Chapter 1

August, 4 Years Ago.

National Security Agency

Fort George S. Meade, Maryland.

Thousands of disk drives spun rapidly, at over 3600 rpm. The

massive computer room, Computer Room C-12, gently whirred and

droned with a life of its own. The sublime, light blue walls and

specially fitted blue tint light bulbs added a calming influence

to the constant urgency that drove the computer operators who

pushed buttons, changed tapes and stared at the dozens of amber

screens on the computers.

Racks upon racks of foreboding electronic equipment rung the

walls of Room C-12 with arrays of tape drives interspersed. Rats

nests of wire and cable crept along the floor and in and out of

the control centers for the hundreds of millions of dollars of

the most sophisticated computers in the world. Only five years

ago, computing power of this magnitude, now fit in a room the

size of an average house would have filled the Pentagon. All of

this, all of this power, for one man.

Miles Foster was locked in a room without windows. It contained a

table, 4 chairs, and he was sure a couple of cameras and micro-

phones. He had been held for a least six hours, maybe more; they

had taken his watch to distort his time perception.

Within 2 minutes of the time Miles Foster announced his resigna-

tions as a communications expert with the National Security

Agency, S Group, his office was sealed and guarded by an armed

marine. His computer was disconnected, and he was escorted to a

debriefing room where he had sporadically answered questions

asked by several different Internal Affairs Security Officers.

While Miles Foster was under virtual house arrest, not the pre-

ferred term, but an accurate one, the Agency went to work. From

C-12, a group of IAS officers began to accumulate information

about Miles Foster from a vast array of computer memory banks.

They could dial up any major computer system within the United

States, and most around the world. The purpose, ostensibly, of

having such power was to centralize and make more efficient

security checks on government employees, defense contractors and

others who might have an impact on the country's national securi-

ty. But, it had other purposes, too.

Computer Room C-12 is classified above Top Secret, it's very

existence denied by the NSA, the National Security Agency, and

unknown to all but a very few of the nation's top policy makers.

Congress knows nothing of it and the President was only told

after it had been completed, black funded by a non-line item

accountable budget. Computer Room C-12 is one of only two

electronic doors into the National Data Base - a digital reposi-

tory containing the sum total knowledge and working profiles of

every man, woman and child in the United States. The other

secret door that guards America's privacy is deep within the

bowels of the Pentagon.

From C-12, IAS accessed every bank record in the country in

Miles' name, social security number or in that of his immediate

family. Savings, checking, CD's. They had printouts, within

seconds, of all of their last year's credit card activity. They

pulled 3 years tax records from the IRS, medical records from the

National Medical Data Base which connects hospitals nationwide,

travel records from American carriers, customs checks, video

rental history, telephone records, stock purchases. Anything that

any computer ever knew about Miles Foster was printed and put

into eleven 6" thick files within 2 hours of the request from the

DIRNSA, Director, National Security Agency.

Internal Affairs was looking for some clue as to why a successful

and highly talented analyst like Miles Foster would so abruptly

resign a senior analyst position. While Miles was more than

willing to tell them his feelings, and the real reasons behind

his resignation, they wanted to make sure that there weren't a

few little details he wasn't telling them. Like, perhaps gam-

bling debts, women on the side, (he was single) or women on the

wrong side, overextended financial obligations, anything unusual.

Had he suddenly come into money and if he did, where did he get

it? Blackmail was considered a very real possibility when unex-

pected personnel changes occur.

The files vindicated Miles Foster of any obvious financial anoma-

lies. Not that he knew he needed vindication. He owned a Potomac

condominium in D.C., a 20 minutes against traffic commute to Fort

Meade where he had worked for years, almost his entire profes-

sional life. He traveled some, Caribbean cruises, nothing osten-

tatious but in style, had a reasonable savings account, only used

2 credit cards and he owed no one anything significant. There was

nothing unusual about his file at all, unless you think that

living within ones means is odd. Miles Foster knew how to make

the most out of a dollar. Miles Foster was clean.

The walls of his drab 12 foot square prison room were a dirty

shade of government gray. There was an old map on the wall and

Miles noticed that the gray paint behind the it was 7 shades

lighter than the surrounding paint. Two of the four fluorescent

bulbs were out, hiding some of the peeling paint on the ceiling.

Against one wall was a row of file cabinets with large iron bars

behind the drawer handles, insuring that no one, no one, was

getting into those file with permission. Also prominent on each

file cabinet was a tissue box sized padlock.

