Medusa's Child

TWENTY-FOUR

Pete Cooke's nationwide beeper began vibrating furiously, and he pulled it out of its small belt holster and turned on the backlighting to read the tiny screen.

Pete moved to a nearby phone and dialed The Wall Street Journal's 800 number in New York. Ira answered immediately and asked why Pete's cellular phone had been turned off.

"I don't want to disturb anyone in this air traffic control facility. What's up?"

"We got a call a few minutes ago from a very disturbed fellow, another one who used to work with Dr. Rogers Henry in Los Alamos. He got your name and a number from the physicist you first talked to in Silver Spring. The name's Dr. Gene Mislowsky. He demanded to speak with you immediately. He sounded panicky."

"What about?"

"I didn't ask, but I think you oughta call him."

Ira passed the number and Pete placed the call. It was answered on the first ring.

"Dr. Mislowsky?" Pete asked. "This is Pete Cooke."

"Mr. Cooke, I wasn't sure who to talk to, but maybe you can help. I understand you were listening in to the airplane carrying the Medusa Weapon."

"Yes, I was. Earlier. They're out of range now."

"It's counting down to detonation, isn't it?"

"That's what the crew said, repeatedly."

"And they don't know how to turn it off, right?"

Pete filled him in on the abortive attempt to get experts to the weapon at Pax River and Seymour-Johnson and the apparent decision of the crew to try to dump it at sea.

"Mr. Cooke, did anyone on that airplane, at any time, mention that the bomb had a keyboard or a keypad connected to a computer? Any sort of keyboard?"

Pete thought back through the exchanges. "One of those on board, Mrs. Henry, in fact, was said to have typed something into the device at one point, so it had to have a keyboard of some sort. I'm sure I heard the word 'typed.'"

"That's what I thought. They're obviously running out of time, Mr. Cooke, but I've got to talk to them. I know how to shut it off."

Pete paused, unsure of what he'd heard.

"What do you mean, Doctor? You mean, you know how to open it, get inside and defeat it?"

"No no. How to walk up to whatever keyboard it has and shut it down with the entry of one single, solitary digit. One number!"

"How do you know? Did you help build it?"

The possibility that he was talking to a nut crossed Pete's mind, but he could probably validate the man's former position with one call if he needed to.

"Hell no!" Dr. Mislowsky answered. "We worked for over a decade as a team trying to develop it, but we never got the chance to assemble a prototype. Rogers Henry had a very unique approach to passwords and entry codes. We didn't discover that fact until the project was disbanded and we were all required during out-processing to disclose whatever personal codes we used during the project. His code shocked everyone. He'd been laughing at us for years."

"What was his code, Dr. Mislowsky?"

"We're almost out of time. Someone needs to get my information to that crew. Who should I call, Mr. Cooke? That's the help I need."

"Well, probably the Pentagon…"

"Already tried. I couldn't find the right people. No one there was going to talk to me until they checked the Los Alamos personnel file archives. Idiots! Don't they know what they're up against?"

"I… may know someone, if you'll tell me the disarming method."

"Okay, '1.' But I still want to talk to them myself."

" 'One'? One what?"

"The digit '1.' " There was a sigh on the other end of the line, as if the man were making a decision not to hold back. "As crazy and simplistic as it sounds, that was Rogers' security code. Everyone else was compounding multiple digits and alphanumeric combinations, and, at the time, we even had security entry pads developed that could accept up to ten-digit codes. But Rogers apparently decided the very last cipher anyone would think of trying is '1.' And, amazingly enough, he was right."

"Wait a minute! You're telling me that if those people aboard that jet will just walk over to the bomb and punch in the number '1'…"

"And hit 'Enter.'"

"Okay, '1' and 'Enter.' You're telling me the damn thing will simply stop ticking?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

"How can you be sure? What if you're wrong?"

"Then nothing happens and it keeps ticking. There's nothing to lose. And if I'm wrong, a single digit is hardly going to detonate the thing. Rogers only used that number to deactivate or open things. He used it as his personal cipher code, and he never had it compromised until the end of the program for the very same reason you're having trouble accepting it: It's too damn simple."

Pete closed his eyes and shook his head. Nothing is ever this simple. One digit! An end to all this with one digit!

