Springboard (2 page)

After another brief pause she added, “Paramount is the only major motion picture studio still in Hollywood, and the oldest continuously operating one, as well. Now, if you will follow me, we’ll begin the tour inside.”

Walter glanced back over the lot. Los Angeles was a lot noisier than he was used to. Its cars, trucks, loudmouthed people, construction, and helicopters all combined to make it louder at midnight than Pine Ridge was at noon on Saturday down at the Safeway.

As Walter turned to follow their guide there was a flash of light, and Walter, Maybelle, their tour guide and tour group—and a good section of noisy Hollywood—got blasted by a man-made sun and crisped in a heartbeat to radioactive ash.

 

The ballistic missile was a small one, in that the atomic bomb it carried was no more than three or four megatons. The fireball and mushroom cloud were fairly spectacular when viewed from the hills east of Malibu, since, until that moment, the air had been relatively clear—you could even see Catalina Island from the shore.

The initial death toll was just under 300,000. The weapon was a dirty bomb, however, so at least that many more could be expected to die from radiation in short order. The toll would increase even further because of the usual secondary effects of a nuclear bomb, including falling buildings, ruptured gas lines, and rioting.

 

The second bomb hit near Coit Tower in San Francisco. Only a couple hundred thousand died in that impact. The buildings of San Francisco, designed to withstand earthquakes, proved even sturdier than expected. Also, though no one could explain it at the time, more of the blast channeled out to the bay than toward the suburbs.

 

The third bomb struck the water just short of the ferry docks in downtown Seattle. A freak effect of the explosion tore the top of the Space Needle loose and spun it away like a giant Frisbee.

Four hundred thousand souls perished in that strike.

 

The Star Wars umbrella stopped all nine of the remaining missiles. Before the first missile had hit—moments after the initial launch, in fact—the United States had blown through Defcon One and responded to the attack.

Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines of SUBCOM-PAC’S Group Nine, already on station in the South China and Yellow Seas, unleashed barrages of the new Tomahawk Block VI Nuclear variant (TLAM-N-VI) with its INS/TER-COM /DSMAC/KSA systems, each carrying a standard W80 nuclear warhead. The USS
Henry M. Jackson
(SSBN 730) was the first to fire, but not the last, and four other boomers let go half of their missiles within moments.

Every known major military base in China got a fiery wake-up call.

ICBMs that had stood quietly for fifty years in silos hidden around the United States lifted and sped halfway around the world.

Beijing became a pile of glowing rubble—as did every other targeted major city on mainland China.

Navy troop carriers bearing thousands of Marines—led by MAFORPAC’s 31st MEU—headed at full steam to China’s shores, to open the door for a full-scale invasion.

B-52 bombers based in NATO-allied European and former Eastern Bloc countries rumbled into the air to rain more atomic grief on the Chinese, who must have had a collective suicide wish—

At that moment, the entire United States military— submarines, carriers, aircraft, ballistic missiles, Marines, and all—vanished.

Along with China. And the rest of the world . . .

 

Four-Star Army General Patrick Lee Hadden, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, leaned back in his chair in the Pentagon’s VR-SYSOPCOM Virtual Reality Theater. “What just happened here, Major?”

Major George Bretton, U.S. Army Computer Corps, shook his head. “The VR shut down, sir.”

Hadden glared at Bretton. “I can see that, Major. What I want to know is why the exercise shut down.”

“Unknown, sir. The system seems to be running fine, mainframe is on-line, all hardware systems check out. It would appear to be a glitch in the software.”

The general frowned. “Major, the United States military does not abide glitches. Find out what happened and fix it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Major,” the general added, “lose the hillbilly tourists. Alabama has electricity and flush toilets these days, and since my wife’s family still lives there, I don’t find it amusing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general and his aides left, and Major Bretton stared at his console. This was bad. This was end-a-career bad. He needed to do something and do it quick.

Thomas Thorn was reviewing personnel files when his intercom lit up.

“Commander Thorn? I’ve got General John Howard on line one.”

