Terminal Compromise Read online

  Living with 5 women and a gay uncle for 11 years had its effect. Miles was incredibly heterosexual. Not anti-gay at all, not at all. But he had absolutely no interest in men. He adored women, largely because of his mother. He put women on pedestals, and treated them like queens. Even on a beer budget Miles could convince his lady that they were sailing the Caribbean while baking in the desert suburbs of Las Vegas. Women succumbed, willingly, to Miles' slightest advance. He craved the approval, and worked long and hard to perfect his technique. Miles Foster was soon an expert. His mother never openly disapproved which Miles took as approval.

  By the time Miles went off to college study advanced mathematics and get a degree, he had shattered half of the teen-age hearts within 50 miles of Vegas. Plus, the admiration from his female family had allowed him to convince himself that he was going to change the world. He was the single most important person that could have an effect on civilization. Invincible. Can do no wrong. Miles was the end-all to be-all. If Miles said it, it must be so, and he bought into the program. What his mother or girl friends called self confidence others called conceit and arrogance. Even obnoxious.

  His third love, after his mother and himself, was mathematics. He believed in mathematics as the answer to every problem. All questions can be reduced to formulas and symbols. Then, once you have them on a piece of paper, or in a computer . . .the answer will appear.

  His master thesis was on that very subject. It was a brilliant soliloquy on the reducibility of any multi-dimensional condition to a defined set of measured properties. He postulated that all phenomenon was discrete in nature and none were continuous. Given that arguable position, he was able to develop a set of mathematical tools that would permit dissection of a problem into much smaller pieces. Once in manageable sizes, the problem would be worked out piece by piece until the pieces were reassembled as the answer. It was a tool that had very definite uses in the government.

  He was recruited by the Government in 1976. They wanted him to put his ingenious techniques to good use. The National Security Agency painted an idyllic picture of the ultimate job for a mathematician the biggest, fastest and best computers in the world at your fingertips. Always the newest and the best. What- ever you need, it'll be there. And that's a promise. Super secret important work oh how his mother would be proud. Miles accepted, but they never told him the complete truth. Not that they lied, of course. However, they never bothered to tell him, that because of his family background, guilt by association if you wish, his career would be severely limited.

  Miles made it to senior analyst, and his family was proud, but he never told them that over 40% of the staff in his area were senior analysts. It was a high tech desk job that required his particular skills as a mathematician. The NSA got from Miles what they wanted; his mathematical tools modified to work for govern- ment security projects. For a couple of years, Miles happily complied then he got itchy to work on other projects. After all, he had come up with the idea in the first place, it was time he came up with another. Time to move on.

  In typical bureaucratic manner, the only way to get something new done is to write a proposal; enlist support and try to push it through committee. Everyone made proposals. You not only needed a good idea for a good project, good enough to justify the use of 8 billion dollars worth of computers, but you needed the connec- tions and assistance of others. You scratch mine, I'll scratch yours.

  During his tenure at NSA, Miles attempted to institute various programs, procedures, new mathematical modes that might be use- ful. While technically his concepts were superior, his arro- gance, his better-than-everyone, my shit doesn't stink attitude proved to be an insurmountable political obstacle. He was unable to ever garner much support for his proposals. Thus, not one of them was ever taken seriously. Which compounded the problem and reinforced Miles' increasingly sour attitude towards his employ- er. However, with dimples in command, Miles successfully masked his disdain. To all appearance he acceded to the demands of the job, but off the job, Miles Foster was a completely different person.

  * * * * *

  The telephone warbled on the desk of the IAS Department Chief. The digital readout on the phone told him that it was an internal call, not from outside the building, but he didn't recognize the number.

  "Investigations," The chief answered.

  "This is Jacobs. We're checking up on Foster."

  "Yessir?" DIRNSA? Calling here?

  "Is he gone?"

  "Yessir."

  "Anything?"

  "No sir."

  "Good. Close the file."

  "Sir?"

  "Close it. Forever."

