love seats, past the huge tile fireplace, through the two story window to the acre of newly planted flowers, shrubs and small fruit trees. A gardener edged the lawn with a power trimmer, but no noise penetrated the triple-paned, soundproof glass.
Sitting on expensive new furniture in an expensive new house located in an expensive new suburb of Alexandria, Virginia, he was absolutely, totally alone. Time for another drink.
He stood up carefully and was pleased to find he had plenty of balance left, more than enough for the trip to the kitchen. He moved deliberately, didn't stagger at all, and stopped at the first refrigerator. No ice. He felt in the corners of the ice tray. Empty. "Dammit," he said, "This is supposed to be an automatic ice maker. Where the hell is the ice?" He threw the empty tray to the floor and looked for the other refrigerator. There it was, over there, right where he left it. This one had ice, but he seemed to have misplaced his glass. Taking two cubes in his hand, he searched for the glass.
It was a long, winding road, but he finally found the glass, with a little ice melting in the bottom. Why had he wanted the glass? Oh, yeah, time for a drink. Need some ice.
"No," he said aloud, "I had ice, where's the damn ice? Oh." A cold trickle down his leg reminded him that the ice was in his pocket. He dug it out and looked at the two cubes dripping through his fingers. They were speckled with lint.
"Jesus," he said, "damn you, Marilyn." He sat down and began to cry, little choking sobs as tears leaked through his tight shut eyelids. He cried for a few minutes, then fell asleep.
He woke to a soft touch on his arm. He opened his eyes just a little and looked at the hand that gently tugged his sleeve. A woman's hand. He almost said "Marilyn" but it wasn't Marilyn's hand, so he said "Helen" and looked up into the blue eyes of Helen Holtzman.
Although she was dressed for work in a severe dark blue suit and ivory silk blouse, his daughter-in-law's blond hair and sunburned, freckled face as always reminded him of the proverbial girl next door.
"Hi, girl-next-door," he mumbled. He'd called her that the first time Alan brought her to the house. Almost short at five foot four, she was solidly built, but still sexy, he thought, in her fresh scrubbed way, even if she didn't have much in the way of tits. Breasts, rather, John guiltily corrected his thoughts. Marilyn got pissed whenever he said 'tits'. To hell with Marilyn. Marilyn...where was Marilyn? Oh, yeah. Damn.
"C'mon, John," Helen said, interrupting his confused reverie, "time for walkies." She smiled as she pulled on his arm, but she looked worried. "Had another one of your liquid breakfasts, I see. And smell, yuk."
John let himself be coaxed to his feet. "I got an early start. Early to bed and early to rise...."
"Gets the worm in the tequila bottle. Anyway, it's not early now, it's nine o'clock. You should get down to the office. Alan could use your help." She got him moving toward the back of the house.
"Your husband can do just fine without me. Just like his mother. Did I tell you Marilyn left?" He caught himself on a door jamb and turned to face her. "I went to the store yesterday...or the day before that...when I got back she was gone...left this note." He reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of wet paper, the ink blotched and running.
Helen recoiled, "John!"
"Ah, it's just from the ice cubes. Look." He smoothed the note against the wall. "Damn, it's all smeared." He wanted to cry again, but didn't.
"Ice cubes? You had ice cubes in your pocket?" Helen stepped back. "God, you're a mess. It was yesterday. Marilyn called me last night. That's why I came by. Whattaya expect, John? You haven't been sober three days straight in weeks."
"I wish to hell I had never taken that job." He turned his face against the wall. "It wasn't worth it."
Waving her hand at the rugs, the hangings, the garden, Helen said, "Holtzman Electric has done pretty well this last year. That's what paid for all this."
He laughed. "Yeah, I've done great, haven't I? The country hasn't done so great, of course. Maybe its time I did a little worse and the country did a little better. Ah, Helen, I know you meant well, it's not your fault, but I can't take it any more. I've got to make things right, talk to somebody, the FBI maybe...."
"There's really nothing to talk about," she said sharply, "you did a good job and you were paid what the work was worth."
"Maybe a little too good a job, huh? C'mon, you know something's wrong over there." He grabbed both her arms and looked blearily into her face.
"Hey," she said. He dropped his hands to his side and backed away.
"Sorry, sorry, like you said, I'm a mess." He ran both hands through his hair.
"It's done, it's over." She slapped him gently on the cheek. "Take a break. Get out of the house. If you won't go to the office, go to the boat. Pick on some fish."
He brightened a little. "Yeah, OK, OK, I'll go down to the boat."
"First you clean yourself up while I clean up the kitchen." Patting him on the shoulder, she turned to the front of the house. Outside the window, the gardener trimmed a grotesque ornamental shrub.
When she heard the shower, Helen punched a number into the phone. It picked up on the first ring. "He's all unglued," she said, "He's making come-clean noises again." She listened. "He's going out on his boat, Marbledock Marina, slip 21 or 22, its called the Future Shock." She listened again, then laughed a hard laugh. "Stall him for an hour? Consider him stalled."
When John came back, Helen had the kitchen reasonably clean and was breaking eggs into a bowl. "Hey, much better," she said brightly. "Now for a little something solid."
"Not hungry." He waved the food away. "I do feel better, though. I need some time to think. I need a few hours on the river. I need some time to decide how to do what I've got to do."
"Uh, uh, plenty of time for that. First a light breakfast, then thinking." She spotted a bottle of vodka behind the mixer. Good God, there was booze everywhere. Taking tomato juice and ice from the refrigerator, she found a glass and mixed in a dollop of vodka. "Here's just a little of the hair of the dog. To be taken slooowly and chased with a decent meal."
