Without warning

Yost jumped in before a flood tide of voices could drown him out. ‘It could very easily be anything but, Mr Mirsaad. You are not there. You haven’t seen anything for yourself. All you know is that you can’t get a phone call through, and somebody is selling very expensive pictures of what looks to me like computer-generated video-game imagery. If I were you I’d go read your H.G. Wells before I pushed the panic button, sir.’

Melton smirked quietly as he filled his notepad with shorthand. He had to score that one to Yost, although the classical sci-fi reference seemed lost on the Jordanian as it was on most of the other foreign journalists in the room. Or at least those from non-English-speaking countries. For himself, he didn’t mind a bit of trashy reading when he was stretched out in business class, thirty thousand feet up. He even admired Iain M. Banks’s high-tone Culture novels as an unlikely blend of literature and SF. But he lived and worked in the real world, just like the men and women he wrote about, and while the Army Times correspondent couldn’t possibly imagine what sort of technical clusterfuck or psy-war hoax they were dealing with, he had no doubt that the explanation was more prosaic than alien space bats or the hand of God.

He hadn’t had time to view the still shots on BBC World. He’d been too busy trying (and failing) to get through to head office back in Virginia. If he had to make a bet, however, he’d lay his money on some kind of killer virus, probably written up by guerrilla hackers in Russia or Malaysia as a protest against the imminent war, not to mention as a personal shot at glory in the bizarro underground. A hit like this, just days before the start of the war, would instantly transform some spotty college drop-out into a hyper-celebrity super-hacker. A pity for them they’d never be able to cash in with Nike endorsements or a Coke ad. Best they could hope for was a virtual hand job on some mal-ware chat site. Fuckwits. Just a few months ago he’d freelanced a 3000-word feature on digital security for Statfor.com that the Times didn’t want. He’d come away with mixed feelings; utter contempt for the social misfits and losers who were the creators of so many of the most destructive programs, and an unshakable certainty that some day one of them was going to pull a stunt that did real-world damage to real-world lives. Perhaps this was it.

Somebody from Agence France-Presse jumped to his feet demanding to know – all the French reporters sounded like they were always demanding this or that – how the Coalition expected to maintain the integrity of their communications in any conflict with Iraq, given the ‘total collapse’ of their network this morning. It was a good question, one Melton had wondered about, and he was surprised to see that Colonel Yost looked almost relieved to get it.

‘Our theatre-level networks remain fully functional, intact and secure,’ he said. ‘General Franks is in complete control of all Coalition forces in situ. That is simply not an issue. The US and her allies are ready and willing to carry out any order from their national command authorities. Whatever the mission, we will accomplish it… Thank you. This briefing is at an end. You will be kept informed of any developments via the media centre.’

Yost nodded curtly, gathered up his papers and walked away from the rostrum as hundreds of seated reporters suddenly leapt to their feet to hurl questions at him. Melton stood with them. In the sudden outburst, all he’d heard was a single question shouted by Sayad al Mirsaad before anyone else.

‘What national command authority? They’re gone…’

* * * *

It’s an intensely frustrating experience for a newsman to find himself cut off from the biggest story of the day, and Bret Melton soon felt as though he was cut off from the biggest story of all time. That’s not to say there was nothing to report from Qatar. The presser had broken up in chaos and the headquarters of the Coalition forces was seething with all the mad energy of a giant ants’ nest that had been rudely kicked open. But in spite of all the activity as the military spooled up their response to whatever had happened on the other side of the globe, Melton knew that a more immediate story was available a short plane ride away: the inevitable eruption of the Arab world when it realised that America was gone.

It was unbelievable, insane, and completely fucking outrageous. It was gone.