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Starve The Devil
Starve The Devil
Starve The Devil
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Starve The Devil

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STARVE THE DEVIL is a very timely novel about Islamic fanaticism and one U.S. president’s covert effort to deal it a permanent blow. It is also about a young CIA agent who discovers the plot, sees only a government-sponsored atrocity, and goes all-out to defeat it. This is a powerful tale that will stir a rich soup of emotions then long linger in the mind afterward.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherNoel Carroll
Release dateAug 4, 2010
ISBN9781452348568
Starve The Devil
Author

Noel Carroll

About The Authors For years the husband-and-wife team, Noel Carroll*, has published novels and short stories in two genres: thrillers and science fiction. A third genre, humor/satire, permitted them moments of fun and mischief. Although unwilling to abandon fiction, they steadily gravitated toward political commentary, first in opinion editorials and then in a full-length non-fiction work (“If You Can Keep It”). All their novels, short stories and essays have received highly favorable reviews, many being awarded five-stars. They currently make their home in Ponce Inlet, Florida. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEErCnUycaE) *a nom de plume (Noel and Carol also write under the names John Barr and N.C. Munson.)

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    Starve The Devil - Noel Carroll

    Starve The Devil

    "Quick-witted writing style.

    Keeps nails short and edges of seats warm"

    eBooks NBytes

    "Not sure what worries me more, that I can actually

    see something like this happening in the world today, or

    that I understand the president’s action and partially agree."

    Roundtable Reviews

    Also From Noel Carroll:

    Novels

    Circle of Distrust

    Accidental Encounter

    Never By Blood

    Starve The Devil

    The Exclusion Zone

    Coming Soon: A Long Reach Back

    Short Stories

    (soon to be the anthology, Carroll’s Shorts)

    Slipping Away

    The Galapagos Incident

    Silent Obsession

    Recycled

    The Collection

    Butterflies

    Stairway Through Agony

    Beyond Sapiens

    End of The Beginning

    By Invitation Only

    Humor-Satire

    Hey, God; Got A Minute? (as John Barr)

    Soul Food

    Political

    If You Can Keep It

    Reviews Of Other Noel Carroll Novels

    Never By Blood

    "Strap on your shoulder harness and get ready for a non-stop thriller"

    "Keep(s) you guessing until its final pages"

    "Descriptive style…fluid pace"

    "To all readers who enjoy fast paced action,

    international intrigue and suspense, with a dash of romance."

    Scribes World

    "All the hallmarks of a great whodunit, international thriller"

    "A multi-layered exercise in what excellent writing is all about"

    "A most amazing read"

    Midwest Book Review

    "An excellent out of this world romp"

    "Chillingly believable"

    "Gives this skeleton some meat that most mysteries don't usually take on"

    Sime~Gen

    "Nicely paced, well written"

    "Keeps the reader guessing … well worth reading"

    A. A. Showcase

    Broken Odyssey

    "Masterfully engineered tale

    First class dialogue, spine tingling action"

    Book Pleasures Reviews

    "Excellently crafted

    Keeps you on the edge of your seat"

    Simi-Gen

    The Exclusion Zone

    "Hang on to your hats, as this book will blow you away!"

    "Picks up the reader from the first page"

    "Non-stop action plot"

    Midwest Book Review

    "A fast paced thriller with a mesmerizing arc"

    "Knits characters and scenarios expertly together into a woven tapestry

    of an international political thriller"

    eBooks NBytes

    **********

    Starve The Devil

    By Noel Carroll

    Published by Noel Carroll on Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-4523-4856-8

    Also available in print under ISBN: 0-9658702-7-8

    or ISBN-13: 9780965870276

    Copyright © 2004 by Noel Carroll

    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

    Smashwords Edition License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

    Cover by KC Creations

    To Bruce and Barbara:

    thanks for all your help.

    *********

    There is pain in today’s world, much of it of our own making. At times the villain is pride, greed, envy or anger, four of the Seven Deadly Sins. But serious pain can also be caused by people of good intention encouraging moderation or restraint, two Heavenly Virtues. What dangers do we invite upon ourselves by tackling one and ignoring the other?

    1

    The White House; January 20th

    With one mildly arthritic hand, President of the United States, William Andrews Morrison, about to add Former to that title, gathered his slightly-too-long hair and pulled it away from his collar. His massive, pure-white eyebrows dipped as he thought of how often the press had poked fun at this life-long habit.