"OK, OK, Helen, thanks." He took the drink and sipped it obediently . "I appreciate this Helen, dammit. You take better care of me than Marilyn ever did."
She held up her hand. "Hey, speak no ill. Marilyn's taken good care of you and put up with a lot while she did it. Sit right there. I'll have this omelette ready in two shakes." She rattled pans and plates. She made haste slowly.
He sipped his drink. "Why aren't you at work? What if the honorable senator should need a thought?"
"Be nice, John, Dugan is a real patriot. He works hard for this country." She glanced at the clock on the stove as she slid the eggs onto a plate. She popped the plate into the oven. "A couple of pieces of toast will set this off just right. Where's the bread?"
"Cupboard over the black 'fridge. Come on, Helen, Dugan Loughlin has to work hard to tie his shoes. Without you and that boy wonder telling him what to say, he'd still be shagging groceries." John looked at his empty glass. "Hey, I'm out. How about one more?"
"Dugan was a New York State Senator, as you know perfectly well. A good one, too." She took the glass and put it in the sink. "No way. You've got to drive a boat, remember? I don't know why you pick on Dugan so much. He's sincere, and honest...."
"Yeah, sincere, honest and stupid. Admit it, Helen, the man has no brain as we think of it."
She turned to face him, hands on her hips, her chin sticking out. "Now stop it, John, you're making me mad...oh, damn it, now I've burned the toast!" She swung back to the toaster and put in two fresh slices of bread.
"I'm sorry, Helen." John put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. "I've got to fix this mess I've made." He sat up and looked at her. "But I'll never involve you, Helen. Don't worry about that. Does Alan know anything?"
"Not from me. I've never told him." She put the omelette and toast in front of him. "Eat up, then get on down to ol' man river. Think on it, John. You'll see that everything is OK. All we have to do is ride it out. Everything we've done will be for the best in the long run." She looked at the clock on the stove. "Now I do have to get to work, but I'll see you off first."
He cleaned his plate and accepted her second refusal of another drink. "Here, take your jacket," she said, "it's cloudy. It could be cool on the river." She kissed him on the cheek and guided him out the door. He's a sweet man, she thought as she watched him drive away, too bad he's such a Wimpy Willie. She wondered what would happen today, but veered away from that topic. Better to be surprised by events. She returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone.
Chapter Two
Across the continent, in the Blue Mountains of Oregon, it was an hour past sunrise. Dew still puddled on the blind where the bow hunter crouched. The blind was well placed; a faint trail came toward it then curved back up the ridge. A deer on the trail would be right in the sights and less than fifteen feet away just before it turned. Water dripping from leaves made tiny plinking sounds. A bird sang a short morning song.
Stepping softly, head up, looking and listening, a mule deer came slowly down the trail. Its big ears cocked and turned, but heard only the water and the birds. It stopped, then came on, almost to the turn of the trail. Then it stopped again, startled by a pungent smell. It looked all around, but the blind was cleverly built, so it saw nothing. Still, the smell...the deer spun around and was gone.
The man rested against one side of the blind. His rotted fingers clutched his bow. His empty eye sockets pointed down the trail, over his mouse-gnawed cheeks.
Chapter Three
John Holtzman gunned the Mercedes when he hit Granning Road, pushing it over ninety on the long, empty straight before Bekin's Crossing. After Helen's attention, he felt better than he had in weeks. He touched the brakes and slowed at the town limit. Downshifted hard, the old 450SL rapped like a Porsche, the sound pounding through its special exhaust. He loved doing that in front of die hard Mercedes fanatics. A few years back an old man threatened him with a cane for 'desecrating' a Mercedes. He grinned at the memory as he swung through the short main street and accelerated hard onto the open road.
It took fifteen minutes to reach I-95. He still felt good as he approached the interchange, but every cell in his body cried out for a drink. He went under the freeway to a little town on the other side. The liquor store was in a small shopping mall. As he stepped from the car, he was momentarily amazed at his body's urge to run, but held it down to a fast walk.
Purchase made and back in the car, he watched his hands shake as he unscrewed the cap on the fifth of Johnnie Walker. He took three quick gulps, gasped and gagged. Then he felt much better, even better than Helen had made him feel. After one more swallow he headed back to the freeway.
Just south of Alexandria, Marbledock Marina shared a small cove with a flock of expensive houseboats. John swung the Mercedes past the security booth, which was empty, as usual. Once parked, he had another quick shot, then pulled himself out of the car.
"Just a little buzzed," he muttered, "no problem." And not so buzzed, he noted proudly, as to forget his notebook. He carried a notebook in the car, handy for ideas on circuit design or construction problems. Slipping the bottle back into its paper bag, he noticed it was more than half empty. No matter, there were a couple more in the boat. Organization and preparation, that was the secret.
He opened the notebook as he walked to the dock. The last dated entry was four months old, and so cryptic he couldn't understand it. The last note - no date - was a reminder to get more liquor for the boat. He stopped for a moment, holding a used bottle of whiskey, feeling the rest of the alcohol warm inside him, looking at his dog-eared notebook. He turned to the first page. The entry was six years in the past, a diagram of the wiring closet layout of his first big cable job. He looked again at the last entry, "Jack Danls fr boat". Maybe Marilyn was right, maybe he did have a problem.
"Ho, ho, JJ old buddy, you got a bigger problem than a little too much boozing." His worries were coming back and it was time for another drink, but he stopped to admire the Future Shock. She was a genuine antique, a forty-eight foot Wheeler built in 1953. He had been living aboard when he met Marilyn and they had lived on her together until Alan was born. She was still trim and beautiful, like Marilyn...damn her. He pulled the gangplank down and went aboard.
