CHAPTER 48

"What?" Midge sputtered in disbelief. "Strathmoreclaims our data is wrong?"

Brinkerhoff nodded and hung up the phone.

"Strathmore denied that TRANSLTR's been stuckon one file for eighteen hours?"

"He was quite pleasant about the whole thing."Brinkerhoff beamed, pleased with himself for surviving the phonecall. "He a.s.sured me TRANSLTR was working fine.

Said it wasbreaking codes every six minutes even as we speak. Thanked me forchecking up on him."

"He's lying," Midge snapped. "I've beenrunning these Crypto stats for two years. The data is neverwrong." "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. Whenthey screw up, at least they're consistent about it."

Midge spun and faced him. "This isn't funny, Chad! TheDDO just told a blatant lie to the director's office. I wantto 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 nostopping her until she sorted it out.

"Midge, it is possible our data is off,"Brinkerhoff said firmly. "I mean, think about it-a filethat ties up TRANSLTR for eighteen hours? It's unheard of. Gohome. It's late."

She gave him a haughty look and tossed the report on thecounter. "I trust the data.

Instinct says it'sright."

Brinkerhoff frowned. Not even the director questioned MidgeMilken's instincts anymore-she had an uncanny habit ofalways being right.

"Something's up," she declared. "And Iintend to find out what it is."

CHAPTER 49

Becker dragged himself off the floor of the bus and collapsed inan empty seat.

"Nice move, dips.h.i.t." The kid with the three spikessneered. Becker squinted in the stark lighting. It was the kidhe'd chased onto the bus. He glumly surveyed the sea of red,white, and blue coif-fures.

"What's with the hair?" Becker moaned, motioningto the others. "It's all ..."

"Red, white, and blue?" the kid offered.

Becker nodded, trying not to stare at the infected perforationin the kid's upper lip. "Judas Taboo," the kid said matter-of-factly.

Becker looked bewildered.

The punk spit in the aisle, obviously disgusted withBecker's ignorance. "Judas Taboo? Greatest punk since SidVicious? Blew his head off here a year ago today. It's hisanniversary."

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 p.i.s.s hasgot red, white, and blue hair today."

For a long moment, Becker said nothing. Slowly, as if he hadbeen shot with a tranquilizer, he turned and faced front. Beckersurveyed the group on the bus. Every last one was a punk. Most werestaring 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. Hepulled a third time, more frantically. Nothing.

"They disconnect 'em on bus 27." The kid spatagain. "So we don't f.u.c.k 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 Spanishcountry road. Becker turned to the kid behind him. "Is thisthing 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'tknow?"

Becker shrugged.

The kid started laughing hysterically. "Oh, s.h.i.t.You're gonna love it."

CHAPTER 50 Only yards from TRANSLTR's hull, Phil Chartrukian stoodover a patch of white lettering on the Crypto floor.

CRYPTO SUBLEVELS AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY He knew he was definitely not authorized personnel. Heshot a quick glance up at Strathmore's office. The curtainswere still pulled. Chartrukian had seen Susan Fletcher go into thebathrooms, so he knew she wasn't a problem. The only otherquestion was Hale. He glanced toward Node 3, wondering if thecryptographer were watching.

"f.u.c.k it," he grumbled.

Below his feet the outline of a recessed trapdoor was barelyvisible in the floor.

Chartrukian palmed the key he'd justtaken from the Sys-Sec lab.

He knelt down, inserted the key in the floor, and turned. Thebolt beneath clicked.

Then he unscrewed the large externalb.u.t.terfly latch and freed the door. Checking once again over hisshoulder, he squatted down and pulled. The panel was small, onlythree 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 thesharp bite of freon gas.

Billows of steam swirled out of theopening, illuminated by the red utility lighting below. The distanthum of the generators became a rumble. Chartrukian stood up andpeered into the opening. It looked more like the gateway to h.e.l.lthan a service entrance for a computer. A narrow ladder led to aplatform under the floor. Beyond that, there were stairs, but allhe could see was swirling red mist.

Greg Hale stood behind the one-way gla.s.s of Node 3. He watchedas Phil Chartrukian eased himself down the ladder toward thesublevels. From where Hale was standing, the Sys-Sec's headappeared to have been severed from his body and left out on theCrypto floor. Then, slowly, it sank into the swirling mist.

"Gutsy move," Hale muttered. He knew where Chartrukianwas headed. An emergency manual abort of TRANSLTR was a logicalaction if he thought the computer had a virus. Unfortunately, itwas also a sure way to have Crypto crawling with Sys-Secs in aboutten minutes. Emergency actions raised alert flags at the mainswitchboard. A Sys-Sec investigation of Crypto was something Halecould 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 forwhom he was nicknamed, the man was a hairless spheroid. As residentguardian angel of all NSA computer systems, Jabba marched fromdepartment to department, tweaking, soldering, and reaffirming hiscredo that prevention was the best medicine. No NSA computer hadever been infected under Jabba's reign; he intended to keep itthat way.

Jabba's home base was a raised workstation overlooking theNSA's underground, ultra-secret databank. It was there that avirus would do the most damage and there that he spent the majorityof his time. At the moment, however, Jabba was taking a break andenjoying pepperoni calzones in the NSA's all-night commissary.He was about to dig into his third when his cellular phonerang.

"Go," he said, coughing as he swallowed amouthful.

"Jabba," a woman's voice cooed. "It'sMidge."

"Data Queen!" the huge man gushed. He'd alwayshad a soft spot for Midge Milken.

She was sharp, and she was alsothe only woman Jabba had ever met who flirted with him. "Howthe h.e.l.l 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 joinyou?"

"You're bad."

"You have no idea... ."

"Glad I caught you in," she said. "I need someadvice."

He took a long swallow of Dr Pepper. "Shoot."

"It might be nothing," Midge said, "but my Cryptostats turned up something odd. I was hoping you could shed somelight." "What ya got?" He took another sip.

"I've got a report saying TRANSLTR's been runningthe same file for eighteen hours and hasn't crackedit."

Jabba sprayed Dr Pepper all over his calzone. "You what?"

"Any ideas?"

He dabbed at his calzone with a napkin. "What report isthis?"

"Production report. Basic cost a.n.a.lysis stuff." Midgequickly explained what she and Brinkerhoff had found.

"Have you called Strathmore?"

"Yes. He said everything's fine in Crypto. SaidTRANSLTR's running full speed ahead. Said our data'swrong."

Jabba furrowed his bulbous forehead. "So what's theproblem? Your report glitched."

Midge did not respond. Jabbacaught her drift. He frowned. "You don't think yourreport glitched?"

"Correct."

"So you think Strathmore's lying?"

"It's not that," Midge said diplomatically,knowing she was on fragile ground. "It's just that mystats have never been wrong in the past. I thought I'd get asecond opinion."

"Well," Jabba said, "I hate to be the one tobreak it to you, but your data's fried."

"You think so?"

"I'd bet my job on it." Jabba took a big bite ofsoggy calzone and spoke with his mouth full. "Longest a filehas ever lasted inside TRANSLTR is three hours. That includesdiagnostics, boundary probes, everything. Only thing that couldlock it down for eighteen hours would have to be viral. Nothingelse could do it."

"Viral?"

"Yeah, some kind of redundant cycle. Something that gotinto the processors, created a loop, and basically gummed up theworks."

"Well," she ventured, "Strathmore's been inCrypto for about thirty-six hours straight.