Location: Executive Office, Usine Volta S.A. (Ivry-sur-Seine) / Office of the CEO, Advanced Micro Devices (Austin, Texas)
Date: Early April 1990
Point of View: Omniscient (Focus on Lazare Bonaparte and Jerry Sanders)
The hum of the transatlantic encrypted line seemed to punctuate the heartbeat of an industry on the verge of tipping over. In Paris, it was a quarter past four in the morning. In Austin, night had just fallen.
"To what extent?" the Builder asked coldly, already calculating the geopolitical shockwaves. "Has the IT press had the specifications of our RISC architecture?"
Over the loudspeaker on the mahogany desk, Jerry Sanders let out a nervous, almost intoxicated laugh.
"No, Lazarus. Our trade secrets are safe," he replied. "Architecture is always a black box for them. But the numbers are out."
The AMD CEO took a deep breath, the background noise betraying the rustling of a printed sheet of paper.
"He's an engineer in the quality assurance department at Compaq in Houston," Sanders explained. "A beta tester. The kid was given one of the pre-series machines to check the stability of the power supply. He turned on the computer, VoltaOS booted up in two seconds, and out of curiosity, he ran a Dhrystone benchmark software to test the raw computing power."
"And he couldn't hold his tongue," Lazarus added, knowing human nature too well.
"When he saw the MIPS scores on his screen, his brain melted," Sanders confirmed jubilantly. "He went home, connected with his 2400 baud modem to an underground BBS—a forum that is very popular with the hacker community, academics, and above all, journalists from Byte and PC Magazine. And he threw everything out there."
Lazarus leaned back in his chair, his eyes staring into space. Bulletin Board Systems were the beating, anarchic, and uncontrollable heart of the nascent computer network. Information dropped there spread faster than a virus.
"He posted the correct scores," continued the American. "And he added one sentence, one sentence only: 'The secret AMD-Compaq alliance has just built the hammer of God.'"
"The specialized press picked up the information?"
"AMD's switchboard has been on fire since this morning!" Sanders exclaimed. "The Wall Street Journal and Wired are trying to reach Eckhard Pfeiffer at Compaq every five minutes."
"The element of surprise is compromised," said the Frenchman, his voice devoid of emotion. "Intel will be doubly vigilant."
"That's where you're mistaken, Lazarus! That's the most beautiful part of this story!"
Sanders punched his desk, the sound echoing through the loudspeaker.
"They don't believe it! Journalists, market analysts, even Silicon Valley's own engineers... They think it's a huge hoax. The scores this kid posted are so obscene, so ahead of their time, that they are writing it is physically impossible for a desktop microprocessor to beat Intel's future 486 by a factor of ten. On the forums, everyone thinks that the Compaq tester was wrong and that he leaked the data of a military supercomputer from Cray or IBM!"
A thin smile, sharp as a razor blade, slowly stretched Lazare Bonaparte's lips. The irony of the situation was exquisite. He had built a machine so powerful that the human mind of 1990 refused to accept its existence. The truth had become too monstrous to believe.
"Andy Grove reads these same forums," whispered Lazarus.
"Grove must be yelling at his technical directors in Santa Clara right now," Sanders gloated. "He knows that AMD is preparing something for COMDEX. He sees these numbers. His reason tells him that it is impossible, but his paranoia must be devouring him from the inside. He will spend the next twelve days getting ulcers."
Lazare got up and walked to the bay window of his office. He looked out at the dark night over Ivry-sur-Seine. The unexpected had just offered him a devastating psychological weapon. If he used it correctly, he could break Intel's staff before the first Volta computer was even sold.
"Jerry," the Builder asked softly. "Do you have untraceable access to this BBS?"
"My marketing department has dozens of fake accounts to monitor the competition," the American replied, suddenly attentive. "Why?"
"If the American press believes that we have built a million-dollar supercomputer for the military, we will finish them off. We will turn their disbelief into absolute terror."
Lazarus placed his hand flat against the cold window.
"I want you to leak the last detail, Jerry. Tomorrow morning, first thing. Use an anonymous account."
"What detail? The OS interface? The name 'Volta'?"
"No. The public price."
Silence fell heavily on the transatlantic line. Jerry Sanders had just understood.
"Oh, sweet Jesus..." the AMD CEO whispered, his voice suddenly tinged with reverential awe.
"Post it in capital letters. Tell them that the complete machine, with the screen, the operating system, and the chip that spits out those impossible scores, will retail for $2,499."
"Lazarus, if they see this price associated with these performances... that's a quarter of the price of a poor 386 base! Andy Grove is going to have a heart attack. Bill Gates is going to choke on his coffee. This is a declaration of nuclear war."