"Stay by the phone, please," Pete told him. "I'll call you right back."

"Please hurry, Mr. Cooke."

A main corollary of Murphy's Law at work. Pete concluded. The more simple the solution, the more difficult it is to apply it.

He hung up the phone and looked at his hands. They were shaking slightly and he was breathing rapidly. The magnitude of the information he'd just been handed staggered him, but he forced himself to move.

Pete checked his watch, then let his eyes dart around the desk in front of him for a phone book.

Nothing.

He yanked the phone up again and tried to dial directory assistance for Washington.

A government recording chided him for not using a personal authorization code.

He dialed the FAA operator and tried to explain what he needed.

"I can't put through a toll call without an authorization code, sir."

Pete slammed the phone in its cradle and yanked his cellular phone out, punched it on, and dialed directory assistance. After nearly a minute of holding, a bored voice came on the line.

"Directory assistance. What city?"

"Washington, and this is an emergency!" Pete said in a rushed tone. "Please give me the main number of the FBI, and please don't use your voice machine."

"Excuse me?" she said with a snort. "Don't use my what?"

"Your voice machine. I just want you to read me the number yourself."

"I have to find the number first. Sir."

"Okay, okay. The FBI switchboard, please."

"The what?"

"The Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C. The number of their headquarters, dammit!"

For nearly forty seconds he could hear computer keys clickity-clacking at a leisurely pace in the background.

"That was the Federal Trade Commission, sir?"

"No, dammit! The FBI! Eliot Ness, J. Edgar Hoover, G-men. Surely you've heard of them."

"I'm not talking to you if you're gonna be rude, sir," the operator said in a petulant tone.

There was more sedate clicking of computer keys at a slightly slower pace.

"Hold for the number."

"NO! Don't use the automatic…" Pete shot back.

But she was gone and a recorded voice slowly began intoning the number in her place. Pete jotted it down, recycled the phone, and punched in the number as he glanced at his watch again, thinking uncharitable thoughts about the hiring practices of the phone company. The aircraft would be moving away from the coast at seven to eight miles per minute. Communicating with it after a certain point might be impossible.

The phone at the FBI's main switchboard began ringing, but no one answered.

The 727's probably got only VHF radios aboard, other than the Flitephone. He'll be too far out for Flitephone frequencies, too far out for cellular frequencies. How far can the coastal air traffic VHF repeaters go?

Pete heard an operator finally come on the line. He consulted the name he'd written in his notebook over an hour ago.

"Ah, this is an emergency. Please put me through immediately to Mr. Tony DiStefano."

"Which department, please?"

"I have no idea."

"Stand by, sir."

I'm going to sound like an idiot with this information, but if he's right…

More than a minute went by before a now-familiar voice came on the line, this time without static.

"DiStefano here."

"Agent DiStefano?"

"Yes."

"I'm Pete Cooke, a reporter for The Wall Street Journal. I have a radio scanner. By accident a few hours ago I happened to find the right frequency and I overheard all of your conversations with the captain of ScotAir Fifty, Captain Scott, ah, McKay. I've been working the story since then."

"You're the bastard who broke this story?"

"No, sir, not exactly. Look, I guess I helped, but you can growl at me later. Right now, you need to know that I've been contacted by one of Dr. Rogers Henry's former co-workers, a scientist from Los Alamos who says he knows the combination Henry would have used in programming the bomb."

"What do you mean, 'combination'?" DiStefano interrupted.

"To deactivate it. To turn it off. He says Henry would have rigged this bomb with the same deactivation code, because that was his signature. He thinks if the crew punches it in the keypad on the back of the bomb, through that hatch…"

"How do you know about that keypad, Mr. Cooke?"

"Because, Agent DiStefano, I was listening to every word Scott McKay said to you and vice versa! Okay?"

"Oh yeah. You did say that."

"Look, we're almost out of time. Can you get this information to the crew? To McKay?"

"We're no longer in control of this, Mr. Cooke. I'll have to…"

"Tony, excuse the first name, but we don't have time for formality. I'll give you the scientist's name and number, but by the time you check it out, unless you've got the crew on the line, it may be too late."

"What's the code, Mr. Cooke?"