    No complaints. Appearance had carried him a long way: hair as white and as full as his eyebrows, a tall, slim frame that reminded people of Lincoln, and a deep, resonant voice that impressed even if it no longer convinced. Now in his early seventies, he had given the public what they wanted to see in a leader, and even now few could deny the impression of oneness between the man and the office he occupied.

    Alone in the quiet of the Oval Office, Morrison’s eyes, alert and darting, were a sharp contrast to the image he had painfully cultivated over the last year, that of a tired old man welcoming the relative obscurity that would soon be his. It had not required any degree of genius to recognize early on that he would not be re-elected. Could not be, considering how much of the voting public was alarmed by his unending demands, sacrifice to be piled upon sacrifice.

    Idiots!

    It also had not required genius to recognize that civilization and even mankind itself was on a slippery road to disaster, that a new world order would be needed if either were to survive.

    One that will not require the blessing of my ‘loyal’ public!

    Soon the depressing ceremony would begin, a ceremony laced with gaiety and false promise. Within the hour his successor would arrive at the front portico and together they would drive down Pennsylvania Avenue to that now-distasteful place where he would be forced to accept, with just enough smile on his wrinkled face to mask the terrible anguish that clung so heavily to his soul, the loss of the most powerful office in the world. God, how he loathed giving those undeserving bastards even so temporary a reprieve!

    But it was necessary. It was important to continue the deception if what was to follow had any hope of succeeding. The public had to be convinced that the one who had made those disturbing predictions about mankind’s future, had come to his senses. They had to believe he was now willing, even anxious, to withdraw from their lives and trouble their collective conscience no more.

    Let the games begin!

    Morrison lit an old briar pipe and sank into the stuffed chair his successor had chosen to replace one of Morrison’s own. Inside the well-insulated office, the only sound reaching his ears was the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock, the one item of furniture sure to be retained by the room’s new occupant. Each stroke announced the end of a moment in time, his time. Even so, he felt only pride. There was purpose in what he was doing, real purpose.

    2

    Cusco Province, Peru, January 20th

    Crouching motionless for hours in a sticky, insect-ridden jungle was not only painful, it was proving to be impossible! Carl shifted weight from one leg to the other, moving slowly and holding his upper body motionless. They were out there somewhere, slithering in the thick razor grass that so often lived up to its name, or tucked behind creosote bushes or twisted jungle trees.

    Carl Raymond McClure, recently assigned to the U.S. drug interdiction team in Peru, was not happy to be there. Certainly not happy with the way it was going. He shot a resentful glance at the two men in front of him, one of them a Peruvian Guardia Civil officer. This was to have been a routine intercept, but the other side failed to show. Had someone tipped them off?

    The eerie quiet, unusual for this part of the jungle, told him otherwise. Someone was out there. What was not so clear was who was stalking whom.

    With a perennial look of cynicism on his face, Carl looked older than his twenty-six years. Recruited by the CIA soon after being released from a Cuban prison, he was having trouble putting aside the events that had put him there. He had fallen in love with an escapee from Cuba, the most appealing creature he had ever known. Taking advantage of his flawless Spanish and dark complexion, both gifts from his Cuban mother, he had followed her into that forbidden country in pursuit of a cause that, on the surface at least, imported a sense of nobility: He would snatch her mother then get the two of them plus himself back to the United States.

    Carl’s face twisted at the memory, and he would have purged it with an angry shake of his head had he not remembered in time where he was and what was out there waiting for just such a mistake.

    Among the many warring factions of Peru, the Shining Path guerrillas were the hardest to deal with. Maoist, and more fanatical than the other rebel groups, they kept pushing the old-line communist ideology. But that was not a U.S. problem, at least not officially. Officially the United States wanted to put a crimp in the flow of drugs, and to the power-brokers in Washington, it was logical that the Company lend the DEA a hand in this.

    Carl’s eyes settled again on the back of the lanky Peruvian officer, Captain Humberto Potosi. There were twenty men out there, none more than a hundred yards away, but Potosi and one DEA colleague were all Carl could seelike himself they were wearing camouflaged fatigues and trying hard to blend into the jungle. At slightly over six feet, Potosi stood above most of his soldiers, and his calm, confident manner helped convinced them that he was their best chance of staying alive. Potosi was making good use of the jungle growth tucked around his shadowy frame, and it was obvious by his manner that he did not think this was over. His American-made M-16 was cocked and aimed, and he looked like a jungle cat ready to pounce.