Miles was alone, again. When the IAS people questioned him, they

were hard on him. Very hard. But most of the time he was alone.

Miles paced the room during the prolonged waits. He poked here

and there, under this, over that; he found the clean paint behind

the map and smirked.

When the IAS men returned, they found Miles stretching and exer-

cising his svelte 5' 9" physique to help relieve the boredom.

He was 165 lbs. and in excellent for almost 40. Miles wasn't a

fitness nut, but he enjoyed the results of staying in shape -

women, lots of women. He had a lightly tanned Mediterranean

skin, dark, almost black wavy hair on the longish side but immac-

ulately styled. His demeanor dripped elegance, even when he wore

torn jeans, and he knew it. It was merely another personal asset

that Miles had learned how to use to his best advantage. Miles

was regularly proofed. He had a face that would permit him to

assume any age from 20 to 40, but given his borderline arrogance,

he called it aloofness, most considered him the younger. None-

theless, women, of all ages went for it.

One peculiar trait made women and girls find Miles irresistible.

He had an eerie but conscious muscular control over his dimples.

If he were angry, a frown could mean any number of things depend-

ing upon how he twitched his dimples. A frown could mean, "I'm

real angry, seriously", or "I'm just giving you shit", or "You

bore me, go away", or more to Miles' purpose, "You're gorgeous, I

wanna fuck your brains out". His dimples could pout with a

smile, grin with a sneer, emphasize a question; they could accent

and augment his mood at will.

But now. he was severely bored. Getting even more disgusted with

the entire process. The IAS wasn't going to find anything. He

had made sure of that. After all, he was the computer expert.

Miles heard the sole door to the room unlock. It was a heavy, 'I

doubt an ax could even get through this' door. The fourth IAS

man to question Miles entered the room as the door was relocked

from the other side.

"So, tell us again, why did you quit?" The IAS man abruptly

blurted out even before sitting in one of the old, World War II

vintage chairs by the wooden table.

"I've told you a hundred times and you have it on tape a hundred

times." The disgust in his voice was obvious and intended. "I

really don't want to go through it again."

"Tough shit. I want to hear it. You haven't told me yet." This

guy was tougher, Miles thought.

"What are you looking for? For God's sake, what do you want me

to say? You want a lie that you like better? Tell me what it is

and I'll give it back to you, word for word. Is that what you

want?" Miles gave away something. He showed, for the first

time, real anger. The intellect in Miles saw what the emotion

was doing, so his brain quickly secreted a complex string of

amino acids to call him down. Miles decided that he should go

back to the naive, 'what did I do?' image and stick to the plan.

He put his head in his hands and leaned forward for a second. He

gently shook and looked up sideways. He was very convincing.

The IAS man thought that Miles might be weakening.

"I want the fucking truth," the IAS man bellowed. "And I want it

now!"

Miles sighed. He was tired and wanted a cigarette so bad he

could shit, and that pleasure, too, he was being denied. But he

had prepared himself for this eventuality; serious interrogation.

"O.K., O.K." Miles feigned resignation. He paused for another

heavy sigh. "I quit 'cause I got sick of the shit. Pure and

simple. I like my work, I don't like the bureaucracy that goes

with it. That's it. After over 10 years here, I expected some

sort of recognition other than a cost of living increase like

every other G12. I want to go private where I'll be appreciated.

Maybe even make some money."

The IAS man didn't look convinced. "What single event made you

quit? Why this morning, and not yesterday or tomorrow, or the

next day, or next week. Why today?" The IAS man blew smoke at

Miles to annoy him and exaggerate the withdrawal symptoms. Miles

was exhausted and edgy.

"Like I said, I got back another 'don't call us, we'll call you'

response on my Public-Private key scheme. They said, 'Not yet

practical' and set it up for another review in 18 months. That

was it. Finis! The end, the proverbial straw that you've been

looking for. Is that what you want?" Miles tried desperately to

minimize any display of arrogance as he looked at the IAS man.

"What do you hope to do in the private sector? Most of your work

is classified." The IAS man remained cool and unflustered.

"Plenty of defense guys who do crypto and need a good comm guy. I

think the military call it the revolving door." Miles' dimpled

smugness did not sit well with IAS.

"Yeah, you'll probably go to work for your wop friends in

Sicily." The IAS man sarcastically accused.

