Without warning

probably written up by guerrilla hackers in Russia or Malaysia as a protest against the imminent war, not to mention as a personal shot at glory in the bizarro underground. A hit like this, just days before the start of the war, would instantly transform some spotty college drop-out into a hyper-celebrity super-hacker. A pity for them they’d never be able to cash in with Nike endorsements or a Coke ad. Best they could hope for was a virtual hand job on some mal-ware chat site. Fuckwits. Just a few months ago he’d freelanced a 3000-word feature on digital security for Statfor.com that the Times didn’t want. He’d come away with mixed feelings; utter contempt for the social misfits and losers who were the creators of so many of the most destructive programs, and an unshakable certainty that some day one of them was going to pull a stunt that did real-world damage to real- world lives. Perhaps this was it.

Somebody from Agence France-Presse jumped to his feet demanding to know – all the French reporters sounded like they were always demanding this or that – how the Coalition expected to maintain the integrity of their communications in any conflict with Iraq, given the ‘total collapse’ of their network this morning. It was a good question, one Melton had wondered about, and he was surprised to see that Colonel Yost looked almost relieved to get it.

‘Our theatre-level networks remain fully functional, intact and secure,’ he said. ‘General Franks is in complete control of all Coalition forces in situ. That is simply not an issue. The US and her allies are ready and willing to carry out any order from their national command authorities. Whatever the mission, we will accomplish it… Thank you. This briefing is at an end. You will be kept informed of any developments via the media centre.’

Yost nodded curtly, gathered up his papers and walked away from the rostrum as hundreds of seated reporters suddenly leapt to their feet to hurl questions at him. Melton stood with them. In the sudden outburst, all he’d heard was a single question shouted by Sayad al Mirsaad before anyone else.

‘What national command authority? They’re gone…’

* * * *

It’s an intensely frustrating experience for a newsman to find himself cut off from the biggest story of the day, and Bret Melton soon felt as though he was cut off from the biggest story of all time. That’s not to say there was nothing to report from Qatar. The presser had broken up in chaos and the headquarters of the Coalition forces was seething with all the mad energy of a giant ants’ nest that had been rudely kicked open. But in spite of all the activity as the military spooled up their response to whatever had happened on the other side of the globe, Melton knew that a more immediate story was available a short plane ride away: the inevitable eruption of the Arab world when it realised that America was gone.

It was unbelievable, insane, and completely fucking outrageous. It was gone.

He had eaten almost half a roll of antacid pills in the last hour as he’d tried to accept the situation. Sitting by himself in a crowded canteen roaring with the voices of dozens of reporters who’d crowded in for the free Wi-Fi and chilled air, Melton had surfed the web frantically looking for something – anything – that might expose this morning’s news as a gigantic fraud. All he’d managed to do was convince himself that nobody, no state or group, and certainly no individual, could pull off such an enormous scam. The disappearance was real.

He thumbed another couple of Rolaids into his mouth, sucking at them despondently as he clicked through a series of windows. News reports. Canadian TV shots. Webcam feeds. He’d searched dozens of chat sites, which had ‘lost’ most of their participants hours ago, their last messages often ending mid-sentence. It was a visit to an online gaming site that convinced him, however. He had a little-used subscription to Blizzard.net that he’d set up when researching a piece about the possibility of using multi-player combat sims as a recruiting tool. Everywhere he went in the virtual world he found CGI avatars standing mutely, awaiting instructions from their creators. Beneath them, in the small windows given over to character dialogue, there were reams of increasingly bemused, uneasy, and then fearful comments from players who’d logged in from areas outside North America. Most tellingly, almost nobody was now online, the survivors having abandoned the game servers for news sites or perhaps even the real world.

‘A dark day, my friend. A very dark day.’

Melton looked up from the eerie stillness of a window running a multiplayer version of Diablo. Sayad al Mirsaad, the Al Jazeera correspondent, stood over him.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked, indicating the seat in front of Melton.

‘Of course not,’ Bret said distractedly. ‘Sit down, Sadie.’

His Jordanian colleague had given up protesting the American’s use of the slightly offensive nickname, finally accepting some time ago that it was meant affectionately. He was regularly called much worse by some of Melton’s countrymen.

‘I can see from your face, you are a believer now, yes?’ said Mirsaad, without a hint of irony. He and Melton were both educated men, both men of strong faith, and they had passed many late hours in Qatar discussing theology and politics.

The former Ranger shrugged and let his hand fly up in a gesture that was part resignation, part expression of utter futility. He didn’t reply. Around him, the reporters all roared on, each holding forth on their own ideas and bullshit conspiracy theories. An unpleasant energy pervaded the room, setting Melton’s teeth on edge. In contrast with the others, Mirsaad appeared to be as depressed as he was.

‘Not everyone will think it’s a bad day, Sadie,’ Melton said at last. ‘Some assholes are gonna be sending a lot of extra prayers upstairs tonight, thanking their God for getting rid of the great Satan.’ He watched Mirsaad closely, but he seemed almost as upset as any American was.

‘Then they would be fools,’ replied the Jordanian. ‘Ultimately everything is God’s will, but this is not His work. In the affairs of men, the will of Allah is known through the actions of men. This… this is something else.’

Melton nodded. ‘I think so too. But it doesn’t mean -’

‘Hey, shut the fuck up!’ somebody yelled from across the room. ‘It’s Saddam.’

The name acted like a spell, laying a hush over the room as Melton twisted around in his plastic chair to get a view of a television screen high on the wall behind him. The Iraqi leader appeared there, beaming like a pirate king who’d fallen ass-backwards into a huge pile of both kinds of booty. The electronic watermark in the top right-hand corner of the screen belonged to the Al Jazeera network and the report was in Arabic.

‘What’s it saying?’ somebody asked.

Melton glanced back at Mirsaad for a translation, but before he could answer, an educated English voice rang out over the heads of the crowd. A handsome, well-groomed young man with South Asian features and an impeccable Etonian accent stood on a chair to get a clear view of the TV. Melton thought he recognised him. A BBC