    Carl shifted his weight again. He hated having to participate in a no-win situation. Hell, in Peru even the guerrillas didn’t get along. The Maoists bashed at the Cuban MRTA and sometimes at other Maoists.

    And all of them bash innocents who want nothing more than to live out another miserable day!

    That too was not a U.S. problem. He was here in this steaming jungle for no other reason than to detect and destroy a shipment of drugs. If clean-up were necessary, it would be dumped on the Peruvian military while one Carl McClure, CIA, slipped back to the Embassy in Lima for a good meal and a safe bed. If all went well, if luck were on their side and everyone performed as they were supposed to perform, the drug trade in one small American city would feel ten minutes of hard times. Pain shot up from Carl’s ankles, provoking more sweat and attracting more insects, most of them the biting kind.

    What the hell was he doing here?! He did not believe as Noel did or as the DEA and the Peruvians did that they were accomplishing anything. Maybe that was his problem: he didn’t believe in anything anymore. He was the youngest of his colleagues yet he felt no less shop-worn than the oldest of them. Too much had happened in his short life, and nobody could come even close to understanding that.

    Noel Harman, now his station chief, had made joining the CIA seem the natural thing to do, and after learning how far the man had gone to get him out of Cuba, Carl had not resisted. But his attitude had not changed in the year of intensive training that followed even as the terrible sense of loss weakened.

    He had not known he was about to be released until summoned from his cell by Dr. Caranti, head of the DGI, the Cuban equivalent of the CIA, a man he had known during the bad times only as Tomas. He remembered the sixty-five year old, slightly overweight Tomas as deceptively gentle in appearance, an impression enhanced by his silky white hair and matching, well-groomed beard. But the way he entered a room, dressed in impeccably tailored fatigues, his head held high and his expression one of minimum tolerance for interference of any kind, quickly dispelled any thought of comradeship. He was a hardened spy master, intent on furthering his own private idea of what most benefited his country and its exalted leader.

    After his capture, Carl had expected a lingering death, a death that would import a sense of satisfaction to an enraged Cuban government. What he got was five months of tasteless food in barely adequate quantities, a bucket a day of foul water to be used for both drinking and cleaning, and not so much as a word from the guards. Then, with no warning given, he had been surprised in his damp and dingy cell by the arrival of soap, clean water, a new set of fatigues and instructions to clean himself up and get ready to leave. His voice, much out of practice, had trouble responding. After barely enough time to comply with this, a young officer, clean-cut and wearing starched and pressed fatigues, came to escort him to the Plaza de la Revolucion, the place where Castro so often held his people captive to marathon speeches.

    They traveled in a well maintained, black Zil limousine, and though guarded at all times, Carl was not burdened with handcuffs. Unwilling to ask what he was sure would not be answered, he kept his eyes on the road ahead and searched for signs that he was about to become the star sacrifice in an elaborate propaganda ceremony. But the roads were as empty as they normally were in this economically-deprived country, and no bloodthirsty crowds were in the process of forming.

    Equally confusing was the sight that greeted him as he was marched through the entrance of a sparsely decorated office, the office of the DGI chief himself. Instead of Tomas’s usual dramatic entrance, which often included a long wait beforehand, Tomas was standing behind his desk, his posture more that of a welcoming grandfather than the dangerous man Carl knew him to be. His slight smile, which on Tomas was an oddity, said the unpleasantness of the past was forgotten.

    "They call your diary Broken Odyssey. Perhaps you are aware of this." It was more a statement than a question, but the smile on Tomas’s thin lips remained, even as Carl had trouble believing it. Dismissing the escort with a nod of his head, Tomas ushered Carl into a thinly padded chair then half-leaned, half-sat against the near end of his desk. Carl knew enough about the man to see he was struggling to attain a level of informality he did not feel.

    The room was a natural contradiction to informality. The few pictures and memorabilia Tomas permitted himself told of one victory after another, and thus one act of violence after another. His green fatigues might have implied informality were they not so well tailored and seemingly incapable of suffering a wrinkle. And if his starched and blocked cap were not positioned a little too well on his ample and notably uncluttered desk.

    It took a moment for Tomas’s words to register in Carl’s mind. But then it became clear. Someone had rescued the narrative of his ill-fated invasion of Cuba. He came close to smiling as finally he ventured a reply. No, I wasn’t aware. I’m not exactly on the main circuit for news these days. Carl’s Spanish easily matched the dialect of the well educated Cuban perched not four feet away.