"Hey - you already know about that!" That royally pissed off

Miles. He didn't appreciate any dispersion on his heritage.

"They're relatives, that's it. Holidays, food, turkey, ham, and

a bunch of booze. And besides," Miles paused and smiled,

"there's no such thing as the Mafia."

By early evening they let him relieve himself and then finally

leave the Fort. He was given 15 minutes to collect his personal

items, under guard, and then escorted to the front gate. All

identification was removed and his files were transferred into

the 'Monitor' section, where they would sit for at least one

year. The IAS people had finally satisfied themselves that Miles

Foster was a dissatisfied, underpaid government employee who had

had enough of the immobility and rigidity of a giant bureaucratic

machine that moves at a snails pace. Miles smiled at the end of

the interrogation. Just like I said, he thought, just like I

said.

There was no record in his psychological profiles, those from the

Agency shrinks, that suggested Miles meant anything other than

what he claimed. Let him go, they said. Let him go. Nowhere in

the records did it show how much he hated his stupid, stupid

bosses, the bungling bureaucratic behemoths who didn't have the

first idea of what he and his type did. Nowhere did Miles'

frustration and resultant build up of resentment and anger show

up in any file or on any chart or graph. His strong, almost

overbearing ego and over developed sense of worth and importance

were relegated to a personality quirk common to superbright

ambitious engineering types. It fit the profile.

Nowhere, either, was it mentioned that in years at NSA, Miles

Foster had submitted over 30 unsolicited proposals for changes in

cryptographic and communications techniques to improve the secu-

rity of the United States. Nowhere did it say, they were all

turned down, tabled, ignored.

At one point or another, Miles had to snap. The rejection of

proposal number thirty-four gave Miles the perfect reason to

quit.

* * * * *

Miles Foster looked 100% Italian despite the fact his father was

a pure Irishman. "Stupido, stupido" his grandmother would say

while slamming the palm of her hand into forehead. She was not

exactly fond of her daughter marrying outside family. But, it was

a good marriage, 3 great kids, or as good as kids get and Grand-

mama tolerated the relationship. Miles the oldest, was only 7

when his father got killed as a bystander at a supermarket rob-

bery.

Mario Dante, his homosexual uncle who worked in some undefined,

never mentioned capacity for a Vegas casino, assumed the pater-

nal role in raising Miles. With 2 sisters, a mother, an aunt and

a grandmother all living under the same roof with Miles, any

male companionship, role model if you will, was acceptable.

Mario kept the Family Honor, keeping his sexual proclivities

secret until Miles turned 18. Upon hearing, Miles commented,

"Yeah, so? Everyone knows Uncle Mario's a fag. Big deal."

Mario was a big important guy, and he did business, grownup

business. That was all Miles was supposed to know. When Miles

was 13, Mario thought it would be a good idea for him to become

a man. Only 60 miles from Las Vegas lived the country's only

legal brothels. Very convenient. Miles wasn't going to fool

around with any of that street garbage. Convention girls. Miles

should go first class the first time.

Pahrump, Nevada is home to the only legalized prostitution in the

United States. Mario drove fast, Miles figured about 130mph, in

his Red Ferrari on Highway 10, heading West from Vegas. Mario

was drinking Glen Fetitch, neat, and he steered with only one

hand, hardly looking at the road.

The inevitable occurred. Gaining on them, was a Nevada State

Trooper. The flashing lights and siren reminded Mario to slow

down and pull over. He grinned, sipped his drink and Miles

worried. Speeding was against the law. So was drinking and

driving. The police officer walked over to the driver side of the

Ferrari. Uncle Mario lowered the window to let the officer lean

into the car. As the trooper bent over to look inside the

flashy low slung import, Mario pulled out a handgun from under

the seat and stuck it into the cop's face.

Mario started yelling. "Listen asshole, I wasn't speeding. Was I?

I don't want nothing to go on my insurance. I gotta good driving

record, y'know?" Mario was crazy! Miles had several strong urges

to severely contract his sphincter muscles.

"No sir, I wanted to give you a good citizenship citation, for

your contributions to the public good." The cop laughed in Uncle

Mario's face.

"Good to see you still gotta sensa'humor." Uncle Mario laughed

and put the gun back in his shoulder holster. Miles stared,

dumbfounded, still squeezing his butt cheeks tight.

"Eh, Paysan! Where you going so fired up? You know the limit's

110?" They both guffawed.

