“I’ll have information, a map, and a flight reservation in your name waiting at De Gaulle.”
Washington, D.C., The White House
President Sam Castilla was leaning back in his executive chair, his eyes closed in the unseasonable spring warmth that had settled into the Oval Office already at this early hour, because he insisted on keeping the air-conditioning off and the French doors open. By his own reckoning (he had sneaked a few surreptitious glances at his watch), the National Security Adviser, the admiral, and the three generals had been talking, pointing at charts, and arguing for an hour and twenty-six minutes. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself thinking longingly of how the Apaches would stake their enemies spreadeagled in the fierce sun to die very, very slowly.
He finally opened his eyes. “Gentlemen, it’s a well-known fact that only an egomaniacal idiot would run for this job that I happen to have, so is there anyone who can tell me in a few words, which I won’t need The New York Times or my science advisers to interpret, what’s happened now and what it means?”
“Of course, sir.” National Security Adviser Emily Powell-Hill took the challenge. “After the break-in to the Western power grid and the shutdown of the army’s wireless communications system, the hacker went on to steal all of our command and electronic-surveillance codes. Every one. Nothing is left for us to hide behind. Nothing is left to protect our hardware, software, or people. We can be paralyzed for God knows how long. Completely unable to defend against attack. Blind, deaf, dumb, and toothless.”
Despite his earlier levity, the president was stunned by the enormity of the consequences. “I expect that’s as bad as it sounds?”
“So far,” she said, “what the hacker’s done has been of relatively short duration. Hit and run, rather than a sustained attack. But by stealing the codes, he’s proved he’s capable of not only an attack, but of war. Until the codes are changed, we’re no longer in a position to fight or defend. Even after we change the codes, he can steal them again.”
President Castilla inhaled sharply. “Exactly what did we lose while he was in our systems?”
“All military wireless communications systems routed through Forts Meade and Detrick,” Admiral Stevens Brose explained. “NSA’s worldwide surveillance center at Mcwaith Hill in Britain, FBI communications, CIA’s worldwide photographic and electronic surveillance. The NRO was literally blind. And of course, Echelon went down.”
“None was out of commission for long, sir,” Emily Powell-Hill said, rushing to give the president the only good news. “But”
The silence in the Oval Office was thicker than a New Mexico brush patch. NSA’s Powell-Hill, the four military leaders, and the president sat silently, contemplating their private arrays of dark thoughts. Anger, panic, determination, worry, and sober calculation played across their faces.
The president fixed each of them in turn with his quiet, too-sober gaze. “To use one of my famous, colorful homespun metaphorshellip;so far all we’ve seen are smoke signals in the Diablos, but the Apache can cut the wires at any time.”
Stevens Brose nodded. “I’d say that about sums it up, sir. If we assume they have the DNA computer, the questions are: Why are they doing this? What are they planning? It seems to me there’s no reason to hope they’re simply applying pressure to make someone do what they want, because they haven’t asked for anything. Considering the military and communications targets they’ve invaded, it seems clear they wanted that molecular computer for some kind of strike on someone or something. Since we’ve been the major target so far, and we seem to be number one on just about everyone else’s hit list, too, then I’d say the odds greatly favor that they’re after us.”
“We need to know who they are,” NSA’s Powell-Hill decided.
Admiral Brose shook his head. “At the moment, Emily, in all due respect, that’s about the least important question. They could be anyone from the Iraqi government to a Montana militia, from any country or terrorist gang in between. What matters first is to stop them. Later we can exchange calling cards.”
“This is all about the DNA computer,” the president said, “and it started when the Pasteur lab was bombed. Now we think there’s going to be an attack on us, but we don’t know what, when, or where.”
Admiral Brose said promptly, “Right, sir.”
“Then we’d better find the DNA computer.” That was Klein’s idea. The president had fought him on it, but in the end had acquiesced. With so few options now, it made even more sense.
The military men exploded in talk, Army Lieutenant General Ivan Guerrero in the lead. He complained, “That’s ridiculous, not to mention insulting. We’re not helpless. We command the most powerful military force on earth.”
Air Force General Kelly agreed, “And the most advanced weaponry.”
“We can give you ten divisions to root those bastards out, for God’s sake,” Marine Lieutenant General Oda insisted.
“And none of your divisions, ships, tanks, or aircraft can protect your electronic codes and systems,” the president said quietly. “Fact is, anyone with a working DNA computer now, before we’ve had a chance to even begin developing adequate defenses, makes us impotent.”
Admiral Brose shook his head. “Not entirely. We haven’t been idle, Mr. President. Each of us has developed backup systems for our services that operate outside the normal command structures and electronics networks. We planned it for an emergency, and this sure as hell is one. We’ll deploy them separately and install the most advanced firewalls. We’re already changing all the command and communication codes.”
“With the help of our British friends, we’ve got similar backups in place at NSA,” Powell-Hill added. “We can be operational within hours.”
The president gave a grim smile. “From what I understand, at best that will simply slow this new enemy of ours down. All right, change your codes, military first. Make your tactical electronics systems as self-contained as you can. Also, contact the other NATO governments and coordinate defenses and data with them. Meanwhile, our intelligence community must concentrate on finding the computer. Finally, for God’s sake, take our offensive missiles offline as fast as you can, before they start launching them!”
With everyone agreed, they filed out of the Oval Office.
President Castilla waited impatiently until everyone was gone. At last Fred Klein stepped out from behind the closed door that led into the study. Klein looked tired, large circles under his eyes. His suit was even more wrinkled than usual.
The president heaved a worried sigh. “Tell me the truth, Fred. Will any of what they’re planning help?”
“Probably not. As you said, we might slow the attackers down. But once they know what they’re doing with the DNA computer, there’s little we can do. It’s simply too powerful. For instance, if you’ve got a modem on a computer and you e-mail your grandkids once a month, that’s enough for a molecular computer to break into your machine, steal every piece of data on it in seconds, and wipe the hard drive clean.”
“Seconds? E-mail from grandchildren? Good Lord. No one’s safe.”
“No one,” Klein echoed. “As you and Stevens Brose said, our best chance is to find it. Once we have it, we’ll have them. But we’ve got to do it before they put into effect whatever their master plan is.”
“This is like wrestling a grizzly with both arms tied behind your back. The odds stink.” The president studied the Covert-One chief. “How are they planning to hit us? How and where?”
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“And in time.”
“I hope so.”
Chapter Eleven
Toledo, Spain
Smith drove out of Madrid on the N401 express highway, heading south toward Toledo. As promised, the Basque’s home address, a map, and directions had been waiting for Smith at De Gaulle airport. The little rented Renault ran smoothly as he drove among green, rolling fields, drenched in the long shadows of afternoon. Sheep grazed in the lacy shade of poplar trees.
Smith rolled down his window, rested his arm on the frame, and a warm wind blew through, rustling his hair. The La Mancha sky, where Miguel de Cervantes’s melancholy knight had tilted at his windmills, was wide and blue. But Smith’s mind soon turned from the pastoral scenery and the deluded Don Quixote. He had his own windmills to charge, and his were very real.
As he drove, he was constantly aware that a tail might have picked him up. But as time passed, and the few other cars on the road came and went as one would expect, he began to think not. He turned his mind to the newspaper stories of the electronic shutdowns, which he had studied on the flight from Paris. Compared to the details Fred Klein had related, the news articles were cursory and gave no hint that the massive problems appeared to be the result of a futuristic computer at work. So far, the U.S. government had been successful in keeping that under wraps.