    Hearing no rancor in the younger man’s voice, Tomas permitted himself a chuckle. It was true; McClure had been watched day and night for more than five months, and no communication of any kind had been permitted. The things you wrote in that little diary of yours while at sea, tell me, why did you do this? What good did you think it would do Nicola?

    Carl’s sigh and averted eyes made it clear to the man in front of him how little he cared—about anything.

    Although aware of Carl’s on-going depression, Tomas marveled at how little effect he had on this man who would be dead seconds after he gave the word. And no one in the world could do anything about it. Except, of course, proclaim the validity of what had been written in Broken Odyssey, a work published as fiction only a month before.

    Carl finally managed his answer, although his speech was slow and pained. When I thought Nicola and I were going to die I guess I wanted someone in this rotten world to know the why of it.

    Tomas stared in silence, the hate he was trying to keep hidden tempered by a touch of sympathy. This young man had no negative feelings toward the Cuban people. Indeed, his late mother was Cuban, or had been before she abandoned the country of her birth. And his motives had not included embarrassing the Cuban government, although certainly that had happened. No, this man had committed a serious crime, but he had been motivated by little more than the love of a woman, a love that, because of who she was, could never be.

    The conversation paused as a woman in civilian clothes entered the room carrying a small tray and two white demitasse cups, each three-quarters filled with a rich black liquid. Also on the tray was a bowl of grainy, off-white sugar, and Tomas waited patiently while the woman added two heaping spoons full, first to one cup then to the other. After giving each a quick stir, she left as quietly as she had come, unaware or uncaring of the silence her presence had provoked.

    I hope you appreciate our Latin version of coffee. Tomas’s smile was almost friendly as he handed Carl a cup. It was sweet and strong, and Carl was startled to find that he enjoyed it. He had thought five months of prison life had destroyed his sense of taste.

    Pausing to take a sip, Tomas held his experienced eyes on his guest and searched for some sign that he might be receptive to what would be asked of him. Returning to my earlier comment, your CIA took great pleasure in your written words. And now they want you back, why, I cannot imagine. Perhaps they think you might have more to tell them about us, more than was in the diary. He paused, obviously expecting a response from his guest.

    Carl raised his eyes to meet those of his inquisitor, but there was little emotion attached to the look. I know nothing about that. And I think you know how much my feelings for Nicola govern the rest.

    ‘Govern the rest’...?

    A flash of anger appeared in Carl’s voice as he said, I mean I don’t give a flying fuck for the trash who might want to turn my agony into a morbid expose! What Nicola and I did together and what we meant to each other is ours and ours alone.

    "Except for whoever reads Broken Odyssey."

    Carl flushed at the retort, but said nothing. Satisfied at making his point, Tomas offered another smile, a concession that ended abruptly as he said, Did you know they actually published it? Your father and a rebellious CIA agent? As a novel and with some of the names changed—your last name, for example—but the message was clear enough. Already we have a number of radical Miami groups desperate to learn how much of it is true.

    Tomas did not bother to explain how the diary had been recovered by a DGI double agent who had since fled to Florida. Instead he said, They published it with the thought that it would force us to free you.

    There was more defiance than hope in Carl eyes as he reached for the older man’s thoughts. Is that why I’m here?

    Tomas did not appreciate the tone, but elected to let it pass. "In a way I suppose it is. But they have also done us a service. Publishing Broken Odyssey as a novel makes the subject easier to ignore at the odd moment when it comes up. We may now dismiss all questions with a supercilious smile and a poignant reference to the wishful thinking of Cuba’s desperate enemies."

    Tomas continued without giving Carl a chance to respond. But in all honesty we are unwilling to run the risks inherent in what we know can be effective propaganda at times—a ‘lie’ spoken often enough is accepted as truth. Why take the chance if to avoid it would cost us little?

    Carl could not hold back his surprise. You really would let me go after all that’s happened?

    Please do not misunderstand. I still see red whenever so much as your name passes in front of me.

    Then why....?

    Tomas let out a breath of air then turned his head away as if doubting the wisdom of what he was about to say. At the same time his face reverted back to the carefully controlled anger that Carl found better fit his past relations with this man. Because I want a ... favor in return. I have reason to believe your CIA will attempt to recruit you, and from what I have learned of you from this ill-conceived diary, I suspect you will accept their offer. Seeing the resentful look on Carl’s face, Tomas held up his hand to ward off uninvited comment. Young man, you must learn to listen first then speak only after enough information has reached your inexperienced ears to give you at least a tiny chance of knowing what the fuck you are talking about! I have no intention of asking you to become a double agent. Indeed I would have no faith in anything you might tell me while pretending to be on my side.