"Here!" Mario pointed at Miles. "'Bout time the kid took a ride

around the world, y'know what I mean?" Miles wasn't sure what

he meant, but he was sure it had to do with where he was going to

lose his virginity.

"Sheeeee-it! Uptown! Hey kid, ask for Michelle and take 2 from

Column B, then do it once for me!" Even though they weren't, to

a 13 year male Italian virgin, Mario and the cop were making fun

of him. "I remember my first time. It was in a pick up truck,

out in the desert. Went for fucking ever! Know what I mean?

The cop winked at Miles who was humiliated. To Miles' relief,

Mario finally gave the cop an envelope, while being teasingly

reprimanded. "Hey, Mario, take it a little easy out here, will

yah? At least on my watch, huh?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem. Ciao."

"Ciao."

They were off again, doing over 100mph in seconds. The rest of

the evening went as planned. Miles thanked his uncle in a way

that brought tears to Mario's eyes. Miles said, "You know, Uncle

Mario. When I grow up, I want to be just like you."

* * * * *

"He's just a boy, Mario! How could you!" Miles' mother did not

react favorably to the news of her son's manhood. She was trying

to protect him from the influence of her relatives. Miles was

gauged near genius with a pronounced aptitude for mathematics and

she didn't want his life to go to waste.

His mother had married outside of the family, the organized crime

culture, the life one inherits so easily. She loved her family,

knew that they dealt in gambling, some drugs, an occasional

rough-up of an opponent, but preferred to ignore it. She mar-

ried a man she loved, not one picked for he, but had lost him 6

years before. They _could not_ have her son.

Her wishes were respected, in the memory of Miles father, and

also because it wasn't worth having a crazed Sicilian woman rant-

ing and raving all about. But Miles was delectable bait to the

Family. His mathematical wizardry could assist greatly in gaming

operations, figure the odds, new angles, keep the dollars in the

house's favor despite all advertising claims to the contrary.

But, there was respect and honor in their promise to his mother.

Hands off was the rule that came all the way from the top. He

was protected. Miles was titillated with the attention, but he

still listened to his mother. She came before all others. With

no father, she became a little of both, and despite anyone's

attempts, Miles knew about Mario.

Miles was such a subject of adoration by his mother, aunt and

grandmother, siblings aside, that Miles came to expect the same

treatment from everyone, especially women. They praised him so,

he always got top honors, the best grades, that he came to re-

quire the attention and approval.

Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect.

Miles was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at

all. But he had absolutely no interest in men. He adored women,

largely because of his mother. He put women on pedestals, and

treated them like queens. Even on a beer budget Miles could

convince his lady that they were sailing the Caribbean while

baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women succumbed,

willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval,

and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster

was soon an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which

Miles took as approval.

By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics

and get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts

within 50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female

family had allowed him to convince himself that he was going to

change the world. He was the single most important person that

could have an effect on civilization. Invincible. Can do no

wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it

must be so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or

girl friends called self confidence others called conceit and

arrogance. Even obnoxious.

His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics.

He believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All

questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you

have them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer

will appear.

His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant

soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition

to a defined set of measured properties. He postulated that all

phenomenon was discrete in nature and none were continuous.

Given that arguable position, he was able to develop a set of

mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into

much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem would

be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as

the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the

government.

He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to

put his ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security

Agency painted an idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a

mathematician - the biggest, fastest and best computers in the

world at your fingertips. Always the newest and the best. What-

ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super

secret important work - oh how his mother would be proud. Miles

accepted, but they never told him the complete truth. Not that

they lied, of course. However, they never bothered to tell him,

that because of his family background, guilt by association if

you wish, his career would be severely limited.

Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but

he never told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were

senior analysts. It was a high tech desk job that required his

particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what

they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for govern-

ment security projects. For a couple of years, Miles happily

complied - then he got itchy to work on other projects. After

all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time

he came up with another. Time to move on.

In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new

done is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it

through committee. Everyone made proposals. You not only needed

a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of

8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the connec-

tions and assistance of others. You scratch mine, I'll scratch

yours.

During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various

programs, procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use-

ful. While technically his concepts were superior, his arro-

gance, his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn't stink attitude

proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle. He was unable

to ever garner much support for his proposals. Thus, not one of

them was ever taken seriously. Which compounded the problem and

reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude towards his employ-

er. However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully masked

his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the demands of the

job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different

person.

* * * * *

The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief.

