CHAPTER 48
“What?” Midge sputtered in disbelief. “Strathmore claims our data is wrong?”
Brinkerhoff nodded and hung up the phone.
“Strathmore denied that TRANSLTR’s been stuck on one file for eighteen hours?”
“He was quite pleasant about the whole thing.” Brinkerhoff beamed, pleased with himself for surviving the phone call. “He assured me TRANSLTR was working fine. Said it was breaking codes every six minutes even as we speak. Thanked me for checking up on him.”
“He’s lying,” Midge snapped. “I’ve been running these Crypto stats for two years. The data is never wrong.”
“First time for everything,” he said casually.
She shot him a disapproving look. “I run all data twice.”
“Well . . . you know what they say about computers. When they screw up, at least they’re consistent about it.”
Midge spun and faced him. “This isn’t funny, Chad! The DDO just told a blatant lie to the director’s office. I want to know why!”
Brinkerhoff suddenly wished he hadn’t called her back in. Strathmore’s phone call had set her off. Ever since Skipjack, whenever Midge had a sense that something suspicious was going on, she made an eerie transition from flirt to fiend. There was no stopping her until she sorted it out.
“Midge, it is possible our data is off,” Brinkerhoff said firmly. “I mean, think about it‑a file that ties up TRANSLTR for eighteen hours? It’s unheard of. Go home. It’s late.”
She gave him a haughty look and tossed the report on the counter. “I trust the data. Instinct says it’s right.”
Brinkerhoff frowned. Not even the director questioned Midge Milken’s instincts anymore‑she had an uncanny habit of always being right.
“Something’s up,” she declared. “And I intend to find out what it is.”
CHAPTER 49
Becker dragged himself off the floor of the bus and collapsed in an empty seat.
“Nice move, dipshit.” The kid with the three spikes sneered. Becker squinted in the stark lighting. It was the kid he’d chased onto the bus. He glumly surveyed the sea of red, white, and blue coiffures.
“What’s with the hair?” Becker moaned, motioning to the others. “It’s all . . .”
“Red, white, and blue?” the kid offered.
Becker nodded, trying not to stare at the infected perforation in the kid’s upper lip.
“Judas Taboo,” the kid said matter‑of‑factly.
Becker looked bewildered.
The punk spit in the aisle, obviously disgusted with Becker’s ignorance. “Judas Taboo? Greatest punk since Sid Vicious? Blew his head off here a year ago today. It’s his anniversary.”
Becker nodded vaguely, obviously missing the connection.
“Taboo did his hair this way the day he signed off.” The kid spit again. “Every fan worth his weight in piss has got red, white, and blue hair today.”
For a long moment, Becker said nothing. Slowly, as if he had been shot with a tranquilizer, he turned and faced front. Becker surveyed the group on the bus. Every last one was a punk. Most were staring at him.
Every fan has red, white, and blue hair today.
Becker reached up and pulled the driver‑alert cord on the wall. It was time to get off. He pulled again. Nothing happened. He pulled a third time, more frantically. Nothing.
“They disconnect 'em on bus 27.” The kid spat again. “So we don’t fuck with 'em.”
Becker turned. “You mean, I can’t get off?”
The kid laughed. “Not till the end of the line.”
Five minutes later, the bus was barreling along an unlit Spanish country road. Becker turned to the kid behind him. “Is this thing ever going to stop?”
The kid nodded. “Few more miles.”
“Where are we going?”
He broke into a sudden wide grin. “You mean you don’t know?”
Becker shrugged.
The kid started laughing hysterically. “Oh, shit. You’re gonna love it.”
CHAPTER 50
Only yards from TRANSLTR’s hull, Phil Chartrukian stood over a patch of white lettering on the Crypto floor.
CRYPTO SUBLEVELS
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
He knew he was definitely not authorized personnel. He shot a quick glance up at Strathmore’s office. The curtains were still pulled. Chartrukian had seen Susan Fletcher go into the bathrooms, so he knew she wasn’t a problem. The only other question was Hale. He glanced toward Node 3, wondering if the cryptographer were watching.
“Fuck it,” he grumbled.
Below his feet the outline of a recessed trapdoor was barely visible in the floor. Chartrukian palmed the key he’d just taken from the Sys‑Sec lab.
He knelt down, inserted the key in the floor, and turned. The bolt beneath clicked. Then he unscrewed the large external butterfly latch and freed the door. Checking once again over his shoulder, he squatted down and pulled. The panel was small, only three feet by three feet, but it was heavy. When it finally opened, the Sys‑Sec stumbled back.
A blast of hot air hit him in the face. It carried with it the sharp bite of freon gas. Billows of steam swirled out of the opening, illuminated by the red utility lighting below. The distant hum of the generators became a rumble. Chartrukian stood up and peered into the opening. It looked more like the gateway to hell than a service entrance for a computer. A narrow ladder led to a platform under the floor. Beyond that, there were stairs, but all he could see was swirling red mist.
* * *
Greg Hale stood behind the one‑way glass of Node 3. He watched as Phil Chartrukian eased himself down the ladder toward the sublevels. From where Hale was standing, the Sys‑Sec’s head appeared to have been severed from his body and left out on the Crypto floor. Then, slowly, it sank into the swirling mist.
“Gutsy move,” Hale muttered. He knew where Chartrukian was headed. An emergency manual abort of TRANSLTR was a logical action if he thought the computer had a virus. Unfortunately, it was also a sure way to have Crypto crawling with Sys‑Secs in about ten minutes. Emergency actions raised alert flags at the main switchboard. A Sys‑Sec investigation of Crypto was something Hale could not afford. Hale left Node 3 and headed for the trapdoor. Chartrukian had to be stopped.
CHAPTER 51
Jabba resembled a giant tadpole. Like the cinematic creature for whom he was nicknamed, the man was a hairless spheroid. As resident guardian angel of all NSA computer systems, Jabba marched from department to department, tweaking, soldering, and reaffirming his credo that prevention was the best medicine. No NSA computer had ever been infected under Jabba’s reign; he intended to keep it that way.
Jabba’s home base was a raised workstation overlooking the NSA’s underground, ultra‑secret databank. It was there that a virus would do the most damage and there that he spent the majority of his time. At the moment, however, Jabba was taking a break and enjoying pepperoni calzones in the NSA’s all‑night commissary. He was about to dig into his third when his cellular phone rang.
“Go,” he said, coughing as he swallowed a mouthful.
“Jabba,” a woman’s voice cooed. “It’s Midge.”
“Data Queen!” the huge man gushed. He’d always had a soft spot for Midge Milken. She was sharp, and she was also the only woman Jabba had ever met who flirted with him. “How the hell are you?”
“No complaints.”
Jabba wiped his mouth. “You on site?”
“Yup.”
“Care to join me for a calzone?”
“Love to Jabba, but I’m watching these hips.”
“Really?” He snickered. “Mind if I join you?”
“You’re bad.”
“You have no idea . . .”
“Glad I caught you in,” she said. “I need some advice.”
He took a long swallow of Dr Pepper. “Shoot.”