Wormhole (29 page)

The secondary log-in timer began its countdown as Windows Explorer displayed the desktop, waiting for the Valid-User event to be posted. When, sixty seconds later, the event had failed to arrive, the timer posted another custom Windows event, this one triggering the Unauthorized-User callback.

On the motherboard, the subspace receiver-transmitter (SRT) came on line, commencing a scan for all computer networks within a one-kilometer radius. Its worm had an initial set of prioritized actions. Infiltrate. Replicate. Hide.

Only after the SRT had transferred the worm to sixteen separate systems did its state machine transition from Initial-Response-Mode to Local-Environment-Analysis-and-Optimization. In this mode it began building a prioritized list of networks and processors within the specified radius, assigning the highest priority to computer systems with the largest processor arrays. Within miliseconds, its attention focused on a system that temporarily shifted the SRT’s state into High Priority Target Mode.

Sampling the Internet protocol packets entering and leaving this new target, the SRT extracted a hostname.

Big-John.

President Jackson looked at the assembled war fighters and intelligence officials seated around the long table in the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center. Covering one of the Emergency Conference Room’s walls, six large-screen monitors displayed various maps of the United States. As the president stared up at the maps, he experienced a moment of Cold War déjà vu, half expecting to see Dr. Strangelove come wheeling around the table to give one of his stiff-armed Nazi salutes.

General McKittrick, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had just concluded the morning situation brief, which had gone about as President Jackson had expected. The situation was bad and would continue to worsen while the military consolidated its hold on key national assets. Aside from the isolated pockets where the US military had been deployed to maintain order, it was every man for himself out there. Worse than that, it was every
gang for itself. In cities and towns across the country, where the police found themselves overwhelmed, they had hunkered down protecting key local facilities, waiting for the promised National Guard reinforcements. But National Guard troops were stretched too thin, assigned to protect key localities as designated by the national command authority.

Amid widespread looting and violence that made the president sick to his stomach to think about, armed citizens banded into local militias to protect their communities from roving gangs. Parts of the country with preexisting militia groups or strong NRA organizations had reacted quickly to establish local order, but these tended to be rural areas where gangs were less of a problem to begin with. And the militias were likely to present their own problems as the central government tried to reassert control over those areas. But even the militias had resorted to looting in order to procure additional firearms, ammunition, food, and supplies.

An alliance of Indian tribes from across the country had announced a new federation, issuing a declaration of independence and closing tribal borders. It was just one more thing that would have to be dealt with, but right now it was far down the president’s priority list. So many things needed to be done, but he had to focus, to prioritize.

Washington, DC, was calm, with armored vehicles deployed throughout the city, its streets patrolled by soldiers with orders to shoot looters or curfew violators on sight. All media outlets had been pressed into service, broadcasting the orders for citizens to remain off the streets until order had been reestablished.

Other military units had moved to secure power plants, information centers, port facilities, distribution centers, transportation hubs, and other key assets deemed critical to the future effort to restore regional food and fuel distribution, establishing a
network of protected green zones from which the US government could continue to operate.

In the areas outside the green zones, life was going to get very hard, very quickly. Without the heavy military protection of the critical port of New Orleans and the associated barge traffic along the Mississippi River, the nation’s factories would have shut down within a week. Even so, with the exception of large, guarded convoys, the national trucking system had suffered significant disruption. That meant shortages of fuel, produce, and other merchandise.

The national panic had spread like a wind-driven grass fire and President Jackson couldn’t blame anyone for that reaction. In truth, he’d been so clenched up he hadn’t taken a dump in three days. It stunned him to think how quickly public order had disintegrated, as if national stability had been nothing more than an illusion, looking for an excuse to come tumbling down.

The president shifted his attention back to the group around the table, his gaze settling on the army chief of staff. “General Jones, do you agree with General McKittrick’s assessment?”

“Yes, Mr. President, I do.”

“Admiral Falan?”

“Yes, sir.”

President Jackson continued around the table, finding no voices of dissent, something highly unusual given the competitive mix of army, navy, air force, marines, special ops, and intelligence people. In fact, the president couldn’t remember ever having heard them all agree on anything.

“OK then. We agree on where we’re at. I understand there’s no such agreement on our plan going forward. Admiral Falan, would you care to state your objections?”

“Mr. President, as you know, I argued against the widespread imposition of martial law from the beginning. Now, as I predicted, we’ve alienated large segments of the population by our overly
heavy-handed approach. A number of congressmen, including several from your own party, are calling for impeachment hearings, undercutting your moral authority to act.”

“And what would you propose we do differently?”

“For one thing, we need to stop shooting our fellow Americans. The rules of engagement you’ve authorized are more aggressive than any we’ve used in our recent wars. We can’t win this thing by killing our countrymen.”

General Jones pounded a large fist on the table. “Nonsense. What Americans are counting on us to do is to restore order so they can go about their daily lives with some sense of safety and security. If that means shooting the gangs of thugs that are doing their best to take that away from them, then by God, that’s what we have to do.”

