“Hold your thought a second,” Macklin said, struggling to conceal his annoyance and frustration. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“At the very least,” Prost said, anxious to talk in private with the president, “there are probably a dozen or more hackers who could potentially compromise the nation’s defenses.”
“Give me the bottom line.”
“If a hacker, or team of hackers, gained access to the DOD computers, they could intercept, delete, and change all the classified messages on the net. They could stop the Pentagon from deploying forces, scramble military telecommunications, and possibly launch a variety of weapons, including nuclear missiles.”
“Terrific,” the president piped sarcastically. “Do you think a terrorist group would have that kind of capability?”
“Sure. Hackers are highly skilled, arrogant, reckless, and some of them are extremely greedy. We’re constantly redefining our vulnerabilities to cyberspace assaults. We now have the ability to camouflage destructive signals within normal transmissions. These infectious signals can ride data streams through fiber-optic cables straight into enemy computer systems. We can disrupt and destroy the global economy and cripple the infrastructure in major metropolitan areas. It’s a never-ending journey to Armageddon.”
Prost paused when Macklin frowned, then eyed him with icy stiffness.
“The enemy,” Hartwell quietly suggested, “may have a system to recognize cyber attacks and launch an aggressive and fatal counterattack to our platforms.”
General Chalmers interrupted. “That may be true, Mr. Prost, but I don’t think so — at least not at this stage of the game.”
Hartwell slowly shook his head. Game? Computers are going to be our downfall.
“The first time we use our virus,” Prost continued, “the enemy is going to have a tactical meltdown. It’ll take them a couple of years to figure out how we did it, then a year or so to turn it on us. By that time, if not sooner, we’ll have to have an impenetrable defense for our platforms. The game will continue as long as there are two humans left to play.”
Hartwell picked up his glass of water. “The threats are changing rapidly,” he said with a troubled expression, “and the terrorists are much more sophisticated than most people believe.”
Unconvinced, Macklin furrowed his brow. “Do you really believe that terrorists are sophisticated enough to pull off a cyberspace Pearl Harbor?”
“Without a doubt,” Prost said boldly. “If they don’t have the capability internally, they can hire the expertise. As I pointed out, there are any number of people who can disrupt the air-traffic-control system, wipe out bank records, scramble airline and hotel reservations, shut down major pipelines, send trains on collision courses, disable 911 emergency phone service, or even erase the New York Stock Exchange’s trading records. It’s an open-ended nightmare, one that includes our defense systems.
“If a single hacker penetrated our defense network,” Prost continued, “he or she could craft a virus that would spread literally with the speed of light. It could easily loop and weave from system to system until it strangled our military command-and-control structure.”
“Wait a minute,” Pete Adair said forcefully, exchanging a glance with General Chalmers. “Before we start trying to solve problems that don’t exist, I want to set something straight. Les and I made sure that the orders were hand-delivered to Admiral Bowman at La Maddalena and Admiral Holmes at Norfolk. They personally gave the orders to Bob Gillmore, Hampton’s skipper, and Forrest Dunwall, CO of Cheyenne. And no one at the command center had any idea what the messages were about. Nothing went on the net,” he said emphatically. “There was no breach of security at the Pentagon.”
The statement was met with silence.
“Well,” Macklin said as his mouth tightened, “someone tipped them off, and we’re going to find out who is responsible.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to look too far.” Prost sighed grimly. “If the Pentagon is clean, then the leak obviously came from here.”
The president cast an angry glance at his national security adviser. “Do you have any factual basis to support your theory?”
“No, sir, but it just seems logical.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Macklin flared.
“Yes, sir,” Prost agreed blandly.
With a look at his watch, the president rose, prompting everyone to rise. “Well,” he said in a harsh voice, “it’s time for me to tell the citizens of this fine country what a bang-up job I’m doing for them.”
Adair glanced at the bank of television sets. “Sir, CNN and CBS are already reporting the story, so you may want to consider making a short statement from the Briefing Room, then turn it over to me.”
“I appreciate your consideration, but I think it’s best if I stick with my original plan.”
“I understand,” Adair replied in an undertone.
“Sir,” Les Chalmers said glumly, “may I have a private word with you?”
“You bet,” the president declared, “as long as we’re headed in the direction of the Oval Office.”
Accompanied by three Secret Service agents, Macklin and Chalmers walked away from the Situation Room. Acutely aware of the military tragedy in the Gulf, the agents remained a discreet distance from the two men.
“Mr. President, you’ll have my resignation on your desk by 0800 tomorrow morning.”
“The hell I will,” Macklin said curtly. “Sacrificing you isn’t going to bring a reprieve. Besides, this wasn’t entirely your fault. You can shoulder part of the blame, but someone obviously gave the Iranians our game plan.”
“Sir, I sincerely appreciate your confid—”
“Not another word,” the president declared as he came to an abrupt stop and faced his friend. “You’re not going off to lick your wounds. You’re going to stay right here and help me find the sonuvabitch who sold us out.”
“Mr. President—”
“Cut the crap,” Macklin said evenly as the agents quickly turned away. “The name is Cord, same as it was when we used to get falling down drunk in Saigon.”
The president turned on his heel and started walking before Chalmers could respond.
“What’s the current status of Washington and Roosevelt?” Macklin asked as Chalmers hurried to catch up.
“Roosevelt is headed into the Gulf. GW has dropped anchor, and we expect to take her under tow in the next few hours. She’ll be in the shipyard for at least six or seven months.”
“If they don’t sink her first,” the president said curtly. “What are you doing to protect her?”
“We have a solid net of fighters airborne, and every available ASW resource is hunting subs, including helos from Roosevelt. She should be in the Gulf by early morning.”
“Good,” Macklin said evenly, and lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t Nancy Jensen the skipper of GW?”
“She sure is, and she’s done an outstanding job of saving the ship.”
“At least someone did something right.”
“After they lost steering,” Chalmers continued in a flat, decisive voice, “she reacted quickly to keep the ship from drifting into the shipping lanes.”
“Yeah, that’d be a hell of a hazard to navigation.”
The Oval Office was crowded and humming with activity when President Macklin entered the room. Ignoring the network crews and media representatives, he walked to the bulletproof window framed by the American flag and the presidential flag. He glanced at the family photographs on the credenza, then turned and sat down at his ornate desk.