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they saw him burst out
from the stairwell. For some reason, in their presence, Race
suddenly felt inferiormsomehow unworthy, undisciplined. He felt
stupid in his Macy's sports coat, jeans and tie, carrying his
clothes for a lunchtime baseball game in a battered old Nike sports
bag.

As he approached the first soldier, Race looked him up and down—saw
the black assault rifle in his hands, saw the velveteen green beret
slouched on his head, saw the crescent-shaped patch on his shoulder
that read: SPECIAL FORCES.

'Uh, hi. I'm William Race. Ira'

'It's okay, Professor Race. Please go in. They're expecting
you.'

Race continued down the corridor, came to the second soldier. He
was taller than the first one, bigger. In fact, he was huge, a
mountain of a man—at least six-feetfour—with a'soft handsome face,
dark hair and narrow brown eyes that didn't miss a trick. The name
patch on his breast pocket read: VAN LEWEN. The three stripes on
his shoulder indicated that he was a sergeant.

Race's eyes drifted to the man's M-16. It had a state-ofthe-art
PAC-4C laser sighting device mounted on its barrel and an M-203
grenade launcher attached to its underside.

Serious stuff.

The soldier stepped aside promptly, allowed Race to enter his own
office.

Dr John Bernstein was sitting in the high-backed leather chair
behind Race's desk, looking very uncomfortable.

Bernstein was a white-haired man of fifty-nine and the

f the Ancient Languages Department at NYU, Race's

[here were three other men in the room.

'l'wo soldiers, one civilian.

ae two soldiers were dressed and armed in much the as the guards
outside fatigues, helmets, M-16s—and they both looked extremely
fit.

to be a little older than the other. He held his

formally, wedged firmly between his elbow and ribs, and he had
close-cropped black hair that barely

his forehead. Race's sandy-brown hair fell con- down into his
eyes.

The third stranger in the room, the civilian, was seated in

guest's chair in front of Bernstein. He was a big man,

and dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers. He a pug nose and dark
heavy-set features that were

with age and responsibility. And he sat in his : with the calm
assurance of someone who was used to being obeyed.

' Race got the distinct impression that everyone had been

waiting in his office for some time.

Waiting for him.

'Will,' John Bernstein said, coming around the desk and shaking his
hand. “Good morning. Come on in. I'd like you to meet someone.
Professor William Race, Colonel Frank Nash.'

The barrel-chested civilian extended his hand. Strong

grip.

'Retired. Good to meet you,' he said, looking Race over.

He then indicated the two soldiers. 'This is Captain Scott and
Corporal Cochrane of the U.S. Army Special Forces Group.'

'Green Berets,” Bernstein whispered respectfully in Race's
ear.

Then Bernstein cleared his throat. 'Colonel er, I mean, Doctor—Nash
is from the Tactical Technology Office at the Defense Advanced
Research Projects Agency. He's come here seeking our help.'

21

Frank Nash handed Race his photo-ID card. Race saw a mug shot of
Nash with the red DARPA logo on top of it and a whole lot of
numbers and codes beneath it. A magnetic strip ran down one side of
the card. Beneath the photo were the words: FRANCIS K. NASH, U.S.
ARMY, COL. (RET.). It was a

pretty impressive card. It screamed: important person.

Uh-huh, Race thought.

He had heard of DARPA before. It was the primary research and
development arm of the Department of Defense, the agency that had
invented the Arpanet, the military-only precursor to the Internet.
DARPA was also famous for its participation in the Have Blue
project in the 1970s, the top-secret Air Force project that had
resulted in the construction of the F-117 stealth fighten

In fact, truth be told, Race knew a little more about DARPA than
most, for the simple reason that his brother, Martin, worked there
as a design engineer.

Basicall) DARPA worked in partnership with each of the