The small refrigerator produced ice for a civilized drink, before he unhooked the umbilical and fired the twin Chryslers. Once they were warm he loosed the bow line. There was just enough current to hold her against the dock until he got to the stern line. When she was free, he goosed the engines and swung downstream. She was really too big for the Potomac, much more at home in Chesapeake Bay or cruising to the Outer Banks. Still, the feel and sound of the engines and the slight pitch and roll as she hit the main channel were always exhilarating.
A creek cut into the west bank a few miles below Mt Vernon, creating a little harbor lined with trees. He anchored there and sat for awhile in the silence. Time to get to work. He gathered up the notebook and a fresh bottle, some ice and a pencil, and settled into the starboard casting chair on the foredeck. The first step, he thought, is to write down just what the hell it is I know. I know that Helen came to me about the job on the Omniac computer.. No, I'm not going to mention her at all, ever. He had written her name, but now he erased it and ran heavy lines through the smudge on the paper.
John Jacob Holtzman sat in the shade on a warm June day, drinking and making notes. Aft, loosened fittings on the fuel lines leaked a fine spray of gasoline into the engine compartment.
Chapter Four
The same June sun that warmed John Holtzman shone brightly on a gigantic landfill near East Lansing, Michigan.
In the early afternoon, the dump was almost deserted; one final garbage truck waited to unload. After the compactor rolled by, it backed to the tipping line. The engine roared as the hydraulics pushed East Lansing's trash to its final resting place, then sputtered and stopped when the load jammed in the hopper.
"Shit," the driver said, "another fuckin' jam. Ronny, git out there and shake it loose."
"Ok, Pop." Ronny hopped out of the air conditioned cab into the hot, dusty stench. On a father and son team, there's no question who does the donkey work. Ronny was pissed. He didn't mind the dirt and the stink, but they were already late, and Pop had let his cousin Martin head for home after the last pick up. That fucker Martin always had some excuse, this time it was a dentist appointment for chrissake. Now a fuckin' jam...the guys would leave for the lake without him, if they didn't hurry, and now a fuckin' jam.
Thinking his bitter adolescent thoughts, and occupied with tugging at the thick wire, Ronny didn't notice the new smell for several minutes; a thick, almost sweet odor that curled heavily out of the hopper.
"What the fuck is that," he muttered, then screamed as he saw the answer.
"You all right, kid?" his father called. Then he cried out as Ronny's staring eyes loomed in the rear view mirror. "Hey, you little shit, you scared the piss outta me. You get back there...." He stopped as Ronny frantically scrabbled at the door.
"Pop, Pop," he screamed, "somebody's back there, in the hopper. Oh, Jesus." As the older man scrambled out of the driver's seat, Ronny turned away and lost his lunch. Pop's nose wrinkled with disgust as he examined the body. Been dead for a while, by the look and smell of it. Ronny gave up his breakfast. His father climbed into the cab of the truck and rummaged in the toolbox that rode behind the seat. He emerged with a large pair of nippers.
As he snipped the wire tangling the ram, he saw that it was attached to the body. "Jesus, Mary and all the saints," he muttered, "tied with wire." Behind him, Ronny had finished with breakfast and appeared to be working on last night's dinner. Pop freed the ram, climbed into the cab and started the engine. The hydraulics squealed as they leaned into the load.
"Pop, Pop, whattaya doin?" Ronny was so pale he was green, but he was back at the door of the truck, pulling on the handle. "We gotta get help, call the cops."
Pop gunned the engine and spoke over the roar. "That poor fool has been past help for weeks, and we aren't going to any cops." He checked the mirror and disengaged the power. "Look at this," he said as he climbed once more out of the cab. Ronny held back. "C'mon, boy," Pop said, "you look at this." He grabbed Ronny by the arm and dragged him to the back of the truck.
The body had spilled from the hopper and lay on its left side, its legs half-buried in torn magazines and orange peels. Ronny gulped hard and averted his eyes, but his father forced him to look.
The face was partly hidden in the garbage, but the skin of the back of the head and neck was greenish-brown. A few tufts of beard on the right cheek told them it had once been a man. The arms were pulled behind the body and thick black wire circled the wrists. Pop indicated a small hole behind the withered right ear.
"Tied with wire," he snarled, "and shot behind the ear. This is a mob hit, son." He released Ronny's arm and the boy tottered away, gagging and crying. "We'll say nothin' to nobody," Pop continued, "unless we want to end up like this fool. You want that?"
"N-n-no," Ronny howled, "I won't say nothin'. I want to go home. I don't feel good."
"Get in the truck," Pop commanded. He got in himself and restarted the ram. In less than two minutes the unloading was complete, the body covered with household debris.
Ronny shivered in the cab while Pop checked for the body. "No sign of 'im," Pop said as he climbed back in. He put the truck in gear. "Remember, boy," he added, "not a word." Ronny nodded mutely and wiped his mouth and nose on his sleeve.
Chapter Five
Somewhere north of Hawaii, the attack submarine USS Manassas headed south at flank speed. She was making nearly thirty knots, seventy meters down. Her sonar probed delicately ahead, detecting and reporting thermal boundaries in the water, but nothing else. The Manassas was the center of a three boat fleet. Sister subs ran fifteen miles to the east and fifteen miles to the west. At 0400 the boats obeyed previously given orders and turned slightly east, dropping their speed to twenty knots.
At 0415 the Manassas picked up the sound of propellers. Small propellers, moving fast. Possible long-range torpedo. The fleet quickly shifted to silent running, moving noiselessly at ten knots. Seven minutes later the torpedo and the Manassas came together.
