Chapter 109

The command center for the NSA’s main databank looked like a scaled‑down NASA mission control. A dozen computer workstations faced the thirty‑foot by forty‑foot video wall at the far end of the room. On the screen, numbers and diagrams flashed in rapid succession, appearing and disappearing as if someone were channel surfing. A handful of technicians raced wildly from station to station trailing long sheets of printout paper and yelling commands. It was chaos.

Susan stared at the dazzling facility. She vaguely remembered that 250 metric tons of earth had been excavated to create it. The chamber was located 214 feet below ground, where it would be totally impervious to flux bombs and nuclear blasts.

On a raised workstation in the center of the room stood Jabba. He bellowed orders from his platform like a king to his subjects. Illuminated on the screen directly behind him was a message. The message was all too familiar to Susan. The billboard‑size text hung ominously over Jabba’s head:

Only the truth will save you now enter pass‑key ______

As if trapped in some surreal nightmare, Susan followed Fontaine toward the podium. Her world was a slow‑motion blur.

Jabba saw them coming and wheeled like an enraged bull. “I built Gauntlet for a reason!”

“Gauntlet’s gone,” Fontaine replied evenly.

“Old news, Director,” Jabba spat. “The shock wave knocked me on my ass! Where’s Strathmore?”

“Commander Strathmore is dead.”

“Poetic fucking justice.”

“Cool it, Jabba,” the director ordered. “Bring us up to speed. How bad is this virus?”

Jabba stared at the director a long moment, and then without warning, he burst out laughing. “A virus?” His harsh guffaw resonated through the underground chamber. “Is that what you think this is?”

Fontaine kept his cool. Jabba’s insolence was way out of line, but Fontaine knew this was not the time or place to handle it. Down here, Jabba outranked God himself. Computer problems had away of ignoring the normal chain of command.

“It’s not a virus?” Brinkerhoff exclaimed hopefully.

Jabba snorted in disgust. “Viruses have replication strings, pretty boy! This doesn’t!”

Susan hovered nearby, unable to focus.

“Then what’s going on?” Fontaine demanded. “I thought we had a virus.”

Jabba sucked in a long breath and lowered his voice. “Viruses . . .” he said, wiping sweat from his face. “Viruses reproduce. They create clones. They’re vain and stupid‑binary egomaniacs. They pump out babies faster than rabbits. That’s their weakness‑you can cross‑breed them into oblivion if you know what you’re doing. Unfortunately, this program has no ego, no need to reproduce. It’s clear‑headed and focused. In fact, when it’s accomplished its objective here, it will probably commit digital suicide. “Jabba held out his arms reverently to the projected havoc on the enormous screen. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He sighed. “Meet the kamikaze of computer invaders . . . the worm.”

“Worm?” Brinkerhoff groaned. It seemed like a mundane term to describe the insidious intruder.

“Worm.” Jabba smoldered. “No complex structures, just instinct‑eat, shit, crawl. That’s it. Simplicity. Deadly simplicity. It does what it’s programmed to do and then checks out.”

Fontaine eyed Jabba sternly. “And what is this worm programmed to do?”

“No clue,” Jabba replied. “Right now, it’s spreading out and attaching itself to all our classified data. After that, it could do anything. It might decide to delete all the files, or it might just decide to print smiley faces on certain White House transcripts.”

Fontaine’s voice remained cool and collected. “Can you stop it?”

Jabba let out a long sigh and faced the screen. “I have no idea. It all depends on how pissed off the author is.” He pointed to the message on the wall. “Anybody want to tell me what the hell that means?”