Virus Read online

  What if man were at the

  mercy of machine?

  What if artificial intelligence grew faster

  than human intelligence?

  What if the future of the planet rested in

  the pulsing heart of a microchip?

  YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT.

  A NOVEL OF

  TECHNOLOGICAL TERROR BY

  Bill Buchanan

  VIRUS

  Bill

  Buchanan

  JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  VIRUS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with

  the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / February 1997

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1997 by Bill Buchanan.

  Book design by Casey Hampton.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  The Putnam Berkley World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.berkley.com/berkley

  ISBN: 0-515-12011-1

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  200 Madison Avenue. New York, New York 10016.

  JOVE and the “J” design

  are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  “For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for nature cannot be fooled."

  —Richard Feynman,

  Nobel Prize-winning physicist,

  Member of President Reagan's Challenger

  Accident Investigatory Commission

  * * *

  This book was written for our children in the

  hope that it would never come true.

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the kind people—lifelong friends and publishing professionals alike—who made this book possible.

  My heartfelt thanks to George Wieser and David Shanks, for without them this novel would not exist. And to John Talbot, senior editor at Berkley Books, for your suggestions, guidance, and intuition. I feel most fortunate working with such thoughtful, enthusiastic, and considerate professionals.

  My sincere thanks to Mark Gatlin, acquisitions editor at The Naval Institute Press, for your kindness, encouragement, and feedback. You did a superb job selecting your reviewers and asking all the right questions. Their backgrounds were well suited for evaluating this story and their suggestions, observations, and concerns were enormously helpful.

  And from one tech-head to another, my enthusiastic thanks to Tony Hagar for your first-rate suggestions on genetic programming, high-altitude aircraft flight trajectories, and orbital physics. Your perceptive interest and incisive comments helped substantially improve the story.

  Very special thanks go to my lifelong hometown friends Mario Horne, Ross Gunn, and Martha Lemmons. Mario and Ross, for reviewing the manuscript in its formative stages. Martha Lemmons, for the story’s title. My thanks again for your time, ideas, and encouragement.

  I would like to extend my appreciation to Chere Bemelmans, a friend and nonfiction editor, for placing her life on hold and losing two back-to-back nights’ sleep reviewing the manuscript. Your enthusiasm caused my spirit to soar and your suggestions helped a tremendous lot.

  Most of all, I would like to thank my wife, Janet, for her faith, love, unwavering support, and editorial comments.

  This work spans an array of diverse disciplines ranging from military space technology to Washington politics. I did what I could do to get it right and felt fortunate to have excellent manuscript reviewers throughout the process. Tech-head readers be advised that intricate layers of software detail are presented as pseudo-code in the interest of readability. Errors which remain are mine alone, but the credit goes to those people who helped me along the way.

  PREFACE

  In 1959, Arthur Samuel—artificial intelligence pioneer— asked, “How can computers learn to solve problems without being explicitly programmed?” In 1992, John Koza answered this question with empirical evidence in his book entitled Genetic Programming. Koza claimed, as did John Holland before him, that genetic programming allows computers to learn from experience and thereby program themselves. Hoping to produce some mathematical basis substantiating Koza’s claims, the U.S. government funded research at MIT, Stanford, University of Michigan, and the MITRE Corporation. Subsequently, researchers and mathematicians constructed a meaningful body of theory as to why genetic algorithms work when adapting computer programs. Although counterintuitive, simulation results were as surprising as they were undeniable. Turns out Koza was right. Adaptation of computer programs using genetic algorithms offered considerable promise. Almost overnight, genetic programming came of age and the technological stage was set for fundamental changes in computing.

  Advances in genetic algorithms and neural networks were combined to achieve a quantum leap in computer software capability and performance. The result: an evolutionary learning capability for computers. Programs evolved at their own rate as new information became available, ultimately leading to genetically refined, precision-tuned computer software. This new learn-as-you-go technology led to breakthrough applications of artificial intelligence in medicine, aviation, telecommunications, business, and the military.

  When the technology was new—in its early introductory stages—exploratory military applications centered around satellite imaging and signals intelligence collection. Brilliant-class surveillance satellites became the first in a long line of leam-as-you-go systems to enter the U.S. military inventory. Then, as the technology matured, it worked its way into the very fabric of the military infrastructure. As with nuclear energy, this technology was used for potentially destructive purposes. Brilliant-class weapons emerged as the system of choice for replacing conventional smart technology-

  But—brilliant-class weapons weren’t the only destructive use for this technology.

  They would come to be known in the U.S. Army’s vernacular as battlefield grade—and for good reason. Inevitably, this technology was applied to highly sophisticated, self-adaptive computer viruses.

