Zero Option. Don Pendleton

electronic warning signals would be transmitted, giving the object ample time to identify itself. If the object ignored the warnings, it would be destroyed without further delay. A correctly received reply would generate an order to retreat. If that was acknowledged and the appropriate action taken the matter would be concluded. If Zero didn’t receive the expected response, it was programmed to take full punitive action. In essence nothing was allowed to get within one-quarter mile of Zero without being challenged.

      Although Zero appeared dormant to the casual observer, that was far from reality.

      Zero Platform was in a state of hibernation. Within the outer shell the electronic heart of Zero lay in standby mode. Its main functions were in electronic slumber, waiting. But in its half-life Zero carried out useful functions. Its information gathering probes scanned Earth activity. It was locked into a ring of roving satellites, code-named Slingshot, that had a defense capability, but that also fed intelligence data into Zero’s data banks. Sound and vision were picked up on a global scale. Zero assessed, collated and fed the information back to Zero’s collecting station. That was a minor part of Zero’s function, but until the platform was placed on full operational status it was a useful adjunct.

      Zero’s potential lay in wait. In the ice-cold emptiness of space, endlessly orbiting Earth, Zero had more to offer than simple eavesdropping. It had the capability to become the U.S.A.’s most potent defensive-offensive weapon. That power would remain dormant until Zero was activated by the one man who would have the platform under his control. Until that time came, Zero would stay silent. Waiting patiently as only a machine could…waiting for its partner…

      New Mexico

      HE WAS ALONE, hurt, running for his life from an unseen enemy.

      Major Doug Buchanan, United States Air Force, was in his early forties, a physically impressive figure in or out of uniform. He wasn’t a man to back away from confrontations, violent or otherwise. He’d flown combat missions in the Gulf War, and had six confirmed kills to his credit. He was a quiet man, proud of his service career and dedicated to his country’s defense.

      On this particular night he was running for his life, unsure who the enemy was but knowing full well that if he stayed near the base he was going to die. He had already seen many of his friends and colleagues shot down without hesitation by the strike team that had breached the base perimeter. Whatever their identity, the intruders were well versed in the activities of the project. They had moved swiftly, efficiently, seeking out the main defense points and taking out the armed U.S. Air Force security detachment before moving into the base proper, where they had used autofire and grenades to deal with the base personnel, both civilian and military.

      The normally peaceful area had become an inferno of gunfire, detonations and the screams and cries of hurt and dying people. The intruders moved with trained precision from section to section, firing as they went, then set off explosive packs that reduced the base to rubble. Powerful incendiary devices were also used, sending intense fire in among the shattered buildings, where it devoured equipment and any of the people trapped there.

      Buchanan had escaped by a simple fluke, physically blown out a window by the force of one of the explosions. He landed in shadow at the base of a wall, stunned but unhurt. He remained on the ground for long seconds, hearing the sound of mayhem all around, and realized that he had a chance to escape if he took it immediately.

      He crawled along the dusty ground, moving beneath parked vehicles until he reached the perimeter fence. He dragged himself under the wire, following the natural contours of the ground until he was two hundred yards from the fence, and rolled down the slope of a dry wash, where he lay in the tangled scrub until the sounds of destruction quieted.

      When he peered over the lip of the slope, he saw that the base was engulfed by raging fires, minor explosions occasionally sending showers of sparks into the soft dark of the New Mexican night. He could still see the intruders, dark shapes silhouetted against the brighter glare of the flames as they moved back and forth, checking and rechecking, weapons firing when they discovered a survivor.

      As Buchanan watched, he heard the sounds of helicopter rotors beating the air. Flame and smoke swirled in the rotor wash as three dark choppers rode the night sky over the base, then settled. They were on the ground only long enough to pick up the attack force, then they lifted off and rose into the darkness, the sound of their engines fading quickly as they angled off across the empty desert terrain.

      Buchanan stayed where he was for a while longer, checking in case anyone had been left behind to make a final sweep for survivors. He crouched in the dust, studying the base, his mind trying to make sense of it all. Nothing made any sense. He thought about going to see if any of the base personnel had survived, but he knew the answer. No one could have lived through that attack. It had been too thorough. Too professional. His own survival had been due to pure good luck. His duty now was to inform his superiors back in Washington about what had happened at the base. The only way he could do that was by reaching the nearest highway, flagging down a ride and getting to a secure telephone.

      He checked his position by the stars, pushed to his feet and headed cross-country in the direction of the main highway. It lay some ten miles west, and it would take some time to reach it.

      He glanced at his watch and saw that it was way past the time for his medication, which meant that he was going to start feeling uncomfortable in a while. His exertions would only aggravate the situation, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had to inform Washington. It didn’t matter that he would be in pain. It wouldn’t be the first time. All he knew was that since he had undergone the final implant surgery, he needed his medication to stave off the discomfort and the pain of those damned things inside his body. The implant team back at the base had explained that it would take time for his system to accept the implants, and as long as he continued with his medication it wouldn’t be a problem. Now those people were gone. Dead, and his medication was lost. So he was going to have to keep going under his own steam.

      The first real twinges started to make themselves known after the first hour. Deep-seated discomfort that became nagging aches radiated throughout his body. Buchanan kept moving, trying to ignore the sensations that were alien and scary. This was the first time he had really felt the implants. Up until this night the medication had kept the discomfort under control, deadening the feel of implants. It began to feel as if he had living things inside him and they were waking from a long slumber. They made the skin of his arms and hands itch where some of the implants lay just below the surface. It was almost like experiencing tiny electric shocks, and he imagined the implants bursting through his skin and exposing themselves. The thought unsettled him. It was only now, in his current position, that he gave thought to what he had allowed to be done to him. And he had allowed it, volunteered to be the first to undergo the radical surgery that was vital to the project. He had been chosen as much for his service skills as for the inescapable fact that he had advanced cancer. The Air Force doctors had given him no more than eighteen months before the disease took him. They had then given him an option—the Zero Option—a way that he might live longer while still being a useful member of the Air Force. Buchanan had been intrigued, and had asked to know more.

      When it had all been explained, they gave him time to digest it all. It meant time alone, sitting in his lounger, staring out the window at the spread of the country beyond his house and letting the information seep slowly into his mind. He went over it again and again, at first finding it almost impossible to believe what he had been told.

      Reason had made its plea and Buchanan, never one to deny what was staring him in the face, took the decision that would—if everything worked out according to his briefing—alter his life in a number of ways. Acceptance of the program would deny the cancer its victory, but Buchanan’s existence would take on a new form. True, he would be alive, but he would be bound, both physically and mentally, to the machines that gave him that life. Buchanan chose his path because he wanted to stay alive per se, and he was also curious to experience this radical technology. He was, if nothing else, a romantic in that he viewed the future with open eyes and a willing heart. The thought of space travel and the machines that would take man there fascinated him. And this opportunity he had been presented with would allow him to be one of the first to taste this