important dates like birthdays and the like, thieves who stole their wallets—thus obtaining not only ATM cards, but also driver's licences containing the owners' dates of birth—were finding it easier to break into their bank accounts. Damn it, Race thought, he was going to have to change his PIN number.
He came to the top of the stairwell and hurried out into the corridor.
And then he stopped.
Two men stood in the hallway in front of him.
Soldiers.
They were decked out in full battle dress, too-helmets, body armour, M-16s, the lot. One stood halfway down the corridor, nearer to Race. The other was stationed further down the hall. He stood rigidly to attention outside the door to Race's office. They couldn't have looked more out of place—soldiers in a university.
Both men snapped around immediately when they saw him burst out from the stairwell. For some reason, in their presence, Race suddenly felt inferior and somehow unworthy, undisciplined. He felt stupid in his Macy's sports coat, jeans and tie, carrying his clothes for a lunchtime baseball game in a battered old Nike sports bag.
As he approached the first soldier, Race looked him up and down—saw the black assault rifle in his hands, saw the velveteen green beret slouched on his head, saw the crescent-shaped patch on his shoulder that read: SPECIAL FORCES.
'Uh, hi. I'm William Race.'
'It's okay, Professor Race. Please go in. They're expecting you.'
Race continued down the corridor, came to the second soldier. He was taller than the first one, bigger. In fact, he was huge, a mountain of a man—at least six-feet-four—with a soft handsome face, dark hair and narrow brown eyes that didn't miss a trick. The name patch on his breast pocket read: VAN LEWEN. The three stripes on his shoulder indicated that he was a sergeant.
Race's eyes drifted to the man's M-16. It had a state-of-the-art PAC-4C laser sighting device mounted on its barrel and an M-203 grenade launcher attached to its underside.
Serious stuff.
The soldier stepped aside promptly, allowed Race to enter his own office.
Dr John Bernstein was sitting in the high-backed leather chair behind Race's desk, looking very uncomfortable.
Bernstein was a white-haired man of fifty-nine and the Chief of the Ancient Languages Department at NYU, Race's
There were three other men in the room.
Two soldiers, one civilian.
The two soldiers were dressed and armed in much the as the guards outside fatigues, helmets, M-16s—and they both looked extremely fit.
to be a little older than the other. He held his
formally, wedged firmly between his elbow and ribs, and he had close-cropped black hair that barely covered his forehead. Race's sandy-brown hair fell down into his eyes.
The third stranger in the room, the civilian, was seated in guest's chair in front of Bernstein. He was a big man, and dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers. He a pug nose and dark heavy-set features that were with age and responsibility. And he sat in his : with the calm assurance of someone who was used to being obeyed.
Race got the distinct impression that everyone had been waiting in his office for some time.
Waiting for him.
'Will,' John Bernstein said, coming around the desk and shaking his hand. “Good morning. Come on in. I'd like you to meet someone. Professor William Race, Colonel Frank Nash.'
The barrel-chested civilian extended his hand. Strong grip.
'Retired. Good to meet you,' he said, looking Race over.
He then indicated the two soldiers. 'This is Captain Scott and Corporal Cochrane of the U.S. Army Special Forces Group.'
'Green Berets,” Bernstein whispered respectfully in Race's ear.
Then Bernstein cleared his throat. 'Colonel er, I mean, Doctor—Nash is from the Tactical Technology Office at the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. He's come here seeking our help.'
Frank Nash handed Race his photo-ID card. Race saw a mug shot of Nash with the red DARPA logo on top of it and a whole lot of numbers and codes beneath it. A magnetic strip ran down one side of the card. Beneath the photo were the words: FRANCIS K. NASH, U.S. ARMY, COL. (RET.). It was a pretty impressive card. It screamed: important person.
Uh-huh, Race thought.
He had heard of DARPA before. It was the primary research and development arm of the Department of Defense, the agency that had invented the Arpanet, the military-only precursor to the Internet. DARPA was also famous for its participation in the Have Blue project in the 1970s, the top-secret Air Force project that had resulted in the construction of the F-117 stealth.
In fact, truth be told, Race knew a little more about DARPA than most, for the simple reason that his brother, Martin, worked there as a design engineer.
Basically DARPA worked in partnership with each of the three branches of the U.S. armed forces—the Army, the Navy and the Air Force-developing high-technology military applications appropriate to the needs of each force: stealth technology for the Air Force, ultra-high-tensile body armour for the Army. Such was DARPA's status,
