“Is it an alien?” Bosson wondered. One of the orderlies waiting against the walls sniggered.
Renoir frowned, shaking his head. “My people believe that it is of human origin.”
. . . never been made on this planet. The nagging memory resolved itself. Lambert looked up suddenly, eyes gleaming. “It’s a Bolo! They’ve got a Bolo!”
Pandemonium erupted. “There are none left!” “They never existed, just a legend!” “We’re doomed! Doomed!”
General Cartier leaned forward to General Lambert, “Why would a Bolo be infiltrating our military networks?”
“They plan to destroy us, to feed us false intelligence,” Renoir declared.
“The Bolo could ruin our supply system, jam up all ammunition and fuel movements, cripple us,” General Villiers, Chef du Materiel, proclaimed.
“Sabotage our manpower allocations, place the wrong men in the wrong units!” General Bosson, Chef du Personnel, cried in alarm.
“But, General Renoir, you said it was attempting to gain access to our satellite network,” Lambert said. “That means that you detected its intrusion.”
Renoir shrugged. “The intrusion was most obvious. The Bolo may be a master war machine but it is clearly not able to handle the intricacies of our Quirthian computer architecture.”
Lambert leaped out of his chair so vigorously that it toppled over behind him. His eyes gleamed expectantly as he spoke to General Cartier. “Mon General, this Bolo, can we not misdirect it, feed it false information? Control it?”
A smile worked its way up Renoir’s lips to his eyes. “Mon Dieu! It is possible.”
The room was filled with rows of computer displays over which intent technicians hunched, peering into the realm of data and working fanatically. The space could have been refurbished warehouse, clumsily partitioned into work areas. The room smelled just slightly of soiled sweat, a smell the air conditioning had failed to remove.
Several techies slept on cushions thrown on the floor in their cubicles, too tired to move to the cots which lined the wall.
General Renoir hovered at one end of the room, eyes puffy with fatigue. General Lambert lounged beside him, reading a technical specification with no deliberate speed. The center’s manager, Yves Monchant, approached. Renoir stiffened, straightening the front of his uniform.
“Well?”
“We are ready.”
“It took you long enough,” Renoir muttered.
“Really Jean-Paul, I think your men should be congratulated,” General Lambert chided him. “They have completed their task in less than forty-eight hours.”
Renoir bit back a response. “At least the enemy appears not to have detected our efforts.”
Monchant nodded. “There has been absolutely no indication that the Bolo has detected our work,” he said. “All data flows and queries emanating from that site continue unabated.”
“But now,” Renoir said with a satisfied look in his eye, “the Bolo will be receiving information on non-existent troops and movements.”
A technician rushed up to the center manager, a printout clutched in her hand. The manager huddled with the technician, muttered some encouragement and sent the technician away with a pat on her back. “Marie tells me that the Bolo continues its efforts to penetrate our satellite system.”
Lambert frowned. “Why the satellite system?”
“Which part?” Renoir added.
The manager ran a hand wearily through his thinning hair. “That is the odd part. The Bolo is apparently attempting to access data from several stellar sensors, ones not pointed at the planet at all.”
“Maybe it’s confused,” Renoir suggested.
“Are you sure it hasn’t noticed your interference?” Lambert asked.
The manager shrugged with Gallic eloquence. “I cannot say for certain but there are no direct indications.”
Another technician rushed up the manager. “Sir, the enemy machine is attempting to access figures on our nuclear capability.”
“That’s more like it!” Renoir said.
“Reactors?” Lambert asked.
“No sir, nuclear warheads. Missiles in particular.”
General Alain Lambert, Chef d’Attaque of the Grand Armée du Noufrance turned to the center’s manager with grim determination. “Monsieur, you must destroy that Bolo.”
General Renoir chewed his lip thoughtfully as he recreated Lambert’s reasoning. “A single nuclear strike on any of our cities would probably be enough to destroy the ecology.”
He glanced speculatively at the Colonel of Operations. “I have no intelligence to indicate that the enemy has any nuclear weapons facilities. Such things are difficult to hide.”
“They have a Bolo, is it not a nuclear-powered weapon?” General Lambert replied. “If they ordered it to self-destruct in one of our cities, would the result not be the same?”
