Hidden Agendas Part 16

"Yeah. I really wanted to see how the middleweight wrestler was going to do against the light heavyweight."

They both laughed.

"So, how are you doing?" Julio asked. "I heard about the workstation business."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll figure it out."

"Any suspects?"

"At the top of my list? Jay Gridley. He doesn't like me. He thinks I slept my way into this job."

"Seriously?"

"That he thinks I used my feminine wiles? Or that he planted the leak in my station? Yes to the former, no to the latter. We aren't buddies, but I respect his abilities. Though if you tell him I said so, I'll deny it."

"Deny what?"

"He might keep stuff from me, but I don't think he's nasty-or stupid-enough to try to implicate me in a federal crime. After this a.s.signment, I'm back with our unit, so I'm no threat to his position. And he has to know I'm going to figure out who did it. Just a matter of time."

There was a moment of quiet when neither of them spoke.

"So how was it?" she asked. "The sortie?"

"By the numbers," he said. "The bad guys weren't in our league. They were outsmarted, outmaneuvered, and outgunned. Only mistake we made was mine. I'd been awake, I wouldn't be spending the night here with my leg propped up and a draft on my b.u.t.t. One of the yabbos hiding in a sensor nest had a few rounds of AP in her weapon. Fortunately, she was either rattled or a lousy shot. She cooked off most of a thirty-round stick and only nicked me one time. Guy with her was a better shooter, but he was using hardball and tracer, his ammo couldn't pierce the suits."

"Too bad I missed it," she said.

"You've been on a few field ops."

"Nothing lately. The colonel thinks I'm more useful in front of a computer. Last time I was in the field, I was in the HQ tent thirty miles away from the action."

"He's right," Fernandez said. "Grunts like me are a dime a dozen, but a computer genius is harder to replace."

She smiled. "I need to get back to work. Anything I can do for you?"

She saw him hesitate a second, and wondered if there would be an off-color remark. If he was looking for an opening, this was a good one.

He shook his head. "No, ma'am, but thank you for asking. I'll catch up on my sleep. See you when I get out." He flashed her a nice smile.

She resisted a sudden urge to lean over and kiss him. She was really beginning to like this guy.

"Later, Julio. We'll talk about computers when we get all this straightened out."

"I'd like that. Thanks for stopping by." Another hesitation, then: "Jo."

Jay Gridley had given up on the cowboy scenario because it felt too slow. True, speed in a scenario didn't translate to RT-real time-but if you were poking along on a horse when you felt like racing on a big Harley motorcycle, it made a subjective difference.

So now Jay turned to one of his favorite action heroes, borrowing from one of the early cla.s.sic James Bond movies, Thunderball Thunderball.

Over the landscape he flew, zipping through the air with the famous Bell Rocket Belt on his back.

Of course, in RW, the Bell device was not a belt at all, but a large and very heavy backpack. And it didn't have much of an operational range in RW either. Jay had done some research when designing his scenario. The original rocket belt was essentially nothing more than a pair of fuel tanks, some handlebars, a throttle, and a couple of rocket nozzles. How it worked was, hydrogen peroxide sprayed into a fine mesh, producing a very hot and hard steam that spewed from the rocket nozzles with a few hundred pounds of thrust. It was loud, dangerous, and you only had twenty-some seconds of lift, maybe thirty with the right fuel mixture and tuned nozzles, and that was it. You could lean in the direction you wanted to go, and later some maneuvering jets were added, but if you were a hundred feet up in the air when the gas ran out, you were going to fall and smash into the ground real hard.

A later version, the Tyler Belt, was a bit more efficient and gave a little more flight time, but the hops were still short and quick. A small jet-engine model that was theoretically capable of giving the wearer half an hour in the air had eventually been designed, but the U.S. military had claimed exclusive use of the new engine for its Cruise missiles.

So the personal backpack craft of science fiction just kind of fizzled out. The existing rocket belts wound up in museums or television commercials or movies, but that was it.

Jay's version of the rocket belt had a secret-but theoretically possible-fuel and a miniature jet engine that gave him an hour in the air and an automatic safety reserve to allow him to land when the fuel ran low. He could have given it infinite power in VR, of course, but that took some of the fun out of it. Realistic limits were better for the scenarios he created. Any fool could do fantasy; it took some skill to keep it believable.

Anyway, while it wasn't as fast as a jet or even his pedal-to-the-metal Viper, it was a real rush to fly along with the wind blowing in your face and ruffling your hair, to be able to leap tall buildings wearing the technological equivalent of seven league boots.

The way Jay figured it, if you couldn't have fun, why bother?