In the war room, the commanding Admiral slapped his forehead. The battle display on the wall showed a red blotch where the Manassas had been. The sub's serial number and the word 'destroyed' were superimposed on the blotch.
"They got the Manassas! Order the other two to turn back."
"Aye, sir," the signal lieutenant responded. His fingers flew over his keyboard.
Another officer pointed at the board. "Too late, sir, the Dutch Harbor is gone, too." East of the Manassas, another blotch, another serial number, another notation: 'destroyed'.
The Admiral turned to the signal lieutenant. "Any detection reports? Did any of them see a damn thing?"
The lieutenant checked his screen, then conferred with two assistants. "Just the torpedo warning from the Manassas, sir. The Dutch Harbor never even reported that. Further orders sir?"
The Admiral looked at three officers nearby. Each one sat at a computer console. "Well, gentlemen, what do you suggest?"
"I can't properly say, sir," said one.
"Nor I," said another.
"Of course, gentlemen." The Admiral turned away from them to the third. "Norris?"
The sub commander shrugged. "Pull back." He glanced at his computer screen. "We still haven't seen a thing. If three boats couldn't get through, one isn't likely to make it."
"Lieutenant," the Admiral said, "make this order: NOPACOM to Task Force 7: operation terminated. Return to base." He slumped in his chair as the signals officer made the order.
"Sir," Norris was surprised. "You're canceling the whole operation? Recalling the entire fleet?" The order to retreat appeared on his screen and his hands moved over his keyboard as he spoke. The other two submarine commanders had turned their computers off and were talking quietly together.
"They beat us, Norris. If we keep on, they'll just beat us some more." He looked up at the dots that were Task Force 7 of the United States North Pacific fleet. The battle screen displayed little directional arrows that now pointed north. "We can't just throw the ships away."
Norris pounded the arm of his chair. "Damn Japs," he muttered.
The Admiral held up a warning hand. "Watch your mouth, Norris." He glanced back at the rows of observers, who were mostly UN officials with a sprinkling of military officers from neutral countries. "Name calling will get us bad press."
Chapter Six
After shooing John Holtzman off to his boat, Helen Holtzman went to work. Jumpy and distracted all day, by evening she was relaxed enough to tell Alan about her visit with John in the morning. She left out the phone calls. Alan was too tired from work and too filled with resentment toward his father to be interested.
"Let me know when he comes up for air," he snapped, "until that happens, I don't want to hear about him." John had rarely been at work in the last several months and when he did show up he was drunk and disruptive. Alan was exhausted by the strain of running his own projects and also managing the business.
Helen said no more. As so often happened these days, they went to bed and fell asleep without speaking.
Chapter Seven
The lights burned late that night on the banks of the Potomac. It has been many years since the Navy Yard in Washington, D.C. had much to do with ships. As nautical functions slipped away, the empty barracks and warehouses were turned to other uses. Government and military agencies without the political clout to gain space in more attractive and comfortable quarters were pushed into the drafty, peeling buildings.
Young organizations, recently formed, often lack clout. The CIA was one such organization; not the Central Intelligence Agency, but an organ of the United States Army designated (possibly in a spasm of bureaucratic humor) as the Computer Intelligence Agency. This CIA occupied the bottom floor of an ancient warehouse; computers, logic analyzers and power cables resting uneasily on warped board floors.
During the day, a dozen technicians worked on computers or parts of computers gathered by American agents and industrial saboteurs, or, in especially difficult circumstances, by full-scale clandestine military operations.
But only two dedicated computer spies worked into the night. Major Mary Grier was aided by her humble assistant, Major Bobby Britton.
Bobby, a tall, thin man with a boyish face, held a hot soldering gun.
"So, my pretty, you won't talk," he said, "perhaps this will loosen your tongue." He carefully applied the gun and laughed maniacally as smoke curled from the sizzling target.
"Will you stop screwing around? I can't think with all your damn prancing and giggling." Mary Grier was a short, overweight blond. Packed into a threadbare, grease stained military uniform, she sat at a long table covered with paper and several computer terminals.
The man held up the gun and blew gently on the tip. "This is an interrogation. You're supposed to prance and look crazy and threatening during an interrogation." He found his reflection in a shiny surface and smoothed his hair. Although he was an officer in the United States Army, he wore a stylish rayon shirt and baggy pants under his lab coat.
"Bobby, this is a computer. We are, as you put it, 'interrogating' a computer. It doesn't care how you act, you dumb shit. Only I care how you act. Straighten up." She turned back to the terminal. He soldered a few more leads.
"Ok, try it now," he said. "Start with three volts this time, then crank it up." The victim was strapped into a rats-nest of wiring that attached it to several other computers. Bobby watched a display screen as the chubby blond adjusted the current. "There it is! We got it! Four point three volts. Give me five minutes." He worked silently, carefully fitting computer chips into sockets. "Full power, Mary. Great, great, great." He laughed again.
"Will you shut the fuck up." She sounded genuinely annoyed, so he shut up. "I've got the logic analyzer programmed," she continued, "hook it up and we'll see how this son of a bitch thinks."
Four hours and twenty cups of coffee later, they sat back and looked at each other.
"I don't get it," he said.
"Beats the hell out of me," she said.
"It's past three," he said, "let's knock off for the night."
"Too right. See you tomorrow, I mean later today." Mary grabbed her uniform jacket and was out the door.
Bobby looked longingly after her, sighed and turned off the lab fluorescents. The computer they were studying was still powered on, its red and blue indicator lights glowing in the dark. "We'll uncover your secrets, my pretty," he promised as he closed and locked the door.
