stepping on a fire ant on the sidewalk. It happened yesterday. You can see why the Head of the Joint Chiefs isn’t happy.”
Thorn nodded. Ellis had a Southern twang in his voice. Texas, maybe. “Fire ant” had come out more like “fahr aynit.”
They were in a sim-room adjacent to Ellis’s office at the Pentagon, no windows, a bland space done in the same institutional colors as much of the rest of the place. The building was a maze — you needed the guard/guide they issued you at the door to find your way around, even with the flow charts. As dull an office building as there was, and this a room to doze off in, Thorn thought, though certainly not during a VR ride like the one he had just taken.
Ellis was in his late fifties, but white-haired and with a pale, lined face, looking ten years older than he was. He was in uniform, and one that had been well cut by an attentive tailor to minimize his belly, which, even so, was well on its way to winning the war with his trousers. What Thorn’s grandfather used to call “Dunlap’s Disease”—his belly had done lapped over his belt…
“Of course, the expense doesn’t hold a candle to what a real-world exercise like this would cost — not to mention that we couldn’t hardly practice it against the North Koreans or the Chinese. Still, a million here, a million there, and like Dirksen used to say, pretty soon it starts to add up to real money.”
Ellis looked at Thorn. “This is what you people do, run down computer geeks who screw things up. This was a dangerous security breach. Can you fix this?”
Thorn nodded. “If it can be done, our people can do it. Though you are looking at two different problems here, General. Finding and collecting the party responsible is one; repairing the software is another. My people will look for the hacker, and maybe we can help some with the repairs, but it’s your scenario programmers who will mostly have to resolve that.”
“Commander, I guarantee that if you bring us whoever did this, we’ll get him to tell us everything we need to know to fix it. And then some.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, you got your techno guys on it?”
“My best man is already working with the project liaison. More people will be put on it as soon as they have something to go on.”
Ellis grinned. “Welcome to the Marines, Commander Thorn. Colonel Kent is still in charge of your tactical guys?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to drop by and see me when he gets a chance.”
“I will.”
“All right. We have some chain-of-command things to hash out — I’ll have my paper- and electron-pushers contact yours — and some other miscellaneous stuff, but the main thing is, you jump on this problem like ducks on a June bug and catch this sucker. Everything else we’ll work out as we go.”
“Understood, General.”
“Good. Go do it. Keep me posted.”
As the guard escorted Thorn toward the exit, the head of Net Force considered his first interview with his new boss. So far, so good. How long it would be before the other shoe dropped, he’d just have to wait and see.
The temperature was warm enough so that you could take your shirt off and be comfortable, but not so warm that you got too hot just walking around. Maybe around eighty or so. There were some high clouds in the pure blue sky, and a gentle breeze that ruffled the trees a little.
A manicured lawn stretched in front of the cottage, short grass that felt great under bare feet. A white- painted wooden picket fence surrounded the lawn and house. A medium-sized dog, a party-colored mutt, slept in the shade of a big oak tree next to the house, feet twitching as he chased imaginary rabbits in his dreams.
Framed in the big kitchen window, working on lunch, were three gorgeous women: a tall, busty, blonde, wearing a string bikini top; a redhead with hair down to the middle of her back, in a tube-top; and a dark-skinned, curly-haired brunette without any clothes at all covering her perfect breasts. The trio looked out through the window, smiled, and waved.
The hammock was strung between two sycamore trees; next to the hammock was a small table upon which was an ice chest full of bottled beer, an appetizer pizza piled high with three kinds of meat and two cheeses, and a humidor full of good Cuban cigars.
Mounted on the tree above the foot of the hammock was a holoproj set, and the images of the players in the championship American-style football game danced in the shade. Fourth quarter, two minutes to go, and the score was tied, 28–28.
The cheerleaders, young women, all of them flawless — and bare from the waist up — were going wild. Now and again, the camera would show them in slo-mo, so the bouncing was particularly interesting…
Man. Was this heaven, or what?
The house, lawn, dog, beer — all of it — vanished. The idyllic scene went black, in the blink of an eye. A moment later, the blackness was replaced by flames, and a scene right out of Dante’s Inferno. Tortured souls writhed in the eternal fires, screams of pain filled the air, and everywhere was smoke and stinking sulfur…
Charles Seurat shook his head. “Quite a shock,” he said.
Georges, the programmer, shook his head. “The kind of man — or sometimes woman — who usually elects this particular cottage scenario is generally working-class, what the Americans call ‘blue-collar,’ and the abrupt shift from paradise to inferno is particularly scary. Most of them have had religious upbringings, and in that teaching, the scenario they picked is not, ah, consistent with Heaven. To have the fantasy replaced with Hell is not only a jolt, it is, on some level, what many of them believe they deserve. Despite our assurances that it was a glitch, and even offers of free time, we have lost customers because of it.”
“How many?”
Georges shrugged. “Hard to say for sure. We know those who complained numbered only in the dozens. How many just dropped their service and left without saying? Who knows? Not everybody responds to the exit survey.”
Seurat shook his head. “And you have not found the source?”
“Just like others. The trail bounces from several satellites and then vanishes. He is very good, this hacker.”
“Well, we ought to have somebody who is better. This kind of attack is unacceptable. One man!”
Georges was quiet, but Seurat sensed that he had something to say. “Yes?”
“Two things,
“I have heard these rumors. What of them?”
“It means that we may have a common enemy. And thus, perhaps, an enemy of our enemy who might be of some help.”
“And what is the other thing?”
Georges hesitated.
“Go on, spit it out.”
“We cannot assume that our hacker is alone. He may be part of a cabal. Or worse.”
Seurat thought about that for a moment. “Sponsored by a government, you mean.” It was not a question.
“