  PART

  1

  A DISASTER

  OF TECHNOLOGY

  DAY 12-

  DECEMBER 18, 2014

  1

  The Dilemma, 12/18/2014, 11:15 P.M. Local

  Logan International Airport,

  Boston, Massachusetts

  General Dan Mason listened intently as twin General Electric engines accelerated the McDonnell Douglas flying wing down the runway into the ink-black abyss surrounding Boston’s Logan Airport.

  As Mason scanned the runway looking for ascending aircraft lights, he saw only the pitch-black of night. Every light at Logan was dark, including those used to illuminatethe runway. Logan’s air traffic control tower and terminalswere deserted, the parking lot empty. Standing alone on theair traffic observation deck, wrapped in his wool Air Forceovercoat, Mason inhaled deeply so he could hear the enginenoise over the sound of his own breathing. The dense December fog off Boston Harbor smelled of kerosene and salt.

  As the jet engine noise faded across the harbor, Mason cupped his hands behind his ears, listening for a change inthe engine’s pitch and direction.

  Suddenly,
like a distant bolt of lightning, a brilliant yellow flash ignited the sky, illuminating rows of aircraft silhouettes parked wing to wing. Immediately after the flash, the early morning silence was shattered by the thunderouscrash of an explosion.

  Supreme Commander Dan Mason felt the full weight of his new command during the agonizing silence which followed. Tears welled in his eyes as the flying wing brokeup, separated from both engines, then spiraled silently intothe harbor. Lieutenant Colonel Wild Bill Boyd was dead;his test aircraft—designated the Black Hole prototype—destroyed. Mason felt emptiness, an ache in his soul he couldnot escape. He tightly gripped the handrail, his knuckleswhite, his complexion ashen. This night had been thelongest of his life and still, despite their best efforts, nothing was flying—nothing had flown for eight days.

  Airports around the world stood deserted. All flights canceled until further notice.

  Mason stared glassy-eyed and motionless in disbelief. Transfixed by the darkness, pondering this chaos, he wondered how they’d come to this. He knew how and why thishad happened, but had no solution. As Mason saw it, HellFire's crew was now the only remaining hope they had left.

  In his dismay, Mason had forgotten to breathe. He gasped for air, struggled to catch his breath, and walkedslowly toward his limo. Once inside, he put his hand in hispocket, rubbed the five star shoulder boards of his formerboss, and began looking back on the events which led himhere.

  It would be a long ride back to his headquarters at Cheyenne Mountain.

  PART

  2

  THE BAD SEED

  DAY 1-

  DECEMBER 7, 2014

  2

  The Mission, 12/07/2014, 1015 Hours Zulu, 2:15 AM. Local

  Hangar X-39A,

  Edwards AFB, California

  Major Linda Scott stood staring at Hell Fire, mesmerized as she watched the fog boiling off her space plane. Nostalgic, she yearned for a return to happier times. In the past six years, she’d lost the two men in her life who’d meant the most—her father and her husband. Her life hadn’t turned out like she’d imagined, but all things considered, life was good—well, work was good and work had become her life. Above all else, she loved the rush of high performance flight.

  As a woman, she’d had to work harder than the men to prove herself, but she was the best and had Hell Fire to show for it. The daughter of an SR-71 Blackbird pilot, she’d loved airplanes and flying from the time she could walk. Flying was something she had to do, she’d been born to do it. It bound her to her father even after his death.

  There was something almost spiritual about her flying. She had something extra going for her that no one could put their finger on. If called on to be serious, she could be serious. If called on to be decisive, she’d deliver, but she never took herself too seriously. In flight, she became an extension of Hell Fire—together, they responded as one.

  Like many fighter pilots, Scott was short by male standards. Built to fly, she stood a trim five feet seven inches tall with straight black hair cut in a nineties bob. She took pride in her well-defined jawline and high cheekbones. At thirty-six years old, she didn’t want a double chin if she could help it. She feared getting fat so she worked out hard and often. Her smooth white skin contrasted vividly with her rose-colored cheeks, black eyebrows, and long eyelashes—she seldom wore makeup, didn’t need it. Most of the women she knew hated the way she looked, but not the men.

  Her two-man crew often described her as perky, direct, and unstoppable—a woman who got what she wanted with gumption. Like her flying machine, Scott was a masterpiece to behold and fascinating to understand.

  Scott’d pursued her passion for flying like an addiction, but her passion, like any addicting drug, hadn’t come for free. Flying cost her the only man she’d ever loved, but that was a long time ago. Now it was over, or at least they’d been divorced five years. Divorcing Jay Fayhee had been the biggest mistake of her life, but he’d asked for the divorce—on grounds of desertion. She was never home, but neither was he. Every Air Force officer knows the needs of the Air Force must come first. She’d been assigned to the only XR-30 squadron in the country, located at Edwards AFB. On Jay’s dream sheet, he’d asked for a space station assignment and gotten it—an assignment to the NASA installation at Huntsville, Alabama, for extensive space station training. Again, the only place in the country where space station training was available. They had gotten what they’d asked for, but their extended separation plus fast available women led to a painful divorce.

