Locked Down

by Ed Kovacs

  “I'm going to rush him before the whole Chinese army shows up,” said Hernandez.

  “Please don't do that.”

  “It's time to move, files or no files. I only have three rounds left.” He started to open the door.

  “Wait!” shouted Grant, as her eyes darted to the countdown display. It read 01:51, then jumped down to 01:22, then jumped again to 00:37. In the IT world, digital countdown clocks could be cruel, or they could be beautiful. Right now it looked glorious.

  Hernandez registered shock. The countdown display had zeroed out: 00:00.

  “We got it?!” he asked, almost not believing it.

  “We got it!” she gushed, snatching her flash drive from the PC. “And look.” She pointed to an emergency evacuation diagram sign mounted on the wall. “There are two ways into the supercomputer room. Let's use the rear exit in case Zhao isn't alone.”

  He turned and fired three more times toward Zhao's position, to discourage any approach. The pistol clicked empty and he tossed it. They hurried to the door leading into the airlock. A bright red sign with white letters was mounted on it in Chinese and English:

  WHEN ALARM SOUNDS

  VACATE AT ONCE

  HALON 1301 BEING RELEASED

  He flung open the door and ran with Grant into the airlock toward Tianhe-2.

  ###

  Zhao Yiren stood in the hallway, at the open doorway leading into the changing room that led into the control room that lead into Tianhe-2. While normally he might complain about the delay in a police response to a shooting, in this instance he was glad. Lin had obviously failed. Perhaps he himself could do the deed before police arrived.

  Zhao stepped into the changing room, while pointing his weapon at the much shot-up door. He stepped around the bodies of General Ma and his girlfriend and crossed to the door. He hesitated only for a moment, and then looked in through the shot-out window.

  He counted three bodies: Lin and two technicians. Where were the Americans? Zhao angrily flung open the door and barged into the control room.

  He saw 00:00 displayed on a flat panel monitor. Zhao's booze addled brain perked up. Why had they come here, to Tianhe-2? Ma only wanted to save his girlfriend. No, it was Grant and Hernandez. They needed to use the supercomputer, something about her files on the laptop in his condo. He was simply too drunk and couldn't put it together. No matter, if he killed them now, he'd not only solve his problems, but be a hero to all of China. Since they could only be in the computer room itself, he stormed into the airlock.

  ###

  When General Ma regained consciousness, pain shot into his brain like a white hot poker. He sprawled on the floor confused and nauseous. He'd been knocked unconscious not by being shot, but by hitting his head as he fell. He'd taken some bullets, and it took a few seconds to find the wet, sticky places on his shirt. Ma didn't feel pain, but felt woozy. He got to all fours and when he saw Oi Lam his face contorted like he was about to cry. The general crawled to her, ripped open her clean room gown and recoiled at the sight of the blood covering her chest. “Oi Lam! Oi Lam!”

  She didn't respond. Ma literally gasped, My son! Please let him live! Without thinking, he scooped his arms under her and stood up unsteadily. Horrible pain from the gunshot wound now coiled up through his torso, and he broke out into a sweat, but he calmly walked out through the open door and into the hallway holding his lover, with the fetus of his unborn son in her belly.

  CHAPTER 37

  01:21

  Grant and Hernandez made a bee line to the rear of the chilly room housing the rows of elegant metal cabinets that comprised the supercomputer. She tried the door leading into the rear airlock, but it wouldn't budge. This airlock stood in the opposite corner from the front airlock, and from here, they couldn't see the control room windows. The six long black consoles shielded them from view while emanating a low hum, like an electronic mantra to the gods of computation.

  Grant tried the door again. “It must be stuck.”

  Hernandez pulled hard but the door remained frozen in place. “It's not stuck, it's locked from the inside. He winced from pain as he bent down to examine the door handle more closely. Then a shot rang out and a bullet pinged into the door frame right in front of them. He reached up and pulled her with him to the floor. Another shot, and then the sound of a slide locking back on an empty semi-automatic pistol, indicating that the gun was out of ammunition.