Right at the moment, Jay was zooming over the new sixteen-lane South China Causeway, from just outside Xianggang, Hong Kong, heading north to Jiulong, on the mainland, looking for Wong Electronics trucks. These were easy to spot from the air, given that they had bright orange roofs, each of which was numbered. In RW, without a VR scenario enabled, the "trucks" were actually packets of binary information gathered and collated at nodes and squirted across the net. RW was just too boring.

Wong Electronics made some minor pieces of hardware, but they specialized in transmission software, readers and mailers, and certain kinds of security programs. Whoever had snuck into Winthrop's computer had erected a couple of firewalls and dug two deadfalls on his or her way out to cover his or her a.s.s, and from the size and shape, even without the snipped-off ID codes, Jay knew the walls 'n' falls were top-of-the-line Wongware.

If he could locate, then sneak a ride on a Wong truck and get into their database, maybe he could find out who had bought the firewalls and deadfalls. It would be a brute-force cruncher of a project, but he had access to the power. Maybe the breaker had gotten sloppy and left a trail he could follow.

Ah. There was one of the orange-roof trucks now, a couple hundred feet below and half a mile ahead. He'd just drop on down and stow away. Breaking a lock on one of the trucks' doors would be easier than taking his shoes off for a player of Jay's ability.

He throttled back on the belt's thrust and started to lose alt.i.tude. He would very much like to find out who had used Winthrop's computer before she did. It would be a loss of face she would hate, he'd be s.h.i.+ny as a new wetlight chip, and he would love love it: it: Oh Oh, that? I ran the guy down, didn't I mention it I ran the guy down, didn't I mention it? Piece of cake, I'm surprised you didn't do it yourself by now. No, no need to thank me, Lieutenant, I was just doing my job Piece of cake, I'm surprised you didn't do it yourself by now. No, no need to thank me, Lieutenant, I was just doing my job...

Jay reached the rear of the truck, shucked off the jet pack, and got out his lock picks. It took him forty-five seconds to get the door open. He closed it quietly behind him.

That's Gridley. Jay Jay Gridley... Gridley...

From a thousand feet above Jay Gridley, Platt watched, holding slow and level the little helicopter he'd found himself flying in when he'd dialed into Gridley's scenario. Kind of neat, the rocket thing the guy wore, and the backgrounds were all sharp and laid in thick too. The little half-breed gook had some skill.

Of course, Platt had a little skill himself. Plus he had access to all kinds of secret c.r.a.p that a U.S. senator could put his hands on. Anything that White could touch, Hughes could touch, and whatever Hughes had, Platt could play with. There were real advantages to knowing top-secret codes. Platt could rascal stuff from the folks who built Net Force's computers, folks who had done the original hardware and programming, and who knew where all the back doors were hidden.

You hired a guy to build you a castle, he was gonna know where the secret compartments were, 'cause he put put them there. them there.

Platt watched the Net Force operative settle toward the orange roof of the Wong Electronics truck on the freeway below. The man dropped his jet pack, opened the truck's door, and climbed inside.

This was gonna be as much fun as goin' upside somebody's head. This little gook with his jet pack didn't have a clue who he was dealin' with. Not a f.u.c.kin' clue. He was gonna get his a.s.s kicked, and Platt was gonna love doin' it too.

He let the helicopter sink a little.

When he was over the truck and maybe sixty feet up, he opened the copter's window and leaned out, a twenty-five-pound barbell weight in one hand. He extended the weight, lined up, and let it drop.

The steel plate fell, hitting the cab. The driver swerved into the car in the lane next to him. He slammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt. n.o.body got hurt, but it ought to rattle little Jay pretty good.

Platt hit the copter's throttled, rose, and veered away. By the time Jay-Jay got his s.h.i.+t together, Platt would be long gone.

We havin' fun now, ain't we?

Chapter Twenty.

Friday, December 31st, 4 p.m. Quantico, Virginia It was Jay Gridley who was the bearer of the bad news.

Alexander Michaels was feeling pretty good that there hadn't been any more top-secret leaks into the net for the entire workweek. He was about to go home and enjoy a quiet beer or two on New Year's Eve. He planned to be asleep by the time midnight rolled around, and with it the year 2011 and whatever joys and griefs it would bring. But as he was getting ready to leave his office to beat the traffic, Jay came in with a couple of sheets of hardcopy in his hand.

"I think you ought to take a look at this, Boss."

"It can't wait until Monday?"

"I don't think so."

"Why don't I like the tone of that?"

