Warren Murphy - The End of the Game

She did not notice it. She smoothed her skirt, let her flush subside, and returned to Remo, the proper British salesperson.

"Not a friend, I take it," he said.

"Somebody who's been bothering me for months," she said.

"Who is it? Why don't you call the police?"

"I don't know who it is," she said.

"Who runs these cameras?" Remo asked, nodding toward the ceiling.

"No one. They're automatic," she said.

"No, they're not."

"Excuse me, sir, but they are."

"No," Remo said.

"They are our equipment and we know how it works, so if you will kindly pay attention, I will explain again how the simple computer works," she said.

"Those cameras are focused by someone," Remo said. "They're watching you right now."

"That's impossible," said Pamela. She glanced up at the cameras in the ceiling. When she glanced again a few moments later, they were still pointed at her.

Remo said, "This place is obviously set up for something. Can you trace the controls on that monitor?"

"I'm afraid to," Pamela said. "Last week, I traced that telephone caller who keeps bothering me, and our office manager picked up the phone and got broken eardrums. I don't know what to do. I've complained to the police and they say ignore it. But how can you ignore it when somebody has people come right in and grab you and touch and pinch and do all sorts of things? I know that obscene caller is behind it."

"And you don't know who it is," Remo said.

"No, do you?" she asked.

Remo shook his head. "Why don't we find out together?" he said.

"I'm sorry. I don't know you and I don't trust you," she said.

"Who are you going to trust?"

"I don't trust the police," she said.

"I'm the guy who showed you how you're being watched," he said.

"I don't know who to trust at this point. I get phone calls at all hours. The caller seems to know what I'm doing. Strange men come up to me and do stranger things in public. The caller knows. He always knows. I don't trust you. I'm sorry."

Remo leaned close and let her feel his presence. Her blue eyes fluttered.

"I don't need a romantic involvement at this point," she said.

"I was thinking more of raw sex," Remo said.

"Beast," said Pamela Thrushwell, but her eyes sparkled when she said it and her dimples virtually popped in her cheeks.

"Let me show you how to start a nuclear war," she said.

"Sure," Remo said. "And I'll show you how we can both go out in a blaze of glory."

She took Remo into a back room of the computer center. There was a large computer screen and a pimply-faced young man with dilated pupils hung over a keyboard like a ham in a smokehouse, as still as dead meat. But unlike a ham, his fingers moved.

Pamela told him to move over. He did but his fingers stayed in the same position. It took him a good two minutes to realize he was no longer facing the machine. When he did and looked around in bewilderment, Pamela told him to go to lunch.

"Smoke, smoke," he said. "I need smoke."

"Good," she said. "You go get smoke," and when he left, she explained to Remo that the young man was a "hacker," a self-taught computer expert whose specialty was breaking into other computer networks.

"He's found a way to get into the Defense Department computers," she said.

Remo nodded and she said, "See these numbers? We can call them up whenever we want. The first one tells you it's military and the second that it's the Air Force. The third says Strategic Air Command and the fourth tells you it's a missile base. The fifth tells you Russian activity and the sixth tells you where, which is where we are, in New York City, and the seventh tells what's happened to New York City."

Remo didn't understand but he glanced at the numbers. Numbers five and seven were zeros, which meant the Russians weren't doing anything, he guessed, and that New York City was still in one piece.

"So what good does this all do?" Remo asked.

"Well, we don't have all the controls down yet. You know, we do this stuff as pure research, to find out how far computers can be pushed. But Harold, he's the one who just left, he thinks he'll be able to get into the Air Force and make them fire missiles if he wants them to."

"Let's hope nobody gets him mad," Remo said. "I hope he finds some good smoke out on the street."

The screen suddenly became a jumble of letters and numbers.

"What's going on?" Remo said. He noticed that the fifth number-- Russian activity-- had jumped to nine.

"Oh, God," said Pamela.

"What's happening?" Remo asked.

"I think the Russians have launched a nuclear attack against us," Pamela said.

The seventh number-- the status of New York City-- suddenly jumped from zero to nine.

Remo pointed at it. "What's that mean?"

"It means we've all just been destroyed by a nuclear attack," Pamela said.

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," Remo said. "I don't feel anything."

"There's got to be an error here. Nine means complete annihilation," she said.

"So it's wrong," Remo said. "So much for this stupid machine."

The third and fourth numbers on the screen began changing.

"What does that mean?" Remo asked.

"That means the Strategic Air Command has gotten a report of this false attack and they're checking."

The third number returned to zero.

Remo said, "That means they checked it out and there's nothing to worry about."

Pamela nodded. "But look at the fourth number," she said.

It was a nine.

"What does that mean?" Remo said.

"It means that somewhere in the United States there's a missile battery and it believes all of us have been destroyed. It's probably going to fire its missiles at the Russians." She turned from the screen and looked at Remo. "I do believe World War III has begun."

"What a pain in the ass," Remo said.

But Pamela Thrushwell didn't hear him. She thought of Liverpool, her native Liverpool, and the English countryside going up in a nuclear holocaust. She thought of tens of millions of people dying, and then, in what was perhaps an instinctive British reaction to massive warfare, she reached for Remo's pants.

Lieutenant Colonel Armbrewster Naismith had been on duty in his missile bunker since exactly eight A.M. when he had parked one of his two Mercedeses in front of the battery headquarters.

It was about noon when he was asked to destroy everything in Russia east of Moscow and west of Vladivostok. He could do this by turning a key. He would turn one key and his executive officer would turn another separate key, and then he would wait for final approval, and then he would press a button.

"Quite a realistic alert," Naismith said.

"No alert," his executive officer said. "New York has been destroyed. Total annihilation."

"I hope it's not serious," Naismith said.

"Sir?" said the exec.

"Well, we don't know that it's war. We don't know that."

"It's Bravo Red," the exec said. "We've got to key in."

"We don't have to rush into things," Naismith said.

"It calls for an immediate response, sir," the executive officer said. "We have to activate everything."

"I know that, dammit. I'm the commanding officer."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I'm not waiting. I want to make sure we give a proper response. All right, New York is gone. That's a tragedy certainly. But is it an act of war? I mean, maybe our response will be a grain embargo. Maybe we won't go to the Olympics. We don't know. We don't run things. So we've lost New York. Lots of countries have lost cities. We don't have to be rash about it. We can always send a stern note of disagreement."

"I think it's gone beyond that, sir," said the executive officer. "I've got my key. I see the command. I see your key. My key is in and I can't turn it until yours turns too, sir."