    A slight relaxing of Carl’s face told Tomas his guess had been on target. Nonetheless, he let a few seconds pass before continuing. He wanted to give his words the best chance of penetrating the inbred prejudices of this American. There is something I think you will want to do, something I have been unable to do, despite what I assure you has been a considerable effort—and I go against the express wishes of Fidel himself in revealing even this much. We have reason to believe that your government is involved in an ... an act of genocide, an act so twisted that even your enemies have trouble believing it is true. Well versed in reading subtle nuances in people, Tomas easily caught the slight dulling of Carl’s eyes. It spoke of disbelief, even impatience.

    I assure you, this is more than the accusations we routinely hurl at one another. I have no wish to turn it into a propaganda bonanza for Cuba, nor do I hope that it is in any way true, for it represents a concept that could, if not stopped, propel us in one horrible leap into a future that neither your people nor mine would find bearable.

    Look, I...

    Tomas held up his hand for silence. Listen first, then do what you think is right. That is all I am asking of you.

    Carl again started to speak then decided against it. It mattered little what this Cuban said. What mattered was that he was actually going to be released, returned to a world that had lately seemed impossibly distant.

    Carl listened without comment as the DGI head told of his discovery. He listened as Tomas accused the United States of testing a horrible new poison on a backwater community in Ethiopia. He listened to the horrors reported back by an Angolan colleague who had relocated to Ethiopia after having to flee his own country: women falling ill by the dozens and losing their unborn children. He listened until Tomas had nothing more to say. Then he lowered his eyes, disturbed but not sure how he should react.

    Tomas saw this and started in again, his voice revealing a hint of desperation. Forget who I am. Forget where these words come from. Forget ideology and national boundaries. Just think about what I said and whether it could possibly be true. If it is true, there is no way your new employers could fail to know about it.

    Carl resented Tomas’s supposed knowledge of who he might choose to work for in the future, but he decided this was not the time to make a point of it. Instead he reacted to what he still thought was a DGI recruitment attempt. What if they did. They sure as hell wouldn’t tell me. And I sure as hell...

    Wouldn’t tell me? Yes, I understand that. But you would do something, of this I am convinced. And the atrocity that struck this impoverished Ethiopian community is so vile that it could not survive the light you would shine on it. Those people were poisoned, the manner of which continues to evade us.

    Carl looked into Tomas’s eyes. There was real concern there, and that confused him. Or was it simply that this man was good at his job?

    Tomas leaned closer to lend emphasis to his words. If you think I speak through ideology, consider what kind of ideology will exist in a world where one group can decide how many of their neighbors will continue to share this planet. Your mother was of Cuban origin; what if this elitist group decides that half Cuban/half Irish is not a combination to its liking?

    Carl was beginning to feel crowded. All right, I understand the implications. But why should I accept that what happened in Ethiopia is anything more than a local tragedy?

    Tomas sighed and pulled back a little. McClure had made a perceptible turn in his direction, and it was important that nothing be done to reverse this. Whether Fidel approved of this source or not, Tomas felt it his duty to use every tool at his disposal in the cause of uncovering what was happening in the American camp. Because of sympathetic socialist colleagues, we were able to obtain samples of plants, water, fetal tissue, whatever we thought would help us discover what caused this thing. We even called upon our sometimes-friends in Moscow to help with the analysis. He paused and for a moment his face showed a trace of defeat. To date we have found little of meaning, but I submit that this in itself is suspect. Whatever attacked these people has been made too subtle for detection by conventional means.

    Then how can you say the United States is involved?

    Anger reasserted itself in Tomas’s voice. I will tell you how! A stranger appeared in the affected village a short time before the troubles began. She was not African and she had no reason to be there. Nor when questioned did she offer a believable explanation. She simply arrived, stayed two days, then left.

    She?

    Yes, a woman. We know exactly who she is.

    And you’re saying she’s American. The doubt was evident in Carl’s eyes.

    No. This woman was born in Mexico City.

    But...

    ‘But’ is correct, a very large ‘but.’ We have long known of this woman because of her intimate involvement with a member of your government. Tomas let the curiosity spread on Carl’s face before adding, The current president of your United States.

