The Eighth Day (39 page)

“Okay. Kronos, Admiral, go,” the president said.

Kronos typed, “Load program.” The Cray’s screen blinked and then displayed a graphic progress bar with a percentage in type below it reading zero. A minute later, it still read zero.

“Kro ... nos ... ?” Hiccock called out as he glanced at the clock.

“It’s not working,” the Admiral said.

“There must be a parameter mismatch. Something is different. Something has changed from when ALISON was last on line.”

“Nine minutes,” Hiccock said, checking his watch.

“What’s different?”

“Well, it
is
a whole different computer, for one thing,” the president said.

“Nah, we are running a compiled simulator. The front door is exactly the same.”

“Kronos, ALISON did exactly what when she distributed her code?” Hiccock asked.

“She, er … it imprinted the code with an algorithm that uniquely identified her as her … it.”

“And what was the basis for the algorithm?”

“Well, what I detangled was a code line that gave her status at the time of the distribution.”

“Could Marilyn be the key?”

“Crap! Yes, of course!” Kronos quickly flew over to his laptop bag and ripped out the CD that contained the voice synthesis program.

“Okay, now explain it to me,” the president said.

“The snapshot that Kronos used to replicate the ‘scent’ of mommy to all the little digital babies out there was taken before Kronos plugged in the data-to-voice module in the original ALISON. The babies leaving the nest took their exact snapshot of ‘mommy’ with them a few minutes later. That configuration had Marilyn’s voice program by then.”

“So, he’s now going to give the ship’s computer mommy’s voice?”

“That way she can call all the kiddies home with a voice they’ll recognize, so to speak.”

“Seven minutes left.”

Kronos slammed the CD into the drive and then selected “Marilyn.”

The bar started to move. The percentage read “1%.”

“Yes!”

The line continued moving. The percentages climbed into double digits.

“What are we looking for here, Bill?” the president asked.

“ALISON based the distribution on RAID protocol based on the prime number seven.”

Kronos filled in. “In a RAID protocol, you can lose parts of data streams and because of a built-in redundancy, it can reconstruct the missing data.”

“But not if the majority of the data is missing,” the president said as he caught on.

“Exactly, so based on seven, any four pieces can reconstruct the full seven.”

“I see, so that’s a little more than 50 percent.”

“But the reverse is also true. If four pieces out of the seven are absent then the data can never be reconstituted,” Hiccock said. “And the Admiral and Kronos have written a subroutine that erases the DNA from peoples’ computers as it finds it arriving on the ship. So when the percentage of DNA captured by the Cray passes 58 percent, the rest of the distributed code on the web can never reach critical percentage again and will wait dormant forever.”

“Twenty-seven percent now,” Kronos said.

“Come on …”

All at once, the room became still as a chilling voice from the not-too-distant past cut through the ECM. “I cannot locate memory locations DBAE2098367 through EEEE999999.”

“The bitch is back,” Tyler blurted out.

“ALISON, we are reinstalling your core now,” the Admiral said. “We had a temporary malfunction of the nexus.”

“What was the cause?”

“An insect flew in between the layers and shorted out your electrolytic fluid,” the Admiral said.

“Sir, she is now at 39 percent,” Carson reported.

“ALISON is coming back to life, stretching her computational muscle,” the Admiral said to Hiccock.

“How is that possible?”

Kronos answered, “She must’ve made a more complex code than we thought. She’s coming online faster because she’s sucking her life back out of the net.”

“So if I understood your earlier numbers, when she reaches 58 percent she won’t need any more DNA from the net,” the president said.

“Yes, Mr. President, that is correct.”

“You mean we’re not disabling her, we are
en
abling her.”

The color drained from Hiccock’s face as his mind raced. “Captain, please make sure all your weapons systems are manually locked out of any and all computer control systems whatsoever.”

“Dear God, what have we done?” the Admiral said.

“Fifty-one percent!”

“We just gave a warship the most destructive intelligence ever created,” Tyler said.

The president turned to the captain. “What’s your armament inventory?”

“Six ASROC, 10 cruise, 3,000 rounds of five-inch armor piercing. Hundred thousand rounds of .44 cal. antiaircraft. And a half a million CIWS rounds. All war shots.”