"It's an execution," corrected Lazare. "The industry will spend the week debating whether we are madmen, pathological liars, or the new masters of the world. The tension is at its peak. When the doors of COMDEX open in Chicago, all eyes in the world will be on our booth."
The Builder turned away from the window, returning to his desk where the plans for the future awaited.
"Unleash the beast, Jerry. Let the world tremble. Pack your bags. See you in twelve days in Illinois."
"We're going to make history, kid," Sanders promised before hanging up, the click of the line marking the end of their clandestinity.
Lazarus put down the heavy red handset. There was no turning back. The rumor of the beast had been released into the wild. In twelve days, the beast itself would land on the shores of Lake Michigan. And it was hungry.
PART 2: The Eve of Destruction
Location: McCormick Place / Secure Warehouse, Chicago, Illinois
Date: Sunday, April 15, 1990 (D-1 before COMDEX)
Point of View: Omniscient (Focus on Lazare Bonaparte)
The icy wind from Lake Michigan swept down the avenues of Chicago, rushing into the immense canyons of steel and glass. But inside McCormick Place, North America's largest convention center, the atmosphere was stifling.
It was the day before the opening of the spring COMDEX. Thousands of workers, technicians, and advertisers were busy in a din of drills and forklifts, setting up the stands for the titans of industry.
In the heart of this anthill, three men walked slowly, drowned in the mass. Lazare Bonaparte, Auguste, and Karim Belkacem wore the badges of simple subcontractors from a wiring company. They had passed through U.S. customs at O'Hare Airport under fake Swiss diplomatic passports provided by Auguste's former networks, in order to avoid alerting federal agencies to the arrival of Volta S.A.'s staff on U.S. soil.
Lazarus looked up. Above them, suspended from the huge metal beams of the main hall, advertising tarpaulins the size of a three-story building floated in the drafts:
"INTEL i486: THE HEART OF THE NEW DECADE." "MICROSOFT WINDOWS 3.0: THE MAGIC OF MULTITASKING."
Karim, his hands buried in the pockets of his parka, hissed in admiration at the American excess.
"They privatized half of the city, Lazarus. Look at the size of Intel's booth... It's the size of a courthouse. And Microsoft has installed giant screens everywhere. It feels like Rome before the circus games."
"Arrogance always precedes a fall," Lazare replied calmly, his dark gaze gliding over the blue Intel banners with the indifference of a gravedigger gauging the size of a coffin. "Let them marvel at their own landmarks. Let's go and see our weapon."
The three Frenchmen left the convention center and rushed into a black sedan with tinted windows that was discreetly waiting for them in the parking lot. The driver drove them away from the downtown skyline to the industrial, gray outskirts of Chicago.
The car came to a stop in front of an old red-brick warehouse, rented under a nominee by AMD. Two private security guards, armed and equipped with earpieces, opened the heavy metal door after checking their identities.
The inside of the warehouse smelled of dust, fresh cardboard, and ozone.
In the center of the huge empty space, under the harsh light of a single industrial spotlight, a large table covered with a black sheet had been set up. Around this table stood two men. Jerry Sanders, the CEO of AMD, wearing a wolf's smile, and a taller man with a square jaw and a hard look, carved out of the steel of the business world.
It was Eckhard Pfeiffer, the director of operations and future big boss of Compaq Computer Corporation. The man who had sworn the ruin of IBM.
Sanders stepped forward and warmly shook hands with Lazarus, then Auguste.
"Welcome to America, gentlemen," Sanders trumpeted. "Lazarus, let me introduce you to Eckhard Pfeiffer. Eckhard, this is the architect. Lazare Bonaparte."
The German-American manager of Compaq stepped forward and gauged the twenty-three-year-old Frenchman. He had heard Sanders speak of this European genius with reverential awe, but finding himself in front of this young man with such a smooth face and such old eyes destabilized him for a second.
"You are much younger than the rumor suggests, Monsieur Bonaparte," said Pfeiffer in a deep voice as he shook his hand.
"And your shares on the stock market are about to be worth much more than you ever dreamed, Mr. Pfeiffer," replied Lazare, with an aplomb that froze the air around them. "Did you meet my deadlines?"
Pfeiffer gave a carnivorous grin. He liked men who went straight to the point.
"The 'Dell clause' kept me awake for seventy-five days, Bonaparte. My factories in Houston ran around the clock in three shifts. The unions screamed, the supply chain almost exploded. But we have assembled the two hundred thousand units. As we speak, ten thousand pallets under sealed tarpaulins are waiting in the back rooms of every ComputerLand and RadioShack in the country. Store managers are absolutely forbidden to unpack them before tomorrow, nine o'clock in the morning."