“True,” Renoir agreed reluctantly. “But, Alain, why would it be concerned about whether we had nuclear missiles?”
“It alters the equation,” Lambert replied. “If we possessed nuclear missiles then we could launch a counterstrike which would destroy Bayern.”
Renoir turned to the manager. “We must convince the Bolo that we have several nuclear missiles.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the manager, scurrying over towards his technicians.
Renoir turned to Lambert. “I must see if we have any intelligence regarding a change in the enemy’s stance on the use of nuclear weaponry.”
Lambert shook his head. “You may not find it, it may merely be the Bolo’s best solution to the orders given it.”
“What orders?”
Lambert shrugged. “What if they ordered that machine to subdue us as best it could?”
Renoir was horrified. “We must find a way to destroy that machine.”
Lambert nodded. “Go, Jean-Paul, get your information. I can oversee operations here.”
Relieved, General Renoir left. General Lambert found a chair and took possession of it. Some moments later the manager approached him, looking more relaxed.
“Good news, General,” the manager reported. “We have fed the Bolo information that we have twenty thirty-megaton missiles armed and ready for immediate use.”
“Did it make any response?”
The manager nodded. “Yes, most odd, it wanted to know the hyperbolic range of the missiles.”
“Hyperbolic range?”
The manager shrugged. “If you like, I can get the expert over here but I understand that the Bolo wanted to know the range of the missile fired nearly straight up. It wasn’t worried about re-entry points.”
“It has laser-mounted anti-missile capabilities,” Lambert explained.
“Really?” the manager was impressed. “Even after nearly three hundred years buried underground?”
“Perhaps,” Lambert said. “What can you tell me about your efforts to disable the machine?”
“Well, we have found some Quirthian sequences result in a longer response time from the Von Neumann architecture,” the manager said. “My top technician believes that these sequences cause the machine to experience a high error rate. He’s convinced that the machine must be a multi-processor system utilizing a polling mechanism-”
A technician rushed up to the manager. “Sir, the Bolo has not responded in over two seconds!”
I have penetrated the enemy’s computer network. The logic systems applied to their computers cause me an increased work load. I have been experiencing <> increased problems in de-multiplexing this form of data.
However, I have initiated a successful search for the location of the enemy’s satellite control network and have learned about the enemy’s missile capabilities.
I believe that I can arrange several of my subordinate neural networks to simulate a single Quirthian computational strand. My attempts to obtain concrete satellite data have not yet been successful. There is an 85% chance that with the pseudo-Quirthian strand I shall be able to obtain all the satellite data I require.
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I am concerned that I may not be able to carry out my orders in a manner which would meet with the complete approval of my Commander. However, my analysis of the situation indicates only one course of action with a probability of success of 75%.
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My combat circuitry is failing at the predicted rate. My survival center circuitry is failing at a higher than predicted rate, but this is not cause for undue alarm as there is only a .07% chance that this unit will continue beyond the anticipated 146.7 hour total failure limit.
All that matters is the success of my mission.
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The darkened staff room was illuminated only by the map projected on the far wall. The map was marked TOP SECRET. Colonel Rheinhardt aimed a laser pointer at the map. It had been barely fifty hours since he had been ordered to plan the assault. Several officers lining the walls slumped awkwardly and even the ever-energetic Major Krüger wilted in a chair. Rheinhardt felt none of it. His words were incisive, his mind clear.
“That blue line indicates the path assigned for our Bolo. Its mission will be simple. First it will penetrate to Nouparis and destroy their power center, Giramonde Gros Industrie, Aeromechanique Industrie, and the Armorie de la Troisième Provence.
“Then it will move north,” he traced the course with his pointer, “here to the main depot of the Noufrench Armée, destroying their supply and replacement dumps as well as their high echelon repair facilities.
“Finally, it will engage the Fourth Armored Division, targeting its armored fighting vehicles and munitions.” Colonel Rheinhardt flicked his pointer to another area. “That action will be timed to coincide with an attack on the division placed directly in front of the Fourth Armored Division. Our armored divisions will be placed for a breakthrough. The main thrust of the breakthrough will be south to the capital, Nouparis. A secondary thrust will place a large restraining force behind the enemy’s northern forces.