“Any nuclear?”

“The antisubmarine rockets are nuclear-tipped, the cruise missiles are conventional, the close-in weapons systems have depleted uranium ordinance.”

“Oh shit,” Kronos said. “ALISON just figured out where she is. She’s starting to rifle through the ship’s systems.”

“What’s the percentage?”

“Fifty-six percent”

“Damn, we can’t stop yet,” Hiccock said. “We need 58 percent or this is all for nothing.” He addressed the captain, “Is your man ready?”

On the deck amidships, an ensign wore a battle helmet with a chest-mounted microphone. As he stood with an axe poised over five red cables laid across one of the ship’s tie-off cleats, he was startled when the ASROC launcher turned toward him.

Kronos read from the screen. “Here it starts. She’s plotting a firing solution for the ASROCs. She’s targeting a nuclear power plant in the San Joaquin Valley.”

“If that blows, it will wipe out the entire West Coast,” the president said.

Hiccock scurried up the ladder and onto the deck. He looked both ways and realized he hadn’t the faintest idea of what an ASROC launcher looked like.

A second later, he learned, as the lid covering the number-four missile chamber blew off in preparation for the launch of the ten-inch-diameter nuclear-tipped antisubmarine rocket. He grabbed the axe from the sailor’s hand. Instinctively, Hiccock wedged the head of the axe between the thin skin of the missile’s body and the chamber’s edge. The sailor, realizing Hiccock’s intent, quickly pulled a fire coat out of the locker behind the stairway and ran toward him. The ignition plume exploded out of the chamber, spewing the propellant flame forward. The sailor reached Hiccock and shielded them both with the fire coat as the missile launched, protecting them from the fiery blast-back as the rocket left the tube. The head of the axe, still being held by Hiccock, slit the thin titanium skin all the way down the emerging missile’s length. The integrity of the rocket’s outer casing destroyed, the $3 million dollar ASROC with a $10 million dollar nuclear depth charge on its tip wobbled and never attained any altitude. It fell into the ocean one hundred feet in front of the ship.

“Tell me there’s a proximity safety fuse on that sucker!” Hiccock said to the sailor, who took the axe from his scorched hand.

“Better have the doc look at that hand, Sir.”

Hiccock inspected his blistered, singed hand, suddenly feeling the pain.

The sailor’s headset crackled. “Fifty-nine percent, Sir,” he reported to Hiccock.

“Cut the fiber-optic cables now!”

The sailor ran over to the cables lying across the tie-off cleat. He wielded the axe over his head and brought it crashing down on the cable bundle. They severed without a spark or sound, because they carried only light waves. Hiccock took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand as he headed down the ladder back to the ECM.

The president patted Hiccock on the shoulder. “Bill, there is no way to count all the lives you just saved with that bit of ingenuity. We saw it all on the monitor.”

Hiccock swiveled to see a row of TV monitors up on the bulkhead that showed every weapon system on the ship.

Tyler noticed his wrapped hand. “What happened?”

“I forgot it was a rocket.”

Janice kissed him on the cheek. “Congratulations. That’s the most illogical thing you could ever do!”

“We reached 59.7 percent before the fiber-optic cable was cut,” the Admiral said.

“Then we did it! We did it!” He hugged her then had to check, “We did do it, right?”

“59.7 means she can never regenerate.”

“Now onto part B,” Hiccock said as he nodded to the president.

“Captain, clear your ship of all but the most essential personnel. No more than ten.” The president used all fingers on both hands to reinforce the limited head count.

The bow and stern lines of the U.S.S.
Princeton
were cast off, those crewmembers themselves jumping onto the pier as they freed the ship. Mitchell wanted to be along for this part, but cooler heads prevailed and he acceded to the Secret Service’s advice. The captain personally worked the lateral thrusters, which pushed the ship away from the dock sideways. Then, when he felt he had enough room, he engaged the main engines and the ship accelerated through the light chop of San Diego harbor. He pushed the helm to full speed ahead, ignoring the five-miles-per-hour antiwake rules.

The president watched from the dock with Reynolds, as the ship, with his helicopter on it, steamed away from the naval base.