Jay tendered the hardcopy. Michaels looked at it. He started to read it aloud: "Overlord Beasts of America: "Know you Beasts that your days are numbered. Know you Oppressors of the Disenfranchised People, that the Number of the Beast is 666, and that the Number fast approaches. We, the Representatives of the People, we, The Frihedsakse, will bring Low You Despoilers of Earth, You Masters of Tyranny."

Michaels looked up from the hardcopy at Jay. "Fried socks? Freed s.e.x?"

"Close enough. Our universal translator says it's Danish. Means 'axis of liberty.' "

"Danish? I never heard heard of any Danish terrorists! Denmark is a peaceful, civilized country where you can let your old grandma go for walks alone at night without worrying she'll get mugged." of any Danish terrorists! Denmark is a peaceful, civilized country where you can let your old grandma go for walks alone at night without worrying she'll get mugged."

"Sure. She won't get mugged, but she might slip and freeze and maybe turn into a granny-sicle," Jay said.

Michaels shook his head and continued reading: "For Your Wicked Ways are Manifest and Myriad, and we Shall Reveal your Sickness to All. All Shall Know You for your Evil, and the Weapons of your Sinful Ways Shall be used Against You, for the Power of Knowledge is the Light that All Demons Fear and the Power of Knowledge is given to the People."

"Brother," Michaels said. He looked at Jay again. "So why didn't you add this one to the pile of other whackaloos claiming responsibility for the leaks?"

"Read on, McDuff."

"You cannot Hide from the Light of Justice, nor can You Run from the People's Retribution, nor will Fortresses save You, for you are Hated by the People."

"A kind of loose interpretation of Machiavelli, that part," Jay said.

"Against You the People will throw All that is needed to Defeat you. The End is Near. Prepare for your Doom."

It was signed "The Frihedsakse Frihedsakse."

Michaels looked at Jay yet again.

"Next page," Jay prompted.

On the next page was a list of numbers.

"As nearly as we can tell, those are the original posting times and dates for all the major leaks we've been running down. There are a couple there we missed. We went back and strained a lot of stuff posted then, using the Super Cray Colander. We found a posting of the master list for last month's new American Express customer names and numbers. The other posting we found reveals the codes for all the computer-controlled railroad safety lights and switches on the main commuter line between Was.h.i.+ngton and Baltimore. A bright hacker could use those to pile half-a-dozen trains up into big heaps of smoking sc.r.a.p before somebody figured out what was going on. We called American Express and Amtrak."

"Jesus."

"Unlikely anybody would know those specifics unless they posted them in the first place, Boss."

Michaels looked at the number. The last one in the sequence read: /31/10-1159.

"That's tonight? December 31st, one second before midnight?"

"Yes, sir. If these are the guys, they are going to leak something just as the New Year arrives. Be my guess it won't be a recipe for mulled wine."

"s.h.i.+t."

"I hear that, Boss."

"Any way to trace this?"

"Sure. We already did. Posted on a public BBS from a pay phone in Grand Central Terminal, New York City, at 3:15 p.m. today. Rush hour, New Year's Eve. No sig, no ID, no residual DNA from the modem jack on the phone, no fingerprints. A six-phone bank next to a coffee shop. Phones are in a dead zone, no security cams watching 'em. Records show thirty-seven calls were made at those six phones between 5 p.m. and 5:20 p.m. Good luck trying to find whoever sent it."

"Better tell your s.h.i.+ft they won't be partying tonight."

"Already done," Jay said. "We're scanning all the major nets we can, we've turned all of our search engines on, have squealbots roaming, and we've informed all of the big commercial services to grab anything coming in from 11:55 p.m. to 12:05 a.m. I expect we're going to get real sick of reading 'Happy New Year!' but if he posts anything on a major board or node, we should get it pretty quick."

Michaels said, "Good work, Jay. I guess I'll be in my office."

"Happy New Year, Boss." "Yeah. Right."

PART TWO.

Secrets Made Manifest

Chapter Twenty-One.

Sat.u.r.day, January 1st, 2011, 12:03 a.m. Marietta, Georgia Platt sat in the kitchen of his house, the house that had belonged to his mother before she died, his laptop computer on the wooden table next to the fridge. He took another big ole slug of the Southern Comfort and c.o.ke over ice, and giggled. Four minutes it had taken the Net Force pukes to snag his posting. He'd have thought they coulda done it in less, given they knew exactly when it was coming and all, but okay, cut 'em a little slack, they did have a lot of territory to cover. He'd stuck a squealer on the note and dropped it into a public chat room on the World OnLine commercial service, the WOL room marked "Gay Texans."