  * * * * *

  September, 4 Years Ago

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

  Miles Foster set up shop in Washington D.C. as a communications security consultant. He and half of those who lived within driving distance of the Capitol were known as Beltway Bandits, a simultaneously endearing and self-deprecating title given to those who make their living selling products or services to the Federal Government. Miles was ex-NSA and that was always impres- sive to potential clients. He let it be known that his services would now be available to the private sector, at the going rates.

  As part of the revolving door, from Government to industry, Miles' value would decrease with time, so he needed to get a few clients quickly. The day you leave public service all of your knowledge is current, and therefore valuable, especially to companies who want to sell widgets to the government. As the days and months wear on, new policies, new people, new arrange- ments and confederacies are in place. Washington's transient nature is probably no more evident than through the political circle where everyone is aware of whom is talking to whom and about what. This Miles knew, so he stuck out his tentacles to maximize his salability.

  He restructured his dating habits. Normally Miles would date women whom he knew he could fuck. He kept track of their men- strual cycles to make sure they wouldn't waste his time. If he thought a particular female had extraordinary oral sex skills, he would make sure to seduce when she had her period. Increased the odds of good blow job.

  Now though, Miles restricted his dating, temporarily, to those who could help start his career in the private sector. "Fuck the secretary to get to the boss!" he bragged unabashedly.

  Miles dragged himself to many of the social functions that grease the wheels of motion in Washington. The elaborate affairs, often at the expense of government contractors and lobbyists, were a highly visible, yet totally legal way to shmooze and booze with the influentia in the nation's capital. The better parties, the ones for generals, for movers and for shakers, for digni- taries and others of immediate importance, are graced with a generous sprinkling of strikingly beautiful women. They are paid for by the hosts, for the pleasure of the their guests. The Washington culture requires that such services are discreetly handled. Expense reports and billings of that nature therefore cite French Caterers, C.T. Temps, Formal Rentals and countless other harmless, inoffensive and misleading sounding company names.

  Missile Defense Systems, Inc. held one of the better parties in an elegant old 2 story brick Georgetown home. The building was a former embassy, which had been discarded long ago by its owners in favor of a neo-modern structure on Reservoir Road. The house was appointed with a strikingly southern ante-bellum flair, but tastefully done, not overly decorated. The furniture was modern, comfortable, meant to be and used enjoyed, yet well suited to the classic formality.

  The hot September night was punctuated with an occasional breeze. The breaths of relief from Washington's muggy, swamp-like summer air were welcomed by those braving the heat in the manicured gardens outside, rather than the refreshing luxury of the air conditioned indoors.

  It was a straight cocktail party, a stand-up affair, with a hundred or so Pentagon types attending. It began at seven, and unless tradition was broken, it would be over by 10 as the last of the girls finds her way into a waiting black limousine with her partner for
the night. Straight politics, Miles thought.

  9:30 neared, and Miles felt he had accomplished most of what he had set out to do meet people, sell himself, play the game, talk the line, do the schtick. He hadn't, though, yet figured out how he was going to get laid tonight.

  As he sipped his third Glen Fetitch on the rocks, he spotted a woman whom he hadn't seen that evening. Maybe she had just arrived, maybe she was leftovers. Well, it was getting late, and he shouldn't let a woman go to waste, so let's see what she looks like from the front. She looked aimlessly through the French doors at the backyard flora.

  Miles sauntered over to her and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Miles Foster." He grinned wide, dimples in force, as she turned toward him. She was gorgeous. Stunning even. About an inch taller than Miles, she wore her shimmering auburn hair shoulder length. Angelic, he thought. Perfectly formed full lips and statuesque cheek bones underscored her sweetly intense brown eyes. Miles went to work, and by 10P.M., he and Stephanie Perkins were on their way to Deja Vu on 22nd. and M Street for drinks and dance. By 10:30 he had nicknamed her Perky because her breasts stood at constant attention. By 11:30 they were on their way to Miles' apartment.

