Soshi dashed off.
Jabba relied on VR often. In most computer circles, VR meant “virtual reality,” but at the NSA it meant vis‑rep‑visual representation. In a world full of technicians and politicians all having different levels of technical understanding, a graphic representation was often the only way to make a point; a single plummeting graph usually aroused ten times the reaction inspired by volumes of spreadsheets. Jabba knew a VR of the current crisis would make its point instantly.
“VR!” Soshi yelled from a terminal at the back of the room.
A computer‑generated diagram flashed to life on the wall before them. Susan gazed up absently, detached from the madness around her. Everyone in the room followed Jabba’s gaze to the screen.
The diagram before them resembled a bull’s‑eye. In the center was a red circle marked data. Around the center were five concentric circles of differing thickness and color. The outermost circle was faded, almost transparent.
“We’ve got a five‑tier level of defense,” Jabba explained. “A primary Bastion Host, two sets of packet filters for FTP and X‑eleven, a tunnel block, and finally a PEM‑based authorization window right off the Truffle project. The outside shield that’s disappearing represents the exposed host. It’s practically gone. Within the hour, all five shields will follow. After that, the world pours in. Every byte of NSA data becomes public domain.”
Fontaine studied the VR, his eyes smoldering.
Brinkerhoff let out a weak whimper. “This worm can open our databank to the world?”
“Child’s play for Tankado,” Jabba snapped. “Gauntlet was our fail‑safe. Strathmore blew it.”
“It’s an act of war,” Fontaine whispered, an edge in his voice.
Jabba shook his head. “I really doubt Tankado ever meant for it to go this far. I suspect he intended to be around to stop it.”
Fontaine gazed up at the screen and watched the first of the five walls disappear entirely.
“Bastion Host is toast!” a technician yelled from the back of the room. “Second shield’s exposed!”
“We’ve got to start shutting down,” Jabba urged. “From the looks of the VR, we’ve got about forty‑five minutes. Shutdown is a complex process.”
It was true. The NSA databank had been constructed in such a way as to ensure it would never lose power‑accidentally or if attacked. Multiple fail‑safes for phone and power were buried in reinforced steel canisters deep underground, and in addition to the feeds from within the NSA complex, there were multiple backups off main public grids. Shutting down involved a complex series of confirmations and protocols‑significantly more complicated than the average nuclear submarine missile launch.
“We have time,” Jabba said, “if we hurry. Manual shutdown should take about thirty minutes.”
Fontaine continued staring up at the VR, apparently pondering his options.
“Director!” Jabba exploded. “When these firewalls fall, every user on the planet will be issued top‑security clearance! And I’m talking upper level! Records of covert ops! Overseas agents! Names and locations of everyone in the federal witness protection program! Launch code confirmations! We must shut down! Now!”
The director seemed unmoved. “There must be some other way.”
“Yes,” Jabba spat, “there is! The kill‑code! But the only guy who knows it happens to be dead!”
“How about brute force?” Brinkerhoff blurted. “Can we guess the kill‑code?”
Jabba threw up his arms. “For Christ sake! Kill‑codes are like encryption keys‑random! Impossible to guess! If you think you can type 600 trillion entries in the next forty‑five minutes, be my guest!”
“The kill‑code’s in Spain,” Susan offered weakly.
Everyone on the podium turned. It was the first thing she had said in a long time.
Susan looked up, bleary‑eyed. “Tankado gave it away when he died.”
Everyone looked lost.
“The pass‑key . . .” Susan shivered as she spoke. “Commander Strathmore sent someone to find it.”
“And?” Jabba demanded. “Did Strathmore’s man find it?”
Susan tried to fight it, but the tears began to flow. “Yes,” she choked. “I think so.”
CHAPTER 111
An earsplitting yell cut through the control room. “Sharks!” It was Soshi.
Jabba spun toward the VR. Two thin lines had appeared outside the concentric circles. They looked like sperm trying to breach a reluctant egg.
“Blood’s in the water, folks!” Jabba turned back to the director. “I need a decision. Either we start shutting down, or we’ll never make it. As soon as these two intruders see the Bastion Host is down, they’ll send up a war cry.”
Fontaine did not respond. He was deep in thought. Susan Fletcher’s news of the pass‑key in Spain seemed promising to him. He shot a glance toward Susan in the back of the room. She appeared to be in her own world, collapsed in a chair, her head buried in her hands. Fontaine was unsure exactly what had triggered the reaction, but whatever it was, he had no time for it now.
“I need a decision!” Jabba demanded. “Now!”
Fontaine looked up. He spoke calmly. “Okay, you’ve got one. We are not shutting down. We’re going to wait.”
Jabba’s jaw dropped. “What? But that’s—”
“A gamble,” Fontaine interrupted. “A gamble we just might win.” He took Jabba’s cellular and punched a few keys. “Midge,” he said. “It’s Leland Fontaine. Listen carefully . . .”
CHAPTER 112
“You better know what the hell you’re doing, Director,” Jabba hissed. “We’re about to lose shut‑down capability.”
Fontaine did not respond.
As if on cue, the door at the back of the control room opened, and Midge came dashing in. She arrived breathless at the podium. “Director! The switchboard is patching it through right now!”
Fontaine turned expectantly toward the screen on the front wall. Fifteen seconds later the screen crackled to life.
The image on screen was snowy and stilted at first, and gradually grew sharper. It was a QuickTime digital transmission‑only five frames per second. The image revealed two men. One was pale with a buzz cut, the other a blond all‑American. They were seated facing the camera like two newscasters waiting to go on the air.
“What the hell is this?” Jabba demanded.
“Sit tight,” Fontaine ordered.
The men appeared to be inside a van of some sort. Electronic cabling hung all around them. The audio connection crackled to life. Suddenly there was background noise.
“Inbound audio,” a technician called from behind them. “Five seconds till two‑way.”
“Who are they?” Brinkerhoff asked, uneasily.
“Eye in the sky,” Fontaine replied, gazing up at the two men he had sent to Spain. It had been a necessary precaution. Fontaine had believed in almost every aspect of Strathmore’s plan‑the regrettable but necessary removal of Ensei Tankado, rewriting Digital Fortress‑it was all solid. But there was one thing that made Fontaine nervous: the use of Hulohot. Hulohot was skilled, but he was a mercenary. Was he trustworthy? Would he take the pass‑key for himself? Fontaine wanted Hulohot covered, just incase, and he had taken the requisite measures.
CHAPTER 113
“Absolutely not!” The man with the buzz cut yelled into the camera. “We have orders! We report to Director Leland Fontaine and Leland Fontaine only!”
Fontaine looked mildly amused. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” the blond fired hotly.
“Let me explain,” Fontaine interjected. “Let me explain something right now.”
Seconds later, the two men were red‑faced, spilling their guts to the director of the National Security Agency. “D‑director,” the blond stammered, “I’m Agent Coliander. This is Agent Smith.”