  Hernandez caught a glimpse of Zhao standing at the opposite end of the room, backlit by soft light. “Give me your gun,” he whispered.

  She looked confused. “I must have left it in the control room.”

  Hernandez could just make out the sight of Zhao ejecting his empty magazine. “Quick, he's reloading.”

  They scrambled to their feet and hustled along the rear wall. Searing pain from the knife wound stabbed him all over again as they ran into the space between the first two rows of consoles. Another shot rang out and splintered into a tower of electronics recessed in the wall behind them. Hernandez pulled her to him as they took cover at the end of the second row of cabinets.

  Six perfectly parallel, long rows of wide and tall consoles comprised Tianhe-2. Hernandez and Grant stood at one end of a console, Zhao at the other end. If he committed to any particular aisle to come after them, they could simply choose a different aisle and try to reach the front airlock. But he had a weapon and they didn't. As Hernandez looked up to the top of a console, she followed his gaze.

  “These things will support our weight?”

  “Yes. Technicians spend a lot of time on top of consoles to run wires.”

  “Alright, here's the plan.” He put his hands on her shoulders so she had to face him. He locked his gaze into her eyes. “We go up. You first. Crawl quickly but quietly toward the front door. I'll do the same on the next console over. When you get to the other end, drop down, go through the airlock, and don't stop for anything. Head for the river. Jaffir should be in Guangzhou any minute. His number’s in your phone. We'll call him and get out of this mess.”

  He couldn't tell if she believed him, but her eyes moistened. “We're not going to make it, are we?” she managed to say.

  “Hell yes, we'll make it! I'm just giving you the plan. I thought you liked plans,” he joked, trying to give her hope in a hopeless situation. “I've given you how many today? Be thankful.”

  “I am thankful. I'm so thankful for you, for everything you've done. I want us to—”

  He took her face and kissed her passionately. He broke off, and then stroked her cheek. “Grant, listen. You're an amazing woman. I can't believe I'm saying it, but it's the truth. You're one of the best partners I've ever had. You taught me a lot today. And I very much look forward to spending some relaxed time with you, even if you do have two left feet.”

  She held him tight and drilled her eyes into his. “Why don't we—?”

  “Please do what I ask, and trust me.” He gently turned her around then squatted slightly, offering his right thigh as a step. “Put your foot here like you're using a step-stool.” She pushed off from him and grabbed the raised edges of the console. He grabbed her thighs and lifted, giving her enough momentum to pull herself on top of the console.

  Hundreds of yellow and orange cables snaked along the top—the raised edges of the consoles were designed to act as “cable trays” keeping all of the cabling from spilling over the sides, but right now they provided her with cover—she couldn't be seen by anyone walking along the aisle below.

  Waves of pain from lifting Grant raked his upper body and left leg. Hernandez fought to stay standing as he clutched his gunshot wound. A shower of sweat coursed down from his forehead. His stab wound felt like a white hot tear, the gunshot wound radiated an inner burn. Clammy and feverish, anemic from blood loss and lack of sleep, spent from too many adrenalin rushes, he felt dead on his feet. He wanted to go to sleep for a week. He wanted a cold one and a nice cigar and a beach chair in Antigua. Too weak to hoist himself atop a conso
le, he battled to shake off dizziness and chanced a look down an aisle as fever sweat dripped from his chin and spattered onto the floor.

  The dark silhouette of Zhao stood lurking at the other end of the long console like a final reaper at the Ninth Gate of Hell. A shot rang out, and then Hernandez stumbled wearily along the far wall, drawing Zhao away from Nicole Grant.

  ###

  It wasn't that the police response was slow, local police and Sun Yat-sen University security guards simply couldn't get into the secure building that housed Tianhe-2. None of the campus cops had the right key card, since they didn't work in this section of the university. About twenty-five officers stood around the main entrance with their guns drawn. They'd already checked the perimeter, and all of the heavy steel doors were locked. An officer spoke into his cell phone, trying to get someone to bring the right key card, since the guards inside were presumed to be dead.