The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal

call, not from outside the building, but he didn't recognize the

number.

"Investigations," The chief answered.

"This is Jacobs. We're checking up on Foster."

"Yessir?" DIRNSA? Calling here?

"Is he gone?"

"Yessir."

"Anything?"

"No sir."

"Good. Close the file."

"Sir?"

"Close it. Forever."

* * * * *

September, 4 Years Ago

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications

security consultant. He and half of those who lived within

driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a

simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating title given to

those who make their living selling products or services to the

Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres-

sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services

would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry,

Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few

clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your

knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to

companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the

days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange-

ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient

nature is probably no more evident than through the political

circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and

about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to

maximize his salability.

He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date

women whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men-

strual cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he

thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he

would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the

odds of good blow job.

Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those

who could help start his career in the private sector. "Fuck the

secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.

Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease

the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs,

often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists,

were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze

with the influentia in the nation's capital. The better parties,

the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni-

taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a

generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid

for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The

Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly

handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore

cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless

other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company

names.

Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in

an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a

former embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners

in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house

was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but

tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern,

comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the

classic formality.

The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze.

The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer

air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured

gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air

conditioned indoors.

It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a

hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and

unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last

of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with

her partner for the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.

9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he

had set out to do - meet people, sell himself, play the game,

talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured

out how he was going to get laid tonight.

As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a

woman whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just

arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and

he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks

like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French

doors at the backyard flora.

Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm

Miles Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned

toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch

taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder

length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and

statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown

eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins

were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and

dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts

stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to

Miles' apartment.

At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky.

His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a

houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned

how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend

together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling,

ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy

reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced

quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely

tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually

liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women,

he did. It was just, well this one was different. He 'really'

liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

"Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after-

glow. She snuggled up against him closer.

"Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were

still closed.

"In a minute stud, yes." She looked up reassuringly at him.

"Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood

for shop talk.

"Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work

for them?"

"Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so.

Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.

"Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious.

I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone

who can pay. That's all."

"I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands

got the desired result.

"Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that

could use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know

if you cared."

"No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless

they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on

that."

"Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get

together?" She didn't miss a beat.

"No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about

this later?" Miles begged.

* * * * *

Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore

Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo

Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000

for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa-

tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him,

that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used.

Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He

still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never

occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not

have liked him.

At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to

Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that

this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983

before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an

American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed

that thought to remove any traces of worry.

The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the

flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"

"Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

"I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed

envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large

black marker.

"Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his.

Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.

MR. FOSTER

WELCOME TO JAPAN.

YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY

ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23.

ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

RESPECTFULLY

TAKI HOMOSOTO

The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more

important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was

in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend-

ant.

They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a

member in good standing.

* * * * *

Thursday, September 3

Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

"DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."

"Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full

circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."

"Traffic Dallas?"

"Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up

pretty good."

"Sheers?"

"None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You

got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a

while."

"Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."

"Roger 1137."

The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The

dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the

air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light

emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns,

afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the

airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over

Dallas and Fort Worth.

Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours

past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and

highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on

time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections

were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the

air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a

chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

"Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and

least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.

Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?"

He asked looking at the radar screen.

"See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his

finger.

"Bogies? What are those symbols?"

"They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're

there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's

gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was

trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.

"Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch

and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen

and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What

was the Delta pattern?"

"Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."

"Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke

rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.

"Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might

be a bounce."

Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned

with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he

had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other

ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their

equipment was functioning properly.

"Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American 1137, requesting

update. It's getting a little tight up here."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second

here . . ."

"Dallas, what's the problem?"

"Just a check . . ."

Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify

the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa-

tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System

was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane

flying within domestic air space.

All status information, on every known flight in progress and

every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22

ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical

Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a

DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com-

puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an

updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.

Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap-

proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not

appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis-

plays. Something was drastically wrong.

"Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.

His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta,

too, 1258."

"What is it?"

"37."

"Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to

know what's happening." He called over to another controller.

"Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're

closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the

airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air-

port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the

tower's concern was safety at all costs.

"Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have

they had a recall lately?"

The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else-

where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and

LAX have problems, too."

"OK, everybody, listen up," Chad said. "Stack 'em, pack 'em and

rack 'em. Use those outer markers, people. Tell them to believe

their eyes. Find the 37's. Let 'em know their transponders are

going. Then, bring 'em down one by one."

