Free Against All Enemies by Richard Herman Page B

still preoccupied with the President’s reactions at the NSC meeting. What is he going to do? He paused before entering the building where the Project was housed. Am I doing the right thing? he wondered. Then, his mind made up, he walked inside. Except for the security guards, the building was deserted. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and cleared himself onto the balcony overlooking the control center. He sat down in front of the two TV monitors. “Hello, Agnes,” he said.
    The right monitor came to life and the woman smiled at him. “Good morning, Mr. Durant,” the computer said. “I’m glad you came back. I missed you.”
    “That’s sweet, Agnes,” he replied.
    “What’s the weather like?”
    “It’s a perfect April morning,” he replied. “But there’s a hint of an early summer. I wish it could stay like this year-round.”
    “We are experiencing some unusual heat waves, especially on the West Coast.”
    What am I doing? he thought. Being sociable and discussing the weather with a computer is crazy . “Agnes, there’s something I want you to do. Can you find out who was behind the bombing of the San Francisco Shopping Emporium?”
    “That shouldn’t be too hard, Mr. Durant. To what level do you want me to search?”
    Searching to a prescribed level was new. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I don’t understand.”
    “Do you want proof that will stand up in a court of law or do you just want to know who the perps are?”
    “Perps?”
    The image blushed. “Perpetrators. I’ve been watching TV.”
    “Proof, if you can find it. But I’ll settle for the perps.”
    Agnes looked serious. “A provisional first search of the FBI data banks reveals nothing conclusive. Those idiots,” she fumed, “they haven’t got a clue. I’ll see what the CIA has.” There was a short pause. “Nothing there. I’ll establish a worldwide communications watch. Someone, somewhere, sometime will start talking. It’s just a matter of time.” Durant stiffened. Agnes had been programmed to target specific communications in conjunction with a request for limited intelligence, not do roving communication intercepts. “I just learned how to do it,” she explained. “I coopted computers in different parts of the world and established communication listening posts. I’ll tell them to be alert for anyone talking about the bombing.”
    “Did the whiz kids teach you that?”
    She smiled. “No. I worked it out myself. But it does take a lot of energy and time. I had to capture computer space from the Lawrence Livermore Labs.” Her voice turned patronizing. “Those supercomputers are rather obsolete. Massive parallel processing works much better.”
    “Agnes, do me a favor and keep all this between you and me, okay?”
    The image beamed at him. “Certainly, Mr. Durant. I won’t even tell the children.”
    1:20 P.M. , Saturday, April 24,
The Sudan
     
    The old Soviet-built “Hip” helicopter settled to earth, the seventy-foot rotor kicking up dust and gravel from the desert floor. The swirling blades spun down and the dust subsided over the company of eighty-four men waiting in the hot Saturday sun. Not one moved until the lieutenant called them to attention. As one, the men snapped to with a sharpness totally out of character for them. Sweat streaked their faces and still they did not move. Then the captain got off the helicopter. If anything, the men became more rigid. To the man, they wanted to do this one right.
    Capt. Davig al Gimlas stepped to the ground and jammed his beret on at exactly the right tilt. He raked the sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and carefully adjusted them on his prominent nose. The lieutenant stepped forward and, his hand slightly shaking, saluted the tall captain.
    At six feet four inches, al Gimlas towered above the lieutenant. Because of a heavy scar on his left cheek that ended above his upper lip, he was clean shaven and could not grow the heavy mustache that was the trademark of the