"'1.'"

There was the predictable reaction. Pete passed on the explanation as rapidly as he could and half-expected DiStefano to hang up.

"That's a cockamamy idea if I ever heard one, Mr. Cooke. A senior nuclear scientist would be cashiered if he was found to be using something a five-year-old could compromise. He may have liked the idea, but I doubt he ever used it, and I can't buy it for this thing."

"What if you're wrong? What if it's the key and we miss it? What the hell have we lost if they try it?"

There was a lengthy silence before DiStefano spoke.

"Okay, you've got a point. Hold the line. Don't go away."

"I won't," Pete promised. He leaned against the desk and looked back at the control room floor as a previously unfinished thought made its way back in his head with a startling realization.

I wonder if he's still within range of the air traffic control radios?

"Jesus Christ!" Pete said out loud, straightening up as if hit with a cattle prod. "We don't need to call the air traffic control facility. I'm standing in it!"

Pete kept the cellular phone pressed to his ear as he moved quickly across the room and grabbed the shoulder of a startled supervisor.

"Can you call Washington Center on your tie-line and see if they can still reach ScotAir Fifty?"

The man had been leaning over a console. He was aware of Pete Cooke as an observer from the media, but not as a demanding participant. He straightened up slowly and suspiciously.

"I could, yes."

"I've got the FBI on the other end here." He waved the open cellular at the man. "We've got vital information to get to the aircraft before he gets out of range. Please!"

The man nodded slowly with a neutral expression on his face and suspicion oozing from every pore. He gingerly picked up a receiver and punched the Washington Center line.

He turned back to Pete in less than a minute.

"They're checking that sector. They had contact with him about ten minutes ago. What, exactly, are you trying to give him?"

Tony DiStefano came back on the line.

"You still there, Cooke?"

"Yes."

Pete raised his hand in a wait indication to the FAA supervisor.

"Okay," Tony said, "I've passed that idea to the Air Force. They tell me they've had a couple of fighters pacing him, but they've broken off now, and he's been out. of contact for maybe five minutes."

"Can the fighters try to raise him on the radio?"

"I believe that's what they're going to try. I'm not sure they believe this is the solution, although I told them that Henry used this same code year after year."

"Tony, again," Pete said, "at this stage, what could it hurt?"

There was silence for a second from the other end as Pete glanced at the FAA supervisor and realized his patience was waning.

Tony DiStefano sighed. "Other than a premature detonation, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try. But come on, Mr. Cooke. The number '1'? For a security code or an unlocking code? Any idiot could figure that out."

"Well, presumably they're not idiots on that aircraft and they haven't figured it out," Pete said.

"Touché," Tony replied as Pete continued.

"I thought the same thing when the guy first said it, but have you ever seen a computer password that used a single digit?"

"Hell no! Of course not."

"Right. Neither have I. Therefore, anyone trying to break the code in a military cipher lock would never figure the code was a single digit. All attempts would involve multiple digits."

"But a single-digit code wouldn't be secure, now would it?"

"It would if there was a label by the keyboard that indicated a five or ten-digit code would open it, and you had to press 'Enter' to activate it."

"This is bizarre," DiStefano said in Pete's ear as the FAA supervisor cleared his throat. The supervisor pointedly examined his watch, then glanced around the room in growing impatience.

"Tony, excuse me, could you hold?"

"Why not, Pete? Yeah, for a minute."

Pete lowered the cellular phone from his ear and explained the problem. The supervisor picked up the tie-line again, said a few words to whoever was on the other end, and handed Pete the tie-line.

"This is Pete Cooke. Hello?"

The voice on the other end carried a syrupy Virginia accent. "Mr. Cooke, you're asking to get hold of ScotAir Fifty?"

"Yes, sir. There's vital information we're trying to pass him. The FBI is on the other line and they've got the Air Force working on it, but I'm scared we'll lose contact with the aircraft. Do you have ScotAir on frequency?"

The man's answer came back immediately. "No, sir, we don't."

Pete felt his heart sink.

"But we're trying to raise him. Stand by on this line. We'll try several frequencies."

"Okay."

Pete heard conversation in the background and the faint sound of a controller asking in the blind for ScotAir 50.