President Jackson, feeling his irritation bubble up, held up his hand for quiet. “We’ve been through all of this before I made my decision. That decision stands. Gentlemen, these are desperate times, the like of which our world has never seen. I intend to lead America through this. To do that we have to ensure a strong central government continues to function. We have to secure critical infrastructure. Then we must extend the zones under our control and protection until they encompass the entire nation. It’s not going to be easy and there are those who will question the path I’ve chosen. I’ll let history judge me. But first we have to act to ensure there’s a future where that judgment can occur.”

The president’s eyes locked with Admiral Falan’s. “Bill, can you set your reservations aside and support me on this, or do I need to make a change?”

The navy chief of staff paused, and then slowly nodded. “Mr. President, I’ve given you my best counsel. But you’re my president. I’ll do what has to be done.”

The president rose to his feet. “Good, because we’ve got plenty to do. Let’s get to work.”

Despite the slightly lowered windows, the white Chevy Impala was getting hot. Freddy considered lowering them all the way, but then he would run the chance of someone noticing him sitting there in the car. Leaving it running with the AC on was a similar risk, especially with all the military and police patrols roving the Los Alamos area. Sweat and the lingering smell of the pastrami on rye he’d consumed twenty minutes earlier weren’t adding a whole lot to the ambiance either.

Damn he hated this stakeout shit.

He glanced down at his watch, the elegant gold-and-crystal rectangle a celebratory Pulitzer indulgence. He watched the second hand tick forward, freezing in place momentarily before ticking forward again, and mentally pictured tiny gears and wheels whirring around inside the thin case. The Swiss did watches right. None of that digital crap.

Twenty-three minutes past two. Dr. Gertrude Sigmund had been in her mother’s house exactly thirty-seven minutes. As much as Freddy wanted to walk up and knock on the door, he felt he should give her another ten. No use looking like a stalker, even if you were.

To a newsman, the last few days had been like a soft porn movie, interesting but frustrating. In the last week, the United States of America had come undone. Not all of it. Not entirely. But what had once been the greatest power on earth now resembled a patchwork quilt of island states. To its credit, the United States military had answered the president’s call, performing its duty to protect the Constitution. President Jackson had declared martial law, and the US military was doing its best to enforce that declaration.

What that meant on the ground was that cities near military bases had pretty good security. Localities without that benefit found themselves in much less advantageous situations. Luckily for Los Alamos, even though it didn’t have its own military base, it was a key national asset, guaranteeing it a disproportionate share of national military assets. It was why Freddy could sit on a residential street in his rented white Impala without worrying about some degenerate biker gang gutting him for the car keys.

An interesting side effect of the mess the country found itself in was that the high-tech infrastructure had survived, essentially intact. After all, the World Wide Web was a critical national priority. Where would our nation be without Google, for God’s sake? Corn farmers in Iowa might have to fight to defend their farms, but at least we could still get driving directions. Christ. It reminded Freddy of the World War II acronym, SNAFU. Situation normal, all fucked up.

Just then the garage door across the street began rumbling up along its curving track. But instead of an automobile, a
gas-powered push mower rumbled out to the front lawn. With three strong pulls, Dr. Sigmund brought the screaming beast to life.

The tone dropped in frequency as she shoved the mower forward into the deep grass of the front lawn. Then it stabilized, spewing an avalanche of severed grass blades from the raised spout on the mower’s left side. As Freddy watched Gertrude Sigmund push the mower in an inward spiral around the lawn, he shook his head.

God, sister! You’re killing me.

Freddy’s eyes swept the house. It could be any lower-middle-class suburban home, three bedrooms, one and a half baths, just like the rest of the houses in this neighborhood, but with one difference. From the old wood-shingled roof, begging for repair, to the untrimmed trees and shrubs, to the spiral-cut lawn, it seemed to sag beneath sadness and loss. It was an old story: a once-charming home that had hosted Easter picnics and Thanksgiving dinners had transitioned to a dead parents’ home, visited only on those occasions when the closest surviving child could will herself over for required maintenance, home to too many memories to sell, home to too many memories to endure.

His background research on Gertrude Sigmund revealed that she’d lost her father two years ago and her mother six months later. The house had remained unrented and unsold since then, still filled with her parents’ furniture and belongings. According to the neighbors, Gertrude stopped by once or twice a month, staying several hours, but never spending the night.

In the few days Freddy had been in town, he’d observed enough of Gertrude that he felt he knew her. Since returning from Baltimore, she’d taken a leave of absence from her psychiatry practice and, except for quick trips to the grocery store, had stayed confined to her house. Freddy wondered how Dr. Sigmund
would have diagnosed her condition if she had been her own doctor.

The change in her attitude had been abrupt. Before her hastily arranged trip to the DC area she’d been a confident, driven woman, by all accounts a workaholic. Now she appeared burdened by a despair she showed no signs of shaking. Freddy had been dying to talk with her, but not at her house. Although he’d seen no signs she was being followed or watched, he’d had enough dealings with the kinds of government agencies that likely had their talons in her to know her premises were bugged. But he doubted that the government had bothered to monitor her dead parents’ house. And as soon as she finished the lawn and went back inside, Freddy was going to take advantage of this opportunity.