Chapter Eight
A few miles north of the Navy Yard, other public servants unwillingly worked late. A student group agitating for DC statehood held an evening rally at Washington Circle. They had no permit. The new police chief was trying to make a name for himself. He ordered his tactical units to disperse the illegal gathering. They moved in with rubber bullets and tear gas. The crowd broke through the police lines and surged down the streets around George Washington University, breaking windows. Some of the rioters seized the Foggy Bottom Metro stop and blocked the tracks. Trains were halted and pulled back up the line. The Special Operations squads blockaded the exits from the station and settled down to wait things out.
Hours later, four Metro police standing at one end of the Foggy Bottom platform watched the throng milling around the escalators and benches. Outnumbered twenty to one, they were forced to be spectators.
There was a lot of yelling; signs and trash containers had been thrown off the platform onto the tracks. Most of the rioters seemed to be college students taking a break from studies. It was a racially and sexually mixed bunch, mostly black but with a scattering of other colors and mostly male but with a scattering of other sexes. The cops were two black men and two black women.
"What're these young fools doing?" The oldest and largest of the forces of law and order shook his head sadly. "This is no way to get what they want, wastin' their time, wastin' our time."
"Hell, Harley, they're getting what they want. They want to have some fun, let off a little steam." The woman sergeant leading the squad was ten years younger than Harley, and more sympathetic to the excesses of youth. "DC's finest have the stairs sealed off. We just wait until they get hungry and thirsty, arrest a few as a lesson to the others...." She paused and held up a hand, listened to her helmet headset. "Shit! There's a bomb on the platform!"
Harley turned from the crowd and the other police gathered around. "Just a threat, some crank," one of them offered.
"Maybe," the sergeant said, "and maybe not. The warning is from a white supremacist bunch that's planted bombs before. We can't take a chance. Rochelle, use the loudspeaker. Tell them the stairway is clear and they are free to go." She looked past the end of the platform into the tunnel. "Harley, make sure nobody got past us onto the maintenance catwalk."
"No problem, I'll be right back." Harley got his ponderous body moving, heading down the catwalk. The walk was narrow, with a four-foot drop to the live rail. He stepped carefully, shining his flashlight on the path. Behind him, some kid on the station p.a. shouted 'Free Washington' and other inspired slogans. The sounds mixed with the noise of the crowd and echoed down the tunnel. The empty tunnel; there was no one here. He was already stopped and turning when he saw the light, a brief flash far away in the darkness. "Damn," Harley muttered, "damn, there is someone down there. How did they get past us?"
Moving at a heavy jog, he covered the one hundred feet to the light. Even in the darkness of the tunnel, he could see they were workers not rioters; a salt and pepper team in white coveralls. They were closing a door set into the wall of the tunnel. He was right on them before they saw him.
"Yow! Hey!" One yelled, as they both jumped back.
Harley grinned to himself. Surprised by two hundred and ninety pounds in a dark alley, he thought. No wonder they jumped. He put on his tough-cop voice. "This area's been cleared, you two. There's a riot on the platform. You deaf or somethin'? Didn't you get the word?"
The two men shuffled their feet. "Uh, well, we were jus' finishin' up, a little communications problem...."
"Well, now we've got a bomb threat, so move it out. I've a good mind...." Harley swung the beam of his flashlight over the door, then stopped. The door was stamped with a federal seal. "What? That's a security installation!" One of the men stepped in and stabbed him under his upraised arm. He cried out and fought, but they were both on him, stabbing him again. He pushed at them and grabbed for his gun. One kicked him in the leg. The other slammed him in the chest. He went over the edge. The live rail flashed and popped.
They peered at his still body. "Man, I hate doin' a brother like that," the black workman said.
"I ain't never seen those feelings slow you down any," his partner answered, "you finished yet?"
"It's workin' jus' fine. Let's get outta here." They picked up a tool box and trotted down the catwalk, away from the platform and the body lying on the tracks.
Chapter Nine
After an uneasy night, Helen considered dropping by the Holtzmans' again before work, but decided to hold off until she knew how things had gone. John had to be persuaded to keep quiet, no matter what it took, but John was a stubborn man, and she feared to think how much 'persuading' he might need.
She was preparing for a strategy meeting with Senator Loughlin and his senior staff when Alan called.
"My God, Helen, Dad's... Dad's...," His voice cracked. "Helen, he's dead. My Dad's dead."
The tension broke and surged through her. Stomach churning, she collapsed into a chair, screamed and cried. It was not an act.
"What happened? Are you sure? Oh, Alan!" The office staff looked at her in startled sympathy, then turned politely away. Helen didn't care. Tears streamed down her face.
"His boat blew up. Yesterday afternoon. They didn't identify him until this morning. There's not much left." Alan was sobbing now. "I've got to call Mother."
"Wait, Alan, where are you? I'll come home." She pushed herself to her feet, thought of her day's plans, appointments to cancel....
"I'm still at work." His voice was anguished.
"I'll come there, wait there, I'll get a cab, no, I'll bring my car." She was babbling a little. Alan agreed to wait for her. Maybe, she thought as she hung up the phone, maybe it really was an accident.
In control of herself again, Helen gathered her jacket and her purse. Her face felt tear-stained, but cleaning up could wait. She looked for Terrell Dennerman.
He was in the large conference room, focusing an overhead projector. "Terrell? I've got to go. Something awful has happened. Alan's father has been killed." She watched Terrell, hoping....
He finished adjusting the projector and switched it off. Although he was Dugan Loughlin's chief of staff, Terrell concerned himself with every detail in the office. He smiled thinly and cocked an eyebrow. "Well that certainly is a surprise." He rubbed his mustache, leaned against the conference table and grinned at her. His resemblance to a young Clark Gable was almost startling and he wore a Gable-like mustache to enhance the effect.