  A campus security supervisor then drove up in a small white car. The chubby man ran panting to the door, swiped a key card and the door clicked open. All of the officers from various departments ran into the building, leaving the perimeter unguarded.

  ###

  Tears streamed down his face as Major General Ma Ju shoved his hips against the push bar of an emergency exit. He ignored the pain from his gunshots as he trotted out onto the lawn of the Tianhe-2 complex. His helicopter touched down only thirty yards away. Ma seemed to gain strength as he neared the roaring whine of the engine, and he powered through the rotor wash from the spinning overhead blades. He jogged the last few yards, strengthened by the lure of escape. The co-pilot emerged and helped get the body of Oi Lam inside, where Ma held his lover's hand, trying to will his chi—his life energy—into her. He glanced out for a last look at the campus as the bird lifted into the night sky. His face muscles tightened into a facade of hate. Hate for Guangzhou and the local cadre who had refused to help. Hate for his childhood friend Zhao who betrayed him. But mostly, hate for Nicole Grant and Ron Hernandez, the American spies who had ruined his life.

  ###

  Grant slithered over cabling running along the top of the console until she reached the end. She lifted her head and saw the front airlock door only fifteen feet away. Movement from inside the control room caught her eye, as police arrived. When some cops peered into the computer room she ducked back down. Hernandez had told her to get through the airlock, but that plan had lasted less than a minute.

  Gunfire rang out from the far corner of the room. She instinctively knew—instinctively, there was a new concept for her—that Hernandez had lured Zhao away from the airlock door to give her a chance to make a run for it. He was sacrificing himself for her freedom.

  She bit down on her lip as her mind raced. Every problem has a solution, what's the solution here? It came to her in a flash—the sign on the airlock door! Halon gas! She reached into her fake Celine bag and found the phony Cartier cigarette lighter she'd bought for her smoker friend back in Phoenix. She tugged at an orange cable and positioned it over the lighter's flame. Black smoke curled up toward the ceiling. Heat sensors and smoke detectors in rooms such as this were numerous and extremely sensitive. After only a moment, a loud shrieking alarm pierced the room. Fire alarm!

  Institutions with a $400 million investment to protect don't want a fire. And they don't want a sprinkler system to spray water and ruin all the electronics. Fire suppression systems for supercomputers and other facilities full of costly electronics were usually comprised of gasses that were pumped into the sealed room once a sensor detected too much heat. The fast-acting, invisible, odorless gasses reduced the oxygen content in a sealed space, such as a computer clean room, to less than ten percent, well below the level of combustion. The sensitivity of the sensors could detect heat before combustion took place, and the gas solved the problem before an actual fire broke out.

  But people need oxygen to breathe, and many human fatalities had been racked up over the years when personnel were not able to exit fast enough from a room filled with the fire suppression gasses, especially Halon gas, now banned in the United States.

  Respirators! She'd seen respirators next to the locked rear airlock door.

  ###

  Cops hauled the older, unconscious technician from the control room. Chief Lin and the security guard were dead. The angry young technician had regained consciousness and they had him sitting in a chair. Two cops were about to enter the airlock to get into the supercomputer room when the piercing fire alarm went off.

  “Wait!” shouted the young technician to the cops. “Don't go in there unless you want to die.”

  The two policemen stopped just short of the airlock. “Someone's inside!” a cop called out.

  Everyone turned to look through the windows with surprise as Grant stood atop the second of the long row of consoles. The six rows of consoles were all connected by sturdy overhead cable trays and she scurried over a cable tray to get to the first console, and then ran toward the rear of the room.

  “For our safety, we should all move into the hallway now,” said the technician.

  “What about her?” asked a cop.

  The angry young technician smiled. “The gas will reduce the oxygen level in that room to five percent. She'll be dead in less than a minute.”

  ###

  Ron Hernandez wasn't the type to give up, ever. But he felt incredibly weak. He listened carefully, trying to isolate any sounds not created by the humming electronics, the HVAC system, or the chilled water under high pressure that coursed through pipes and helped keep the equipment cool. He listened for Zhao's footsteps, for Grant opening the airlock door. He couldn't make a break for it until she made her move.

