Warren Murphy: Hostile Takeover

A green cursor raced across the screen, spewing strings of data. Sell orders being cabled to the New York Stock Exchange from all points of the globe.

They had been coming all morning, in waves like invisible missiles. Unlike missiles, they struck without sound or flash or concussion. Yet each hit wounded America as deeply as if they were rockets cratering the New York streets. Every strike landed in the vicinity of Wall Street.

But the damage would spread in ripples unless something happened to reverse it.

Smith tapped a key, and got an alphanumeric readout of the current Standard es. They were not good. He tapped the key again and watched the cable orders. If anything, they were intensifying. The Dow had plunged over three hundred points since the opening bell. Trading had been halted once. It was now nearly noon-only two hours later.

Smith knew it would be only a matter of time. As the head of CURE, he could do nothing to affect the situation without presidential authorization. And he could not ask for that authorization until it was almost too late.

Smith leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt tired. The droplet of perspiration trickled down the notch under his nose.

The intercom buzzer sounded. Without opening his eyes, Smith keyed it and spoke.

"Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?"

"Dr. Smith. A call for you on line two," said Eileen Mikulka, who knew nothing of CURE. She was Smith's secretary in his position as head of Folcroft Sanitarium, a private hospital. Folcroft was the cover for CURE.

"Who is it?" Smith asked. His voice was strained. Ordinarily it carried a lemony New England tang; today it was as dry as a crisp graham cracker.

"A Mr. Winthrop. He's with the law firm of Winthrop and Weymouth."

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Smith had no time to deal with Folcroft matters now.

"Take his number and ask the nature of his business. I'll return his call later."

"Yes, Dr. Smith."

Smith allowed his eyes another half-minute of respite, and when they snapped open again, they gleamed.

The computer screen continued revealing incoming sell cables. They were being transmitted to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the San Francisco Stock Exchange, and brokerage houses all over the country. The Toronto Stock Exchange began showing signs of uncertainty. And the Mexico City exchange was inundated.

It meant that Wall Street was unable to bear the load.

Smith clutched the padded armrest of his chair. He knew it was inevitable. The global economy was experiencing another meltdown. This one worse than the Crash of '87. Still, he could not act.

Smith opened the top-right-hand drawer and lifted out a red telephone. It was a standard AT xcept that there was no dial. He set it close to him and reached back into the drawer. It was a reflex, when he was under stress, to reach into that drawer. Some days it was aspirin. Other days, Alka-Seltzer or one of three other varieties of antacid.

Smith lifted out a tiny canister of foam antacid, returned it with a lemony frown, and lifted a bottle of children's aspirin he'd gotten as a supermarket sample. He hadn't even looked at the label. Now he noticed for the first time the trademark. It was a gold oval surrounding what seemed to be a black gap-toothed mouth with a pendulous uvula. Smith read the brand name. It meant nothing to him.

He set the aspirin in easy reach beside the red phone. He didn't need it-yet. He was simply too drained to feel anything. But he knew he would need it before the day was over.

Then it came. The cable traffic intercepts winked off as a warning program kicked in. The computer began beeping.

Smith's eyes flew open. For the first time, they reflected fear.

"It's started," he said hoarsely.

The system, which had surreptitiously logged onto mainframes in brokerage houses and financial institutions all over the nation, was picking up the next wave. The first warnings were coming from the East Coast, where the brokerage computers were reaching hysteresis. Automatic trading programs, set up to sell stocks when they fell below a certain price, were emitting warnings that the Dow prices were approaching those null points.

Smith reached for the red telephone. He waited as the ringing on the other end began. He felt so very tired.

"Smith?" a familiar nasal voice asked.

"Mr. President, you are undoubtedly aware of the situation on Wall Street."

"From what I understand, it's not just Wall Street. It's the whole world."

"I cannot affect the global market, but I may be able to arrest the dropping Dow. Before trading is halted again."

"You, Smith? How?"

"During the near-crash of '87 I worked out a system to counter the effects of computerized trading, which was approved by your predecessor."

"Correct me if I'm off base here," the President said, "but didn't they abolish computerized trading last year?"

"That's the popular belief. In fact, what was done was this: the computerized stock-trading programs were augmented with warning points. If a program was set to sell when a stock price dropped to sixteen and one-eighth per share, for example, the computers would flash a warning at sixteen and three-eighths.

"Then they would shut down, is that it?"

"No, Mr. President. They would not shut down. They simply flashed the warning. The sell-off would still kick in at the designated price.

"That's pointless."

"No, Mr. President. That's Wall Street."

"I don't understand. The problem is still there. We just get a warning. Is that it?"

"Precisely. And the first lag warnings have flashed to my computers."

"How much time do we have?"

"None," Smith said flatly. "In the time it has taken me to explain, several of those programs have already executed. If this continues, there will be more stocks being sold than there are buyers for them."

"Meltdown," the President said in a sick voice. Then, his voice rallying, he added, "You said something about a plan."

"After 87, I set up a shell corporation called Nostrum, Inc. It exists purely for this eventuality. Using CURE's financial resources, I can begin buying up large blocks of the afflicted stocks. It's a gamble. But the stock market is driven by rumor and trend. If Nostrum's purchases reach Wall Street ears in time, it might affect the panic psychology prevailing down there. Other buyers may jump in and help avert this rout."

"A rally?"

"That may be too much to expect. Arresting the decline is my hope."

"I can see why you had to ask me, Smith, even though CURE has autonomy in most operational tasks. If you fail-"

"If I fail," Smith said quickly, his eyes flicking to his watch, the stock market will be no worse off. But the United States government will technically own all the depressed stock. I'll be buying it with the CURE operating budget. If that's not enough, I'll be forced to siphon funds from the Social Security Trust Fund. This is your choice. "

"My God," the President said tightly. "I can't let the market fall apart like this, but if this goes wrong, we will have bankrupted the government on top of everything else."

"This is why the previous President approved oversight on this decision. You must decide now, Mr. President."

There was silence over the line. Harold Smith heard the President of the United States' shallow breathing. He said nothing. This was not his decision. He did not wish to influence it in any way.

"Do it," the chief executive said, and hung up.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Harold W. Smith told the dead line, and replaced the receiver. It was the decision he had hoped for but dared not ask. His fingers flew to the keyboard. The computer logged off its current feeds, and the words "Nostrum, Inc.," in ragged black letters on a green screen, flashed across the top.