Stephen Coonts
The Minotaur
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author received invaluable unclassified technical advice from numerous individuals who volunteered to assist in his education. Some of them wished to remain anonymous. Those who forgot to request anonymity are: Commander Robert Day, Commander Doug Hargrave, Captain Michael E. Kearney, Fred Kleinberg, Captain Richard E. 'Dick' Koehler, Captain Wayne Savage, Captain Karl Volland and Dr. Edward Walsh. The author also referred extensively to Bill Sweetman's excellent works on low-observable technology aircraft. To all of these people the author extends his thanks.
Knowledgeable readers are advised that the intricacies and eccentricities of the bureaucratic maze within the Department of Defense forced the author to take liberties within this novel in the interest of readability. Some of the mind-boggling complexities of modern military hardware have been simplified for the same reason.
You've heard the story — it's old, they say — how the queen of Crete took a bull for a lover and in her time delivered the Minotaur. Contriving to hide his shame, to banish the hideous man-bull from the sight of men, King Minos ordered Daedalus to construct a labyrinth. The artist set the stone, captured conflict in aisles and passages of confusion and deceit, devious ways that twisted the mind and eye of all who entered this prison of no escape, wherein was placed the Minotaur. Thus did Daedalus build his monument to the betrayal of the king.
The means of destruction are approaching perfection with frightful rapidity.
1
Terry Franklin was a spy. This afternoon in February, in a small cubbyhole in the basement of the Pentagon, he was practicing his trade. It was tedious work.
He adjusted the screen brightness on his computer monitor and tapped the secret access code of the user he was pretending to be tonight. Now the file name, also special access, a classification higher than top secret. He had to be careful, since the letters and numerals he was typing did not appear on the screen. A mistake here meant the computer would lock him out and deny him the file. And he was not a good typist He worked with just two fingers.
There it was. The ATA File, the Advanced Tactical Air- craft. He tapped some more and began examining the document fist. Number 23.241, that’s the first one. He slid one of his high- density, 5.25-inch fioppies into the slot and hit the keys again. The little red light came on above the disk drive and the drive began to whir. Franklin smiled when he saw the light.
It was quiet here in the computer service shop. The only noise was the whirring of the disk drive and the tiny clicks of the key- board. And the sound of Terry Franklin’s breathing. It was ironic, he mused, how the computer silently and effortlessly reveals the deepest secrets of its owners. Without remorse, without a twinge of emotion of any kind, the screen lays bare the insights gained from man-years of research by highly educated, gifted scientists and the cunning application of that research by extraordinarily talented engineers. Pouring onto the floppy disk was a treasure more valu- able than gold, more precious than diamonds, a treasure beyond the reach of most of the human race, still struggling as it was with basic survival. Only here, in America, where a significant percent- age of the best brains on the planet were actively engaged in funda- mental research into the secrets of creation, were these intangible jewels being created in significant quantity, gushing forth, almost too fast to steal.
Terry Franklin grinned to himself as he worked. He would do his best. He called up the document list again, then changed flop- pies as he listened to the silence.
These three little floppy disks would earn him thirty thousand dollars. He had bargained hard. Ten thousand dollars a disk, whether full or partially full. Cash.
He had figured out a way to make computers pay. He grinned happily at this thought and stroked the keyboard again.
Terry Franklin had become a spy for the money. He had volun- teered. He had made his decision after reading everything he could lay his hands on about espionage. Only then had he devised a plan to market the classified material to which he had access as a navy enlisted computer specialist. He had thought about the plan for months, looking for holes and weighing the risks. There were risks, he knew, huge ones, but that was the reason the compensation would be so high. And, he assured himself repeatedly, he enjoyed taking risks. It would add spice to his life, make a boring marriage and a boring job tolerable. So he recruited himself.
One Saturday morning five years ago Terry Franklin walked into the Soviet embassy in Washington. He had read that the FBI kept the embassy under constant surveillance and photographed every- one who entered. So he wore a wig, false mustache and heavy, mirrorlike sunglasses. He told the receptionist he wanted to see an intelligence officer. After a forty-five minute wait, he was shown into a small, windowless room and carefully searched by the recep- tionist, a muscular, trim man in his early thirties. A half hour later — he was convinced he was photographed during this period by an unseen camera — a nondescript man in his fifties wearing a baggy suit had entered and occupied the only other chair. Without a word. Franklin displayed his green navy ID card, then handed the man a roll of film. The man weighed it in his hand as Franklin removed the sunglasses, wig and mustache. The Russian left the room without speaking. Another half hour passed, then another. No doubt he was again photographed.
It was almost noon when baggy-suit returned. He smiled as he entered and shook Franklin’s hand. Could he examine the ID card? Where was Franklin stationed? When had he exposed the film? Why? The Russian’s English was good but slightly accented.
Money, Terry Franklin had said. “I want money. I have some- thing to sell and I brought you a free sample, hoping you might want to buy more.”
Now, as Franklin worked the computer keyboard, he thought back to that day at the embassy. It had been the most momentous day of his life. Five years and two months after that day he had $540,000 in cash in a storage locker in McLean, Virginia, under an assumed name and no one was the wiser. He was going to quit spying when that figure reached a million. And when his enlist- ment was up, he was going to walk out on Lucy and the kids and fly to South America.
It was typical of Terry Franklin that he intended to delay his departure until he received his discharge. When he entered his new life he would go free, clean and legal, with no arrest warrants anywhere. He would go in his fake identity. Petty Officer First Class Terry Franklin, the college kid from Bakersfield who had knocked up Lucy Southworth in the back seat of her father’s sta- tion wagon at a drive-in movie, married her, then joined the navy — that Terry Franklin would cease to exist.
It was a nice bundle: $540,000, plus $30,000 for these three disks. A lot of money. But not enough. He wasn’t greedy, but he had to have a stake big enough so that he could live on the interest.
He had been very, very careful. He had made no mistakes. He had never spent a penny of the money. The spying was going smooth as clockwork. These Russians, they were damn good. You had to take your hat off to them. They had never called or spoken to him after that last meeting m Miami almost three years ago, right after he received orders to the Pentagon.
The operation was slick, almost foolproof, he reflected as he inserted the third disk. The calls always came on an evening when his wife was out, sometimes with her bowling league, sometimes at a friend’s house. The