"Mr. Cooke, if we find him, what do you want to tell him?"

Pete closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. There wasn't time for another explanation.

"Tell him he must go to the device's keypad and press the number '1' and the 'enter' key immediately. That will deactivate the whole thing."

More silence.

"You talking about the bomb they have aboard?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"I don't know if I can pass a message like that, Mr. Cooke. I don't know for certain who you are."

"Look, I appreciate your caution, but I'm standing in your system command center right now, and they checked my ID, and that was a supervisor who called you."

"I'm sure that's all true, but I think I need a little more."

"Do you have him yet?"

"Not yet."

"Give me a landline telephone number directly to you. The FBI will call you." The man read off a phone number and Pete pulled the cellular back to his ear.

"Tony?"

"Ah, Peter, my new best friend from the fourth estate," he said, joking sarcastically. "Yes, I'm here."

"Washington Center's trying to raise him, too. I didn't tell you I was calling from the system command center. Take this number down. Call the supervisor at Washington Center and tell him to pass the information to ScotAir when he reaches the crew. He doesn't believe me."

"Wait a minute, Cooke. I'm not sure I believe you."

"It's our only chance to deactivate the bomb."

"I can't order the FAA to do anything."

"Call Dr. Mislowsky. Please. Ask him, then call the FAA. We've only got a few minutes."

There was silence on Tony's end. Finally he spoke.

"Okay. Hang on."

As Tony DiStefano left the line, Pete pressed the Washington tie-line to his ear and glanced again at his watch. Several FAA men were gathering near him now, all of them suspicious but intensely interested in what he was trying to do. Everyone in the system command center was acutely aware of the drama that had been playing out between Washington and the Carolina coast.

"Mr. Cooke, you still there?" The Virginia accent was in his ear again from Washington Center.

"Yes. Right here. You found him?"

"No, sir. He's not answering. We're still trying. We figure he's at the far end of our range out there, especially in this hurricane. Does he have high-frequency radio, HF we call it, or satellite, do you know?"

"I'm a pilot. I understand the terms, but I don't know the answer."

"Well, we're going to try all the frequencies we have, including 121.5, the emergency frequency."

"Try the military emergency frequency as well. I know he has a UHF aboard."

"Okay, 343.0."

"Right." Pete could hear the sound of a pen scratching at paper as he pressed the handset to his left ear and the cellular phone to his right.

"Stand by, Mr. Cooke."

The controller put him on hold for nearly a minute before returning.

"Someone from the FBI just called to confirm what you said. We're verifying that he's legitimate, and I guess that will do it. You understand how delicate this all is?"

"Of course," Pete said, trying to keep the extreme frustration out of his voice. The man was right to be cautious and he knew it. But there was so little time left.

"No luck yet in reaching him?" Pete asked again.

"No, sir," the Virginia accent replied. "But if we reach him, I'll patch you through, Mr. Cooke. Now, why don't you just hold on there?"

"I will. I will."

Pete looked at his watch again. Thirty-seven minutes remained.

How are we going to feel, he wondered, if those people die in a fireball, Medusa shuts down the economy, and we could have prevented it with a single digit? Have we done everything we can? Have I?

There was another matter eating at him, and he let it find voice in his mind now. It was a vague feeling of guilt that had been nibbling at his conscience since he had cooperated so readily with ABC. It had nattered in the background and raised its ugly head once more with Tony DiStefano's none-too-kind query about his involvement in the public airing of the story.

Should he have refused to help ABC? He had told Ira they couldn't call the electronic media unless they were sure, but with ABC's information, they had been sure. True, the country was in an uproar because of the media reports. True, no one really knew if there was a real Medusa weapon aboard ScotAir 50. What if a Medusa Wave didn't occur? How much damage had already occurred out there, he wondered. It didn't matter that ABC had almost pieced the story together without him. He had helped. If it was all a terrible mistake, he was partly to blame.

Pete had been staring at the far wall of the air traffic control facility without seeing it, his mind racing back and forth, from the aging Boeing 727 now over the Atlantic to his office in New York.

There was still nothing but a background hum on the tie-line.

No, he concluded. He'd done the only reasonable thing he could have done. The country needed to know. It might already be too late, but they needed to get ready.