The emergency speaker suddenly rang out. "Shit! Dive!" The

captain of American 1137 ordered his plane to accelerate ground-

ward for 10 seconds, descending 2500 feet, to avoid hitting an

oncoming, and lost, DC-9.

"Dallas, Mayday, Mayday. What the fuck's going on down there?

This is worse than the freeway . . ."

The emergency procedure was one they had practiced over and over,

but rarely was it necessary for a full scale test. The FAA was

going to be all over DFW and a dozen other airports within hours,

and Chad wanted to be prepared. He ordered a formal notification

to Boeing that they had identified a potentially serious malfunc-

tion. Please make your emergency technical support crews avail-

able immediately.

Of the 100 plus flights under DFW control all 17 of the Boeing

737's disappeared from the radar screen, replaced by dozens of

bogies with meaningless signatures.

"Dallas, American 1137 requests emergency landing . . .we have

several injured passengers who require immediate medical assist-

ance."

"Roger, 1137," Gatwick blurted back. "Copy, EP. Radar status?"

"Nominal," said the shaken American pilot.

"Good. Runway 21B. We'll be waiting."

* * * * *

By 5:00 PM, Pacific time, Boeing was notified by airports across

the country that their 737's were having catastrophic transponder

failure. Takeoffs were ordered stopped at major airports and the

FAA directed that every 737 be immediately grounded. Chaos

reigned in the airline terminals as delays of several hours to a

day were announced for most flights. Police were needed to quell

angry crowds who were stuck thousands of miles from home and were

going to miss critical business liaisons. There is nothing we

can do, every airline explained to no avail.

Slowly, the planes were brought down, pilots relying on VFR since

they couldn't count on any help from the ground. At airports

where weather prohibited VFR landings, and the planes had enough

fuel, they were redirected to nearby airports. Nearly a dozen

emergency landings in a two hours period set new records that the

FAA preferred didn't exist. A field day for the media, and a

certain decrease in future passenger activity until the shock

wore off.

The National Transportation Safety Board had representatives

monitoring the situation within an hour of the first reports from

Dallas, San Francisco, Atlanta, and Tampa. When all 737's were

accounted for, the individual airports and the FAA lifted flight

restrictions and left it to the airlines to straighten out the

scheduling mess. One hundred thousand stranded passengers and

almost 30% of the domestic civilian air fleet was grounded.

It was a good thing their reservation computers hadn't gone down.

Damn good thing.

* * * * *

DISASTER IN AIR CREATES PANIC ON GROUND

by Scott Mason

"A national tragedy was avoided today by the quick and brave

actions of hundreds of air traffic controllers and pilots working

in harmony," a spokesperson for The Department of Transportation

said, commenting on yesterday's failure of the computerized

transponder systems in Boeing 737 airplanes.

"In the interest of safety for all concerned, 737's will not be

permitted to fly commercially until a full investigation has

taken place." the spokesperson continued. "That process should

be complete within 30 days."

In all, 114 people were sent to hospitals, 29 in serious condi-

tion, as a result of injuries sustained while pilots performed

dangerous gut wrenching maneuvers to avoid mid-air collisions.

Neither Boeing nor the Transportation Safety Board would comment

on how computer errors could suddenly affect so many airplanes at

once, but some computer experts have pointed out the possibility

of sabotage. According to Harold Greenwood, an aeronautic elec-

tronics specialist with Air Systems Design in Alpharetta, Geor-

gia, "there is a real and definite possibility that there has

been a specific attack on the airline computers. Probably by

hackers. Either that or the most devastating computer program-

ming error in history."

Government officials discounted Greenwood's theories and said

there is no place for wild speculation that could create panic in

the minds of the public. None the less, flight cancellations

busied the phones at most airlines and travel agencies, while the

gargantuan task of rescheduling thousands of flights with 30%

less planes began. Airline officials who didn't want to be

quoted estimated that it would take at least a week to bring the

system back together,

Airline fares will increase next Monday by at least 10% and as

much as 40% on some routes that will not be restored fully.

The tone of the press conference held at the DoT was one of both

bitterness and shock as was that of sampled public opinion.

"I think I'll take the train."

"Computers? They always blame the computers. Who's really at

fault?"

"They're just as bad as the oil companies. Something goes a

little wrong and they jack up the prices."

The National Transportation Safety Board said it would also

institute a series of preventative maintenance steps on other

airplanes' computer systems to insure that such a global failure

is never repeated.