    Exactly thirteen months after returning to the U. S., Carl used Tomas’s words to justify a small rebellion of his own. On the way to Peru to begin his first assignment as a field operative for the CIA, he was ordered to execute a blind drop in Mexico City. A routine matter, odd only in that, with the availability of portable computers and digitized photo transmissions, clandestine mailboxes were being used less and less. The drop was to occupy no more than an hour between planes, and he was not to ask questions nor hang around any longer than it took to make the delivery. But he elected to do exactly that, hang around. He was curious about how these things worked. Plus it was Mexico City, the place mentioned by Tomas.

    He had said nothing to anyone about Tomas’s accusations, but they continued to confuse his thoughts. American led, the DGI chief had said. Did American mean the CIA, his employers? And, if so, was this anything more than the usual? If he knew what it was, would he approve, even grudgingly? Carl knew how unlikely it was that he would ever come to know the answers to any of this.

    Carl knew the pickup would not be long in coming. The small paper bag he’d dropped into a trashcan just inside the entrance to an inter-city park would be buried by other contributions if someone did not get to it quickly. Keeping an eye on the package while appearing not to do so, Carl strolled around the periphery of the park until finally she came. It was a woman in her early thirties with a dark blue scarf wrapped loosely around her head. The scarf failed to hide the lovely black hair that flowed softly down her well-shaped back. Nor did it mask the beauty of her face, a Latin beauty that reminded Carl too much of Nicola. Without making a thing of it, she reached in, grabbed the bag then walked away, to where, a suddenly guilt-ridden Carl did not want to know. He had already gone too far, and there was a plane waiting to take him to Peru.

    As he moved resolutely on, Carl failed to notice the modestly-dressed man sitting quietly on a bench at the north end of the park, the side opposite the girl and the package that was now hers. There was concern on his heavily-tanned face as he watched the young CIA officer exit the park then disappear down a crowded street.

    3

    Earth orbit, January 20th;

    The energy-gathering wings stretched a dozen yards to either side and always managed to face the sun even as the satellite they were attached to danced eccentrically in response to orders from the ground. It was a massive and irregular structure, heavy with optical sensors, telemetry equipment, attitude-control apparatus, radio transmitters and receivers. In geostationary orbit 22,300 miles above the earth, it could be seen as a prominent star to anyone happening upon a spot of empty ocean half way between Miami, Florida and Port of Spain, Trinidad. Its mission, at least to those trusted individuals responsible for making sense out of the never-ending river of data that greeted them daily, was to monitor drug and military activity along the southern borders of the United States. For this it had been granted a solid enough security classification to keep the curious from questioning whatever else it might be.

    Even those aware that deeply hidden within its complex circuitry was another, more devious purpose, did not know what that purpose was, only that the satellite was to respond to a certain set of instructions from the ground by emitting a short encoded burst of its own. Who or what was to receive this message, and what use was to be made of it, they had no idea. Nor were they inclined to ask.

    They did know, however, that the highly sophisticated device would require less than a thousandth of a second to complete its ancillary assignment, after which it would stand by in the blackness of space and listen for a follow-up command. If that command failed to arrive within a specified period of time, then the exercise was to be regarded as just another test. The machine would dutifully return to its primary function until called upon once again. But if the second command did make it in time, then the computer would immediately wipe out all trace of secondary programming from its memory. It was to be an electronic lobotomy, and once completed there would be nothing left for the curious; no way of proving it had ever deviated from its principal mission.

    For slightly more than a year the device had done everything that was required of it, including waiting patiently for a signal that never came. Not that this really mattered; to its indifferent circuitry, time had no meaning. Besides, it was easy to keep watch. Even with the countless other demands upon it, it could check for special orders a thousand times each second, and could maintain this pace for as long as it remained in orbit, which was years unless something unforeseen got in the way. When its earth-bound master finally decided to take advantage of the secrets it so zealously guarded, it would be alert and ready to go, and no one on the ground would ever know it had involved itself in a few milliseconds of moonlighting.

    Three days and twenty three hours into the fourteenth month of orbit, the waiting came to an end. The message was received. Dutifully and without hesitation, the satellite tossed into the vastness of space a precise set of codes, then positioned itself to receive the second command, the one that would end forever this darker side of its assignment. But the second command failed to arrive, and one millionth of a second after the thirteenth minute of waiting, the obedient machine switched back to what it had been before. Apparently the unknown source from the blue-white planet far below was not yet ready to erase his tracks.

    At the same time, and for a fraction of a second only, the United States Global Positioning System malfunctioned. The best way to determine

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