  No weapons meant improvising, so he took stock of his gear. A cell phone and tablet computer, but not much else. The only other things in his fanny pack were the items he took from General Ma: fingernail clipper, address book, a small tin of what smelled like ginseng powder.

  He looked again at the phone, wanting to call his parents, but then heard movement on the other side of the console. Zhao could step around the corner any second. He tried to shake off a dizzy feeling when a bleating fire alarm ripped the air like a blast of trouble. What the hell? Grant! It had to be. Then, as if on cue, he heard her scream, “Hernandez!” The screeching alarm made it hard to hear. “Meet me at the place that was stuck, RIGHT NOW!”

  WTF? He'd brought Zhao over to this side of the room to give her a chance, and now she was changing the plan on him. As usual. She must have a good reason, she always did, and so with what little energy he had left, he broke into a run, ducked through a gap in the sixth console, and crossed into the next aisle...

  ...where Zhao was waiting. As Zhao raised his gun, Hernandez flung the ginseng powder toward his face but kept his momentum going, crossing through the next gap in the fifth console—the last gap—and then barreling to his right, limping up an aisle toward the rear wall. He doubted he'd make it, and braced himself for a bullet to enter his back.

  ###

  Zhao knew something was wrong. Yes, he'd had too much to drink, he admitted that now. Drunk or not, he could have shot Hernandez if his gun hadn't jammed. Wasn't his fault the gun jammed. The last spent cartridge failed to clear the ejection port. Cheap Chinese crap! The QSZ-92 was a rip-off design of the Beretta 92F that had been used by the U.S. military in its most recent wars. He struggled to free the steel case, but couldn't dislodge it. Cheap steel case Chinese garbage ammo, not even decent brass rounds. Zhao would never own such a cheap weapon or inferior ammunition.

  He moved into the gaps, but which row had Hernandez taken? And did he go right or left? The man had thrown some kind of powder at him; it was all over the front of his clothes. And where was that bitch, Nicole Grant? His lips then formed into a frown of rage and he stumbled forward.

  ###

  The shrieking fire alarm was too loud in this hallway, thought Tang, who watched with concealed contempt as the guard fiddled with a massive key ring and finally g
ot the correct key into the lock. It had taken the guard several minutes just to locate the key ring in the security office, so a frustrated Tang didn't wait for permission and swung the heavy door open, revealing the first of two airlock doors just beyond. This was the rear entrance into the supercomputer room. The airlock doors had windows in them so he should be able to see into the computer room, but the bright light angling in from the hall reflected off the window and turned it opaque, obstructing his view.

  “I advise you not to go in there,” said the guard, backing away.

  “Get lost.” Tang pointed his pistol at the guard, who turned and ran.

  Tang lowered his pistol and looked to the airlock. The last two of twenty Americans would be dead within minutes. Grant he would kill quickly. Hernandez, however, merited special treatment.

  He stepped forward, opened the white outer door and entered. The small airlock was only six feet long and narrow so only one person could pass through at a time. The explosive sound of compressed air suddenly blasting all over him was loud enough to wake the dead, but maybe the air would blow away any bad chi, bad energy. Six people lost today! Tang brimmed with anxiousness as he pulled his semi-automatic handgun.

  He walked the length of the airlock and tried opening the inner airlock door, the door that lead into the supercomputer room, but it was locked. He checked, and then lifted up a simple latch. He looked through the window and saw the insistent glow of flashing red warning lights and sharp stabs of white strobe beams reflect off a sleek black console. He tugged at his earlobe as he reached for the door handle with his pistol at the ready.

  ###

  Feeling light-headed and fighting to focus, Hernandez took quick, short breaths. Something was terribly wrong. He staggered to the far rear corner of the supercomputer room, near the rear airlock door. With blurred peripheral vision he saw a hand reach out and grab him. He tried to block it, but couldn't, he didn't have the strength. Completely startled, it took him a second to realize the humanoid wearing the odd-looking breathing device was Grant. She slipped one over his head, adjusted the straps and he took deep sweet breaths of good air, oxygenating his brain and bloodstream.