  At 2:00 AM Miles was quite satisfied with himself. So was Perky. His technique was perfect. Never a complaint. Growing up in a houseful without men taught Miles what women wanted. He learned how to give it to them, just the way they liked it. The weekend together was heaven in bed; playing, making love, giggling, ordering in Chinese and pizza. Playing more, watching I Love Lucy reruns, drinking champagne, and making love. Miles bounced quarters on her taut stomach and cracked eggs on her exquisitely tight derriere. By Sunday morning, Miles found that he actually liked Stephanie. It wasn't that he didn't like his other women, he did. It was just, well this one was different. He 'really' liked her. A very strange feeling for Miles Foster.

  "Miles?" Stephanie asked during another period of blissful after- glow. She snuggled up against him closer.

  "Yeah?" He responded by squeezing her buttocks. His eyes were still closed.

  "In a minute stud, yes." She looked up reassuringly at him. "Miles, would you work for anyone?" She kissed his chest.

  "What do you mean?" he asked in return. He wasn't in the mood for shop talk.

  "Like, say, a foreigner, not an American company. Would you work for them?"

  "Huh?" Miles looked down inquisitively. "Foreigner? I guess so. Why do you ask?" He sounded a tad concerned.

  "Oh, no reason." She rubbed him between his legs. "Just curious. I thought you were a consultant, and consultants work for anyone who can pay. That's all."

  "I am, and I will, but so what?" He relaxed as Stephanie's hands got the desired result.

  "Well," she stroked him rhythmically. "I know some people that could use you. They're not American, that's all. I didn't know if you cared."

  "No, I don't care," he sighed. "It's all the same to me. Unless they're commies. My former employer would definitely frown on that."

  "Would you mind if I called them, and maybe you two can get together?" She didn't miss a beat.

  "No go ahead, call them, anything you want, but can we talk about this later?" Miles begged.

  * * * * *

  Miles felt very much uninformed on his way to the Baltimore Washington Airport. He knew that he was being flown to Tokyo Japan, first class, by a mystery man who had prepaid him $10,000 for a 1 hour meeting. Not a bad start, he thought. His reputa- tion obviously preceded him. Stephanie was hired to recruit him, that was obvious. And that bothered Miles. He was being used. Wasn't he? Or had he seduced her and the trip was a bonus? He still liked Stephanie, just not as much as before. It never occurred to Miles, not for a second, that Stephanie might not have liked him.

  At JFK in New York, Miles connected to the 20 hour flight to Tokyo through Anchorage, Alaska. He had a brief concern that this was the same route that KAL Flight 007 had taken in 1983 before it was shot down by the Soviets, but he was flying an American carrier with a four digit flight number. He allowed that thought to remove any traces of worry.

  The flight was a couple of hours out of New York when one of the flight attendants came up to him. "Mr. Foster?"

  "Yes?" He looked up from the New York City Times he was reading.

  "I believe you dropped this?" She handed Miles a large sealed envelope. His name had been written across the front with a large black marker.

  "Thank you," said Miles. He took it gratefully.

  When she left, he opened the strange envelope. It wasn't his. Inside there was a single sheet of paper. Miles read it.

  MR. FOSTER WELCOME TO JAPAN.

  YOU WILL BE MET AT THE NARITA AIRPORT BY MY DRIVER AND CAR. THEY ARE AT YOUR DISPOSAL.

  WE WILL MEET IN MY OFFICE AT 8:00 AM, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23. ALL ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR PLEASURES.

  RESPECTFULLY

  TAKI HOMOSOTO

  The name meant nothing to him so he forgot about it. He had more important things to do. His membership in the Mile High Club was in jeopardy. He had not yet made it with a female flight attend- ant.

  They landed, 18 hours and 1 day later in Tokyo. Miles was now a member in good standing.

  * * * * *

  Thursday, September 3

  Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport

  "DFW, this is American 1137, heading 125 at 3500."

  "Roger American 1137, got you loud and green. Maintain 125, full circle 40 miles then 215 for 40."