  Occasionally filled with doubt, she wondered if she’d made the right choices along the way. Most of all, she wondered about children, the children only she had wanted, the children they never had. She wondered about who they might have been, about their hopes and dreams.

  If her crew could have read her mind, they would have been surprised to find her capable of self-doubt. Mac and Gonzo believed her the best—they ought to know—they’d been through a lot together. You couldn’t do any better than a space plane slot at Edwards, and Hell Fire had Scott’s name on it.

  Jolted back to reality by a loud ratchetlike clatter, Scott peered through the fog to find Mac closing the recessed missile bay inside Hell Fire's short stubby wing.

  Above all else, Chief Master Sergeant Andrew “Mac” MacWilliams was a good man in a storm—tall, black, distinguished in appearance, absolutely wonderful with people, and smart—especially smart. Scott thought Mac the sort of man who could do it all—the son of a tobacco farmer who could set anything right, and she loved to hear him talk. When he spoke in his deep North Carolina drawl, people couldn’t help but notice his reason, humor, and honesty. Like Scott, Mac was a survivor, and like many successful military men, he was one of those people who believed it was always easier to get forgiveness than to get permission. With an appreciation for Mac’s strength of character comfortably entrenched in her heart, Scott turned her attention to the task at hand.

  Cruise missiles loaded, she thought.

  Tonight, inside Hangar X-39A under the orange-yellow glow of halogen floodlights, Scott and her crew climbed the access scaffold leading to Hell Fire's mammoth power plant. After stepping from the scaffold into Hell Fire's engine inlet, Scott, Mac, and Gonzo began their preflight checklist. Deep inside Hell Fire's cavernous air breathing mouth, Scott stood dwarfed by six enormous scramjet engines, each with circular blades stretching seven feet from floor to ceiling. As she and Mac slowly turned the freewheeling blades looking for damage, Major Carlos Gonzalez shined a high intensity light into the engine from the front, looking for misplaced or forgotten tools.

  Major Carlos Gonzalez was Hell Fire's back-seater and Situation Awareness Evaluation Systems Officer (SAESO, pronounced say-so). He’d been stuck with the call name Gonzo because of the slight twist in his nose. At first, he didn’t like it much, but it grew on him. Besides, he knew three other pilots named Gonzalez with the call name Speedy. In flight, Gonzo was instinctively a no-nonsense survivor. He’d been one of the Air Force’s premier flight test engineers before his space plane assignment and believed that quick, positive action was always preferable to hesitation. In high stress situations, he was prone to take any positive action that came to mind. Fortunately, his instinctive reactions were nearly always right. He flew with as little emotion as possible, forcing himself to stay cool through any crisis. Like Scott, he passionately loved flying and couldn’t imagine life without it. On top of that, he fully expected to live through it all and die at home in his own bed. He sought no glory and didn’t care if he pissed people off along the way. His concern was to keep flying and stay alive. He needed it like a man needs a woman.

  After completing their engine inspection, Gonzo looked Scott straight in the eyes and spoke quietly. “I don’t like it. We’ve got no control.”

  “Those DEWSATs could give us a bad day,” Scott agreed. As she thought about their situation, she felt like throwing up. She paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “With headquarters flying Hell Fire a
nd Centurion controlling the DEWSATs, I feel like a sitting duck.”

  Chief Master Sergeant Mac MacWilliams, their crew chief and reconnaissance system operator, raised both eyebrows. “Makes me feel a little skittish myself. Sounds more like a skeet shoot.”

  “Yeah—Centurion’s got the gun and we’re the pigeons,” added Gonzo.

  Too many things that could go wrong, would go wrong, Scott thought with a grimace. Always happens.

  By the year 2014, stealth cruise missiles had been mass produced and forty-one third-world countries had them. Accumulating arms with a fanatical passion, Iran and Iraq had been conducting a huge arms buildup for over twenty years—since the end of Desert Storm. Iraq led the pack, boasting an arsenal riveted with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles and a small fleet of Russian Kilo-class (Varshav-yanka) submarines.

  To counter this unpredictable third-world threat, former NORAD, NATO, and Soviet countries united forming the Allied Forces, then fully deployed the Star Wars defense system—an orbiting armada of satellites.

  Scott and her crew tested new weapons before they were officially accepted into the Allied arsenal. Tonight, they’d test the most important satellites in the Star Wars armada— the lethal workhorses—the DEWSATs (Directed Energy Weapon SATellites). Each DEWSAT was an orbiting counterstealth weapon system, a satellite that could detect and kill stealth missiles and aircraft from low earth orbit.