"You don't look very surprised, Terrell." Helen realized she was accusing herself; she was the one who had called Terrell, she was the one who had delayed John.
"Why, Helen, you are upset. But this is such an important meeting. Must you rush off?" He patted her shoulder and grinned again. "Yes, I guess you had. Better to keep up appearances." She was sure then, terribly, terribly sure, that whatever had happened on the boat wasn't an accident. She pulled away.
"Damn you, Terrell." Then the tears came again and she hated herself for crying. "Is this what we've come to? How much did he really know?"
"He knew enough to ask questions that we don't want asked. He knew enough to call attention to people and actions we don't want noticed." Terrell took her arm and gripped it hard. "Remember, this is bigger than Holtzman, bigger than you, bigger than me. Our friends have their own ways of handling problems." He squeezed her arm harder still and looked into her eyes. "Any problems."
He released her as she backed through the door, holding her jacket and purse in front of her like a shield. A memory, another awful thought, came crowding in. "Nelson?" She said, "Was Nelson a problem? You said he and Harry changed their minds about wanting more money." She turned away, but he followed her into the hall.
"Your Oregon boyfriend? The mighty hunter? He changed his mind alright. He's not a problem now. And his buddy, the Mouthy Mex, he'll never be anyone's problem again." His voice was smooth. "Remember that, Helen."
Chapter Ten
Approaching nine AM, Major Bobby Britton was sleeping well until the sound of his own snoring woke him up. He rolled over and pulled a pillow around his head. He drifted off. The phone rang. "Christ on a crutch," Bobby cried, and pulled the pillow tighter around his ears. The phone rang some more, its shrill whistle piercing the pillow. Hopelessly awake, he grabbed the receiver. "Alright, dammit, hello."
"Hey, Bobby, how the hell are you? This is Frank Jervis. Did I wake you up?" Frank didn't sound concerned.
"How'd you guess? Call me later. 'Bye." Bobby started to put the phone down.
"No, no, I must talk to you, Bob. Seriously." Frank did sound serious.
"Ok, Frank, I'm awake now anyway," Bobby sighed, "why are you calling at such an ungodly hour?"
"The office said you pulled a late-nighter, so...."
"Hey, thanks, pal. So you thought you'd keep me from getting too rested?"
"You're the one who stayed up half the night playing with toys," Frank answered, "anyway, I could use a little help, so I'm calling in some chips."
On his feet now, Bobby combed his hair, then looked in the mirror. Woah, still pretty ragged. "Listen, Frank," he said, "God knows you've got chips to call in, but first let me get cleaned up. Want to meet?"
"Thanks. Brunch at the usual, as soon as you can get there." Frank hung up, leaving Bobby awake and committed. He sighed again and headed for the shower.
Cleaned, combed and shaved, he carefully selected a casual look; open-necked linen shirt, linen pants, boating shoes and a Greek fishing cap. I'll make a nice contrast to Frank's three piece suit, he thought as he checked himself in the hallway mirror.
Picking up a Post at the L'Enfant Plaza Station, he read a few pages as the Metro carried him under the Mall to the Federal Triangle Station. The lead story concerned the hurricane that had just battered South Carolina. A small box directed him to page three for war news. On page three the news wasn't good. The headline read: SACRAMENTO VALLEY OFFENSIVE FAILS. The sub-head stated: JAPANESE TIGHTEN GRIP ON CITY. Another article pointed out that with the fall of Santa Barbara the Japanese held the entire California coast south of Mendocino. The official explanation for the defeat outside Sacramento had obviously been cut short to make room for a furniture ad.
When Frank said 'the usual', he meant the Old Post Office. Bobby liked the food and Frank Jervis liked the crowd. Carrying a tray heaped with burritos and tacos, Bobby scanned the seating area. Frank already had a table staked out, surrounded by tourist families, each family with at least one tired four-year-old. He was eating sprouts and yogurt.
The Old Post Office processed Washington, D.C.'s mail in years past. Now its central sorting room serves meals, with hundreds of tourists and government office workers choosing from food stands at the rear of the huge room and crowding around tiny tables to munch away, entertained at noon by folksy local talent.
At ten thirty in the morning the stage was quiet, but the tourists were noisy. No one could be overheard and even long-range microphones would be defeated by the din of shouted conversations, accented by the crying four-year-olds. Frank liked his meetings confidential.
Some of the tourists looked at Bobby, noticing his unusual height and, he thought, his impeccable dress. No one looked at Frank, who was just a stocky black man in a plain grey suit.
Bobby leaned close and spoke under the noise. "How do you do it, Frank? Nobody notices you at all."
"Just think inconspicuous, my man. But that's not your technique. I do have some fans in the crowd." Frank made a slight motion toward the mezzanine that overlooked the crowded floor.
Bobby whistled. "I see them. Secret Service. So now you travel with heat?"
"Cramps my style, but the man insists." Frank grimaced. "Things are starting to get nasty."
"So nasty that you're in danger?" It occurred to Bobby that if Frank was in danger then maybe he himself was also in danger. He turned and scanned the railings that ran around the room. He had known Frank for a long time - college, graduate school, then several years of working together at IBM. Bobby was the one who was noticed, but Frank was the one who got what he wanted, rising through the ranks at IBM until he took a leave to work on the senatorial campaign of a fresh young politician. Now the fresh young politician was President of the United States and Frank was the first black White House Chief of Staff.
"Ever think of going back to IBM?" Bobby asked as he swung his head. "Much more quiet."