  "Traffic Dallas?"

  "Heavy. Weather's been strong. On again off again. Piled up pretty good."

  "Sheers?"

  "None so far. Ah, you're a '37, you carry a sheer monitor. You got it made. Have to baby sit some 0's and '27's. May be a while."

  "Roger Dallas. 125 40, 215 40. Maintaining 12 point 5."

  "Roger 1137."

  The control tower at DFW airport was busier than normal. The dozen or so large green radar screens glowed eerily and made the air traffic controllers appear pallid under the haunting light emitted from around the consoles. Severe weather patterns, afternoon Texas thunderstorms had intermittently closed the airport forcing a planes to hold in a 120 mile pattern over Dallas and Fort Worth.

  Many of the tower crew had been at their stations for 2 hours past their normal quitting time due to street traffic delays and highway pileups that had kept shift replacements from arriving on time. Planes were late coming in, late departing, connections were being missed. Tensions were high on the ground and in the air by both the airline personnel and travelers alike. It was a chaotic day at Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

  "Chad? Cm'ere," said Paul Gatwick, the newest and youngest, and least burnt out of the day shift flight controllers.

  Shift supervisor Chad Phillips came right over. "What you got?" He asked looking at the radar screen.

  "See these three bogies?" Paul pointed at three spots with his finger.

  "Bogies? What are those symbols?"

  "They just appeared, out of nowhere. I don't think they're there. And over here," he pointed, "that was Delta 210. It's gone." Paul spoke calmly, in the professional manner he was trained. He looked up at Chad, awaiting instructions.

  "Mike," Chad said to the controller seated next to Paul. "Switch and copy 14, please. Fast." Chad looked over to Mike's screen and saw the same pattern. "Paul, run a level 2 diagnostic. What was the Delta pattern?"

  "Same as the others, circle. He's at 45 doing a 90 round."

  "Tell him to hold, and verify on board transponder." Chad spoke rapidly and his authority wasn't questioned.

  "Mike, see if we can get any visuals on the bogies. They might be a bounce."

  Chad took charge and, especially in this weather, was concerned with safety first and schedules last. In less than a minute he had verified that Delta 210 was not on any screen, three other ghost planes meandered through the airspace, and that their equipment was functioning properly.

  "Dallas," the calm pilot voice said, "American
1137, requesting update. It's getting a little tight up here."

  "Roger, 1137," Gatwick said nervously. "Give me a second here . . ."

  "Dallas, what's the problem?"

  "Just a check . . ."

  Chad immediately told the operator of the ETMS computer to notify the FAA and Department of Transportation that a potential situa- tion was developing. The Enhanced Traffic Management System was designed to create a complete picture of every airplane flying within domestic air space.

  All status information, on every known flight in progress and every commercial plane on the ground, is transmitted from the 22 ARTCC's, (Air Route Traffic Control Centers) to an FAA Technical Center in Atlantic City and then sent by land and satellite to a DoT Systems Center. There, an array of DEC VAX super mini com- puters process the constant influx of raw data and send back an updated map across the ETMS every five minutes.

  Chad zoomed in on the picture of the country into the DFW ap- proach area and confirmed that the airplanes in question were not appearing on the National Airspace System data fields or dis- plays. Something was drastically wrong.

  "Chad, take a look here!" Another controller urgently called out.

  His radar monitor had more bogies than Paul's. "I lost a Delta, too, 1258."

  "What is it?"

  "37."

  "Shit," said Chad. "We gotta get these guys wide, they have to know what's happening." He called over to another controller. "Get on the wire, divert all traffic. Call the boss. We're closing it down." The controllers had the power to close the airport, and direct all flight operations from the tower. Air- port management wasn't always fond of their autonomy, but the tower's concern was safety at all costs.

  "Another one's gone," said Paul. "That's three 37's gone. Have they had a recall lately?"

  The ETMS operator asked the computer for a status on 737's else- where. "Chad, we're not the only ones," she said. "O'Hare and LAX have problems, too."