by Paul Bagnell
Chapter 17: DATA DRIVE ME IN
Tom asked the planted security office which way it was to the men’s room. The muscled-neck guard explained the directions with a bulldog-like voice--“Go to the end of the hall; then turn right.”
When Tom was out of the watchdog’s sight, he pulled the map from his pocket and studied it. There was one route--two corridors of which he had to locate. He could easily find the first one because that hallway was the only one past the washrooms. The second hall was stubbed with a security door fitted with an access locking system for which a pass code was required. The area seemed quiet. No one was around to witness his crime of intrusion.
The ruffled diagram detailed the positioning of the surveillance cameras and laser grid behind the barrier and documented how to evade detection. The control pad was built into the door. The panel was flashing LEVEL FIVE ACCESS CODE REQUIRED.
Tom searched the map for the key code. There was a string of numbers sequenced at the top corner of the page. He punched them into the system. The readout flashed CONFIRMED - ACCESS ACCEPTED.
The vault-like door opened with the power of a smooth hydraulic system. A shadowy stairwell led