"Has the leak of the $2,499 price caused a stir at your retailers?" Auguste inquired, resuming his role as a diplomat.
"Turmoil?" Pfeiffer let out a bark of laughter. "The phones at the head office haven't stopped ringing! The dealers have gone crazy. Intel has sent threatening letters, Bill Gates' lawyers have faxed injunctions... The whole world wants to know if we have become suicidal or if we have found the holy grail. Tomorrow, America will hold its breath."
Pfeiffer turned to the table and grasped the edge of the black sheet.
"I think it is time you saw the monster we have brought forth together."
With a sudden gesture, the Compaq executive pulled back the sheet.
Karim Belkacem gasped in surprise. Even Lazarus, usually so impassive, let his gaze linger with a tiny glimmer of satisfaction.
The computer industry of 1990 was dominated by beige plastic. Rectangular, dreary, utilitarian cases that looked like typewriters on steroids. But the machine on the table had nothing to do with that era. Eckhard Pfeiffer understood Lazare's philosophy: disruptive technology required disruptive design.
The Compaq Volta V-1 was a vertical tower in absolute matte black. Its lines were aggressive, pure, almost monolithic, reminiscent of obsidian obelisks or military supercomputers. The high-resolution CRT monitor, also dressed in black, sat next to a keyboard with a quiet design. It was an object of desire. A machine that didn't seem built to deal with spreadsheets, but to control the world.
And there, on the front of the black case, just below the floppy drive, the light from the projector caught a holographic square with silver reflections.
The "V" shaped lightning. Powered by Volta.
Lazarus advanced slowly. He brushed the thumbnail-sized emblem with the tip of his index finger. The polymer label was cool and smooth. His brand. His imperial seal. He had just put his name on the face of Texas' greatest industrial pride.
"Magnificent," murmured Auguste. "It's the most intimidating computer I've ever seen."
"And wait until you turn it on," Karim added, almost stamping his feet with impatience. "The loading times will make Microsoft's engineers cry."
Lazarus turned to Eckhard Pfeiffer and Jerry Sanders. The aesthetic contemplation was over. The hour of execution was approaching.
"What is the plan of engagement for tomorrow morning?" asked the Builder.
Jerry Sanders leaned on the edge of the table, his eyes shining.
"Andy Grove and Bill Gates rented the main amphitheater at McCormick Place for their opening remarks. At nine o'clock sharp, Grove will take the stage to present the Intel 486. It's the high mass of Silicon Valley. The press from all over the world will be there."
"And us?"
"We rented the large Palmer Room, just across the main hall," Sanders replied with a smile of pure sadism. "And tonight, discreetly, we slipped this under the door of every hotel room occupied by an accredited journalist."
The American took from his inside pocket an elegant cardboard card, a matte black similar to that of the computer, and handed it to Lazarus. In the center of the card, embossed with silver leaf, shone the Powered by Volta seal. Below it, a simple line of text:
"At 9:00 a.m., ancient history will be presented in the amphitheater." "At 9:05 a.m., the decade will end in the Palmer Lounge. Be on the right side of history."
Lazarus slipped the card into his jacket pocket. The insolence of the invitation was calculated to the millimeter. It capitalized on the frenzy of rumors and the leaked prices. Tech journalists lived for this kind of drama. Tomorrow morning, Intel's amphitheater would empty in five minutes as everyone rushed to the announcement of Compaq and AMD.
"Pfeiffer," warned Lazare, fixing his gaze on the American. "Tomorrow, you'll be the one on stage. You are the one who announces the price, the performance of VoltaOS, and the immediate availability of the machine throughout the country. I don't want any mention of the French origin of the technology beyond the name Volta. We are a specter. America must feel like it has murdered itself."
Eckhard Pfeiffer nodded, fully understanding the geopolitical stakes behind this commercial massacre. If the public thought it was a Compaq innovation powered by a secret genius (Volta), the pill would pass.
"You won't come to the conference room?" Sanders wondered. "You are the architect of this chip, Lazarus! You should be in the front row to see Andy Grove's face when he realizes that his empire is on fire!"
Lazare let his gaze slide over the black case of the machine. The computer that would change the world.
"No, Jerry. Tomorrow, I will remain in the shadows of the hall. My face doesn't have to be associated with this triumph. Only the seal must exist in people's minds."
The Builder turned to the warehouse door, where the Chicago night was growing thicker.
"Rest, gentlemen. Tomorrow morning, the monopoly falls. And at six minutes past nine, the real war will begin."