Major domestic airlines announced they would try to lease addi-

tional planes from other countries, but could not guarantee prior

service performance for 3 to 6 months. Preliminary estimates

place the cost of this debacle at between $800 Million and $2

Billion if the entire 737 fleet is grounded for only 2 weeks.

The Stock Market reacted poorly to the news, and transportation

stocks dove an average of 27% in heavy trading.

The White House issued a brief statement congratulating the

airline industry for its handling of the situation and wished its

best to all inconvenienced and injured travelers.

Class action suits will be filed next week against the airlines

and Boeing as a result of the computer malfunction. This is Scott

Mason, riding the train.

* * * * *

"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not

another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged

his shoulders in mock defeat.

"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special-

ist," he chided.

When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical

choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de-

veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City

Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more

times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled

to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc-

cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug

"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying

to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.

"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded.

Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on

critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on

the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a

virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"

"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I

finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff

scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."

"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.

"You've been working too hard."

"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and

worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's

no story . . ."

"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut-

tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead

printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he

patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."

"God, I hate this job."

Scott Mason loved his job, after all it was his invention seven

years ago when he first pitched it to Doug. Scott's original

idea had worked. Scott Mason alone, under the banner of the New

York City Times, virtually pioneered Scientific Journalism as a

media form in its own right.

Scott Mason was still its most vocal proponent, just as he was

when he connived his way into a job with the Times, and without

any journalistic experience. It was a childhood fantasy.

Doug remembered the day clearly. "That's a new one on me," Doug

had said with amusement when the mildly arrogant but very likable

Mason had gotten cornered him, somehow bypassing personnel.

Points for aggressiveness, points for creativity and points for

brass balls. "What is Scientific Journalism?"

"Scientific Journalism is stripping away all of the long techni-

cal terms that science hides behind, and bringing the facts to

the people at home."

"We have a quite adequate Science Section, a computer

column . . .and we pick up the big stories." Doug had tried to

be polite.

"That's not what I mean," Scott explained. "Everybody and his

dead brother can write about the machines and the computers and

the software. I'm talking about finding the people, the meaning,

the impact behind the technology."

"No one would be interested," objected Doug.

Doug was wrong.

Scott Mason immediately acclimated to the modus operandi of the

news business and actually locked onto the collapse of Kaypro

Computers and the odd founding family who rode serendipity until

competence was required for survival. The antics of the Kay

family earned Mason a respectable following in his articles and

contributions as well as several libel and slander suits from the

Kays. Trouble was, it's not against the law to print the truth

or a third party speculations, as long as they're not malicious.

Scott instinctively knew how to ride the fine edge between false

accusations and impersonal objectivity.

Cold Fusion, the brief prayer for immediate, cheap energy inde-

pendence made headlines, but Scott Mason dug deep and found that

some of the advocates of Cold Fusion had vested interests in

palladium and iridium mining concerns. He also discovered how

the experiments had been staged well enough to fool most experts.

Scott had located one expert who wasn't fooled and could prove

it. Scott Mason rode the crest of the Cold Fusion story for

months before it became old news and the Hubble Telescope fiasco

took its place.

The fiasco of the Hubble Telescope was nothing new to Scott

Mason's readers. He had published months before its launch that

the mirrors were defective, but the government didn't heed the

whistle blower's advice. The optical measurement computers which

grind the mirrors of the telescope had a software program that

was never tested before being used on the Hubble. The GSA had

been tricked by the contractor's test results and Scott discov-

ered the discrepencies.

When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated

spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs,

Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a

reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood

the technology. Thanks to Mason's early diagnosis and the Times'

responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas-

ter was averted.

The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the

payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the

testing ground outside of Las Vegas - Scott Mason was there. He

traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany

which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.

Scott's outlook was simple. "It's a matter of recognizing the

possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some-

thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed.

Since someone's doing it, then it's only a matter of catching him

in the act."

"Besides," he would tell anyone who would listen, "computers and

technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu-

ally. To believe that there isn't interesting, human interest

and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of

the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of

the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time,

well disguised and easily avoided."

Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical

apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien-

tific Journalism.

His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to

fellow Times' reporters. Scott often became the technical back-

bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good.

The journalists' barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a

competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter-

est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he

didn't flaunt his knowledge. To Scott's way of thinking, techni-

cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC's, so it was

with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi-

cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted

to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.

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