Thorn looked at the speaker box on his desk. It still surprised him that Net Force, of all places, didn’t have something more high-tech—maybe even something virtual—in place of their old-fashioned intercom system. Maybe he would speak to Jay Gridley about that one of these days. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll take it.” He waved his hand over the phone back and forth twice. The phone came to life.

“Commander,” the general said.

Thorn looked at the image of John Howard, a forty-something African-American who had run Net Force’s military arm since its inception. Howard had left to take a job as a consultant at the same time that Thorn had taken over the organization last year.

Howard was a good man, and a good general. Thorn had been sorry to see him leave.

“General. How are you?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Still enjoying consulting?”

“Yes, sir. Or at least I was.”

“Sounds like one shoe dropping, John,” Thorn said with a small smile. “Want to let the other one go?”

Howard’s image nodded. “Commander, I understand Net Force recently received a request by the Army for help regarding an unexpected problem with the military’s VR exercises.”

“That’s correct, General,” Thorn said. “We were up to our ears in work—somebody in the Internet Fraud Complaint Center and the National White Collar Crime Center dropped a ball and asked us to take up the slack.”

“Yes, sir. Well, the problem has gotten worse, and the Army’s experts haven’t been able to pin it down.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Thorn said, frowning. After a moment he added, “So why are you calling about this, John?”

Howard hesitated, then said, “An old friend in the Pentagon thought I might be able to help.”

“Is lobbying part of your consulting now?”

Howard smiled. “Personal touch never hurts.”

Thorn smiled, too. “True,” he said. “I’ll see if I can shake some help loose to take a look at the military’s problem. I can’t promise anything—seems as if we are being nibbled to death by little fishes here lately.”

Howard didn’t reply, but he didn’t move to break the connection, either.

“Something more, John?” Thorn asked.

Howard nodded, all trace of humor gone from his face. “Sir, the powers that be at the DoD were concerned that Net Force might not consider this a priority item.”

Thorn sighed. “What can I say? You worked here, you know how it goes. Running errands for the DoD is not in our mission statement. We’re a civilian organization under the direction of the FBI, with a little National Guard in the mix.”

“Yes, sir, but the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is involved with this. The man is used to getting his way.”

It wasn’t the most subtle threat Thorn had ever heard. He felt an immediate, almost reflexive, pulse of anger.

“Well, I appreciate the heads-up, and General Hadden certainly has the clout to make us dance. It wouldn’t be a good idea for him to thump us too hard with it, though. Unhappy workers don’t always do the best job.”

“No, sir.” Howard paused again, but not quite as long this time. “Commander,” he said, “I think it would be a good idea if we met. There are some things I know that you need to know—material I would rather talk about face-to-face.”

Thorn felt a sudden chill. That didn’t sound good.

“Okay. What’s good for you?”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“That fast?”

“Yes, sir. Some grains, the military grinds slow and fine. Some, they chop quick and coarse. Bread is about to be baked, and in your oven.”

“Come on in, General. And, John?”

“Commander?”

“Thanks again. I appreciate it.”

Howard discommed and Thorn sat back in his chair, staring at the blank screen. He didn’t like the sound of this at all. Maybe he had time to step down the hall to the gym and do a little épée work before the general arrived. Never hurt to be relaxed when problems arrived, and he had a feeling one was about to do just that. . . .

Comrade General Wu stood in his office, staring out the window. From here you could see the lights of the casinos. Tonight’s rain turned them into blurry, distant smears of neon and glare.

A pretty sight, but Wu hated them.

Billions of dollars ran through those buildings each year. Like it or not, capitalism was here to stay. Even many of the hard-liners had agreed when the concept of property rights had been put into the Chinese constitution a decade ago. Wu shook his head. Only a fool could still pretend that Communism was going to win out in the end, and whatever else Comrade General Wu might be, he was
not
a fool.

His secretary buzzed him on the intercom.

“Comrade General, Comrade Shing is here.”

“Send him in.”