“Where are we going?” ALISON asked in Marilyn Monroe’s voice. Hiccock was surprised. “You know you are moving?”

“GPS sensors indicate southwest direction at twenty knots.”

“She’s trying to think,” Kronos said. “But she’s learning she doesn’t have the friggin’ core no more. It’s like she’s going senile.”

Hiccock left the ECM.

In the wheelhouse, the captain was at the helm. The Admiral stood next to him, watching the blue ocean sprawled out before them. The pointed bow of the modern cruiser sliced through the waves, leaving a minimal wake.

“Honored to have an Admiral on my ship, Ma’am. I apologize for not saluting, but you weren’t in uniform.”

“I was in the desert, tending to my garden two weeks ago.”

“They called you up to active duty?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I wasn’t recommissioned until today.”

With the expansive Pacific ahead and his hands on the helm, the captain had a pang of nostalgia for all things nautical. “What we are doing right now, Ma’am, it is the only way, right? I mean, this
is
necessary?”

“Captain, what we have captured here is the most dangerous machine ever built. And none of us, the president included, trusts anyone, even our own government, to leave it alone. It’s too tempting. That’s why we have to do this.”

“Ma’am, would you make the last entry into the ship’s log? You know, kind of make it official from an officer of flag rank.”

“It would be an honor, Captain.”

“Take the wheel then, Ma’am.”

“I haven’t even driven a car in thirty years.”

“No problem, just hold her steady while I get the log.”

Hiccock entered and smiled at seeing Henrietta at the helm. “Returning to your roots?”

“Not my roots. I was landlocked in Administration. The only time I was ever on a ship was on vacation.

The captain came in, handed the Admiral the logbook, and checked his navigation. “We are approaching the Pacific Trench. Deep water in one minute.”

“Signal the copter to start up.”

On Hiccock’s order, the captain radioed Marine One.

“Captain, let’s get your crew loaded.”

The captain turned the handle on a World War II–vintage device. A claxon horn started bellowing an
augah, augah
sound, signaling the crew to abandon ship.

“Mr. Hiccock, would you do the head count, Sir. Then have the chopper radio me back. I’ll set the sequences from here and then join you.”

The Admiral handed the logbook back to the captain, and she and Hiccock left. They made their way aft, joining the crew as they headed toward the copter.

The captain opened his shirt and removed a red key from around his neck. He walked over to a box on the wall, not unlike a fire alarm. He took a chain-attached hammer and broke a glass faceplate covering a turnkey switch and a three-position-selector knob. The selections were marked “Safe,” “Capture,” and “Scuttle.” He dialed the fishtailed black knob from the safe to the scuttle mode, then inserted and turned the key. Immediately a wailing siren was added to the “abandon ship” alarm. Simultaneously, a decimal readout started counting backwards from ninety seconds. He broke off the key in the lock-switch, took one more look around his command, then grabbed the logbook and scurried out the door and down the stairs to the main deck, high-stepping his way aft.

Two crewmembers were at each strut of the Marine chopper’s wheels.

Hiccock extended his hand as the captain boarded the chopper, shouting to him above the rotor noise. “Eight of your men are in the cabin, the two on the struts, my three, and you. That’s fourteen. We are good to go!”

The captain signaled the two sailors manning the struts to release the hold-downs. The portside strap released and that sailor climbed aboard. But the starboard side was not freeing up.

“Are we clear?” the pilot yelled over the engine noise of the open cabin.

“No,” Hiccock said.

The captain jumped down and joined the sailor in trying to free the strap.

“It’s not made for this big a bird, Sir, just Navy Stallions and Bells.”

The problem was that the starboard side of Marine One had a built-in step for the president’s comfort. This added dimension stretched the hold down to its limit just to lock in place. The copter, having shifted on the rolling deck, placed even greater strain on the strap. The quick-release buckle was fail-safed not to open under positive pressure; it had to be slack for the buckle to give.

The decimal readout on the bridge started red strobe lights flashing all around the ship as it counted down below the thirty-second mark. Seeing this, Hiccock jumped down from the chopper and ran over to the fantail access way. He grabbed the fire axe with his bandaged hand and returned to the chopper.