"Relax, you know how cautious the Pres' can be. He's just taking no chances," Frank smiled, "and I don't think of going back to IBM any more than you do. Even now." He stopped smiling. "Listen, Bobby, I need your help. You know how things are going?"
"If you mean the war, I know we're getting our butt kicked, and I saw in the paper today that it just got kicked again."
Frank leaned close. "Its worse than that. We were pounded in the Pacific yesterday. Had to abandon our attempt to break the J's supply lines. That's not public yet."
"So why are you talking to me? I'm just a major with a voltmeter and a screwdriver. Maybe there are some generals and admirals that need talking to." Britton took a bite of one of his burritos. It was already cold. The family at the table on their right was replaced by six loud teenagers.
"You know computers. You have a brain. I trust you." Frank leaned back and looked terribly tired. "I swear to God, Bobby, I don't know who to trust anymore. I want you to take a quiet look around OMCOM."
"Omniac? The war computer? Why? I'm in the middle of something right now, Frank...."
Frank leaned forward and looked into Bobby's eyes. "Listen to me. This is serious. This string of defeats has given the anti-war faction a big boost. Dugan Loughlin started out with very few allies. Now he has a following. If things go on...he could be the next President."
"Christ on a crutch. The 'anti-war' faction. Very nice. But why me, Frank? You've got the Army, the Navy, the FBI...."
"Have we, Bobby? We're not sure who we've got. I smell treason, Bobby, and I smell a rat. I need somebody I can trust, somebody I can believe. Please, Bobby." Frank seized Bobby's hands with his. One of the teenagers glanced over and nudged a companion.
Bobby pulled his hands away. "Your plea has touched my heart," he said, "I owe you some big favors anyway. But I still don't see what I can do for you."
"Look," Frank said, "visit OMCOM, visit the Pentagon. Get a feel for the thing. Then decide. I'll be in touch."
"Well, whatthehell. I'll need to get around. Can I have a driver?"
Frank got up. The Secret Service agents waited at the top of the stairs. "A car and driver for the duration," he said, "and, of course, no uniform."
Bobby grinned. "Right. Shake on it." They shook on it.
Chapter Eleven
"Its all right, don't get up," Bobby called as he ambled into the lab. It was an unusually warm day, even for Washington in June, and he had celebrated by stopping at his apartment after meeting Frank and changing to seersucker slacks and matching pale blue blazer. He checked his reflection in the glass of the lab door and liked what he saw.
"Don't you worry, Bobby boy." Mary Grier was stretched out on her stomach, attaching two thick electrical cables together. "Life will go on like you weren't even here." Her plump bottom filled her uniform slacks just to overflowing. The slacks themselves were faded and worn. "And speaking of not being here, where the hell have you been?" The cable ends snapped home with a loud click. "Whoo", she said, and rested on the floor with her arms stretched out over her head.
Bobby watched her lying there and had the impulse to reach down and pat her rump. Someday, he thought, I will actually do that and then she will kill me. Instead he said, "Missed me, eh? My charm? My sense of humor?"
"Your idiotic laugh?" Mary sat up. "I've been here since eight and you stroll in at one in the afternoon? I thought this was a priority project."
A technician came by with a requisition for Mary to sign. He waved his hand at Bobby. "Hiya, Major," he said, "did ya hear? We found out what they call this beast. The Dragon Mark Seven."
Bobby laughed. "A dragon, huh? Christ on a crutch, an Electric Dragon."
"Hey, the Electric Dragon," the tech chuckled, "that's pretty good." He took the paper from Mary. "Thanks, Major Grier," he said, "see ya."
Mary dived back into the tangle of cables. Bobby hung up his blazer and put on a lab coat. He wondered if he should tell her he was being transferred to Omniac. I'll call her, he decided, that will be safer.
"Any thoughts on what this Electric Dragon really is?" he asked, "it sure as hell isn't a computer."
"Nothing I can say for sure yet. I found some microcode that's probably used for controlling the input cache. Once we've analyzed that, we'll have a better idea." Mary was all animation now, her eyes sparkling and her blond hair flying around her head. She moved as she talked, hooking more cables into the net around the Electric Dragon and flicking on a linked series of computerized oscilloscopes and logic analyzers. Mary was chubby, profane, untidy and cared about nothing but computers. Bobby loved her madly.
In the course of the afternoon they learned one of the Electric Dragon's secrets; most of the circuitry was analog rather than digital. Therefore the Dragon responded to continually varying electrical signals rather than the series of ones and zeroes that instruct digital computers.
"Analog," Mary said, that means speed. But...."
"But there isn't any way to program it," Bobby interrupted, "it's more like a giant analog calculator."
"Which is calculating exactly what? No idea," Mary said, "let's start documenting the current flow." She gave rapid directions to several of the technicians.
Bobby hovered anxiously in the background. He knew little about analog circuits. Maybe the Omniac project would get him out of the lab before he looked inept in front of Mary. He prayed that the transfer would come through soon; in the meantime he would have to fake it. He was puzzling over just how the hell to fake it when his prayers were answered. One of the lab phones buzzed. Mary punched the speaker button.
"Major Britton to the Commander's office," the phone said.
"Time for your monthly lecture on never wearing a uniform." Mary smoothed her regulation dress and smirked. Bobby looked at her scruffy outfit and said nothing, just flicked a speck of lint off his slacks and shrugged into his blazer. He waved goodbye, laughed his crazy laugh and slipped out the door.
Mary went back to work.
The Operations Section of the Computer Intelligence Agency was at the far end of the building. The commander's office was as dreary as the rest of the place. The commander himself was a greying full colonel who got to the point as soon as Bobby was through the door.