Wu went back to his chair and sat, keeping his back straight, his posture that of a soldier. Shing was a civilian, and while he was Wu’s man for a number of reasons, not the least of which was money, civilians were unpredictable. Wu needed him, no question, but he didn’t have to like the man. Shing represented much that Wu detested.

Not that Wu would ever let even a hint of his feeling about this shine through.

“Comrade General,” Shing said, offering a cursory military bow.

“Comrade Shing,” Wu said, staying in his seat and returning the nod with just a hair less angle. “Please, have a seat.”

Shing sat. The chair facing the desk was comfortable, excessively so. Wu knew men of the old school who thought a hard wooden chair or even a backless bench was better for visitors, to keep them on edge, but Wu was not of that mind. A man who was comfortable and relaxed was more apt to reveal his true nature.

One did not have real power without access to truth.

Shing was a computer expert, in his twenties, educated at MIT in the United States, and as sharp as a master butcher’s favorite boning knife. Shing had gone to America young, learned the language, the culture, and, more importantly, as much about the computer business as anybody. Wu did not trust him as far as he could spit against a cyclone, but he needed good tools, and Shing at least was Chinese, of a good family, and somewhat loyal to the homeland. He was also a genius in the ways of modern electronica, and that was a prime consideration.

Wu hated computers and the cultures that had spawned them. The West was corrupt in so many ways a man could spend half his life just listing them aloud. They had no tradition, no honor, no
chi,
nothing that set a truly civilized society apart from the barbarians. Yes, yes, Communism was a bankrupt philosophy, Wu knew that, but the vestiges of it continued in China, and if you wanted to be a force, you had to deal in it and with it. It would not always be so. Fifty, a hundred, two hundred years? Mere heartbeats in the dragon’s breast. China herself abided, she absorbed all, in time.

Wu intended to help China recover her glory and status. She was well on the way, but he would provide a small boost.

History was full of men who, when they acted at the proper moment with the proper motion, had swung the course of events in new directions. Wu would be one of those men. He had spent half his life gathering the proper tools, and if he had to use one such as Shing, so be it. There were times when you fought fire with water, and times when you did it with fire. However distasteful Shing’s manner and mores, he was what Wu needed to go up against the Americans.

One did not need to love the arrow one shot into the enemy’s heart. . . .

Wu initiated a few minutes of polite civility, Shing responded appropriately, and eventually they came around to the reason the younger man was here.

“Things are progressing well?” Wu asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Shing said. “The U.S. Army hacks don’t know what happened. Can’t find how I got in, haven’t a clue how to keep me out or undo what I’ve started.”

Wu kept his polite smile fixed firmly in place. “There will be no problems with keeping to the schedule, then?”

“None I can see.”

“And the . . . other thing?”

Shing raised his eyebrows. He gave away entirely too much on his face—more of the legacy of all those years in America. “Well, that will be trickier—CyberNation’s security ops are the best. Our attacks there must be flawless. Still, I can do it. And set them against each other.”

“Good. Well, then, I will let you be about your business.”

Shing nodded. “Thank you, Comrade General.” He paused. “Do you suppose I might have another . . . small advance on my . . . stipend? There is, ah, a young woman I have met I wish to take to the casinos.” He smiled.

Wu’s answering smile was genuine this time. “Of course. Youth should not be wasted entirely in rooms full of computers.” He opened his desk drawer and removed from under a file folder a plain manila envelope containing a thick stack of Japanese yen. He handed it to Shing, who probably thought that the comrade general’s smile was there for reasons other than it really was.

Shing did not know that the young woman he had recently met was one of Wu’s agents. The woman, named Mayli, was beautiful, accomplished in many things—not the least of which were the erotic arts—and she had been instructed to do whatever was necessary to keep Shing happy. If that included marrying him and bearing his children, so be it. Wu already knew all about Shing’s favorite foods, the football team he rooted for, and his rather pedestrian sexual preferences. A handwritten report from Mayli detailing those—and much more—was in his desk drawer. He’d just moved it to retrieve the envelope of money he’d given to Shing.