"The toy boys have finally come to their senses and asked for us, Britton. Or the White House brought them to their senses. Here are your orders, detailing you to...what the hell are you wearing?" He looked Bobby's stylish summer outfit up and down. "Change into uniform, Major, you're going to be entering a war zone."
"Yessir," Bobby said. The Colonel had never seen Bobby in a uniform, but pretended to be continually surprised by his unmilitary dress. Bobby knew he owed Frank Jervis for that permanently bad memory. Now Frank was showing his power again; forcing the Army bureaucracy to cut a set of orders in four or five hours must have been a strain even for the President.
"Can Major Grier manage without you for a few days?" the Colonel asked.
"We've got it roughed out, sir. Mary and the team can fill in the details." Bobby didn't point out that Major Mary was by far the better scientist. "It isn't making a lot of sense so far, though, sir."
"Isn't it what we sent them to get?" The Colonel always doubted the ability of the strong-arm squads.
"Yeah, its the real thing, a damn hot box. All the intelligence about the Dragon Mark Seven was right. Except...," Bobby hated showing doubt or hesitation, but they just didn't know. "It's mostly analog circuitry and incredibly fast, makes a supercomputer like the Cray look like a desk calculator. But...it is very, very stupid. It's not really a general purpose computer at all. So far we have no idea what it's supposed to do."
"There has to be some reason why the J's invested so heavily in this model, and why they kept it secret for so long. Now, you get a tour of the war rooms at the Pentagon today and OMCOM tomorrow. You're going under light cover." The Colonel checked his copy of the paperwork. "Hm. A reporter for the USAT, the armed forces television network? That's damn light cover. Who thought this up?"
"Well, sir," Bobby said helpfully, "I was a reporter in high school."
"Get out of here, Britton. There's a car waiting outside." The Colonel made shooing motions. Bobby checked his reflection in the glass of the office door and got out.
Frank Jervis was better than his word: the 'staff car' was a new Lincoln limousine. The driver wasn't fooled, though. He didn't move from his seat, just waved and indicated the rear door. Bobby stepped in and stretched his legs out over the pile carpet. He sighed and leaned back as they left the Navy Yard.
He had the driver take the scenic route, up New Jersey and then down Independence, along the Mall. Tourists gawked at the limousine and peered in the mirrored windows. Bobby loved it. They crossed the George Mason bridge and wound through the gigantic parking lots around the Pentagon.
Dropping Bobby at an entrance, the driver promised to wait. Once out of the car, Bobby was given a press pass by a bored guard and passed into the warm embrace of the public relations arm of the United States Armed Forces, personified by Seaman First Class Joslyn Herbert.
Joslyn was a diminutive brunette who introduced herself - "call me Jo", gave Bobby his visitor's pass - "sign here, big boy", complained about his presence - "not much notice on this, buddy", voiced suspicion at his credentials - "never had someone from the service network before, you sure you're for real?", and hurried him down the hall - "let's get moving, the show's almost over", all in one breathless minute.
"Don't get much press at all, nowadays," Jo said as she stalked along, "they don't waste their time on losers."
"There's news on TV and in the papers," Bobby said.
Jo chuckled. "That's me, buddy. They take my press handouts and read them or print them. They don't even bother to change the wording. Ok, we take this elevator down a couple of floors and we're at the war room. Try not to be overcome with excitement."
Chapter Twelve
A lone United States submarine moved cautiously through hostile waters, thousands of miles from any support. Traveling deep and slow, the boat delicately probed the defenses of Japanese-held Midway. With no sign of enemy action, she planted a pod of surface to surface missiles and withdrew...she planted a pod of surface to surface missiles...she planted....
"Dammit!" snapped the Admiral Commanding, "it's the damn computer again. Signal officer, contact OMCOM."
"I have sir," replied the signal officer, "they say it's the Geneva computer. We may have to repeat the last hour of play." The Admiral snarled and slammed his fist down on the keyboard in front of him.
"Sir!" The signal officer was scandalized, but he was only a lieutenant (jg). When the Admiral glared at him, he turned back to his phones and keyboard.
Bobby watched this warlike exchange from the VIP gallery at the rear of the Naval War Room (SIM) in the Pentagon. The room was the size and shape of a small theater, with steeply raked rows of comfortable seats overlooking about twenty computer terminals and desks. Only a few of the terminals were occupied, mostly by lower ranking naval officers. A large computer display screen covered the back wall. The screen had shown blips representing Midway and the submarine, but now it was blank except for a message in foot high letters: SYSTEM FAILURE - PLEASE STAND BY. The message blinked at about heartbeat speed. Bobby found it rather hypnotic.
"Naturally," Jo said, "naturally, we get some press in here and the battlefield crashes."
"Happen often?" Bobby started thinking about why computers went down.
"Maybe once a week. It's that damn Swiss AGC 7500 the UN has in Geneva. The latest optical computer, but they left out the reliability. Now we get to watch Admiral Robinson unwind."
Jo was obviously enjoying the show. The Admiral clutched his headset in one hand and yelled into the mouthpiece while pounding his computer keyboard with his other fist.
"I demand that you recognize our last move." He slammed the keyboard. A key popped loose and arced lazily into the first row of observers' seats. "The hour was up, we had completed our moves." More keys flew into the cheap seats. The occupants ducked. There were a few chuckles, quickly stilled. "All right! I'm lodging a protest!" The Admiral threw the headset to the floor and looked at the crumpled keyboard with disgust. A wisp of black smoke curled up from it. He swept it to the floor and stalked out of the room.
"Not bad," Jo said, "not great, but not bad. I'd give it a seven."
"So what's the problem?" Bobby was enjoying himself. This was a lot more interesting than watching a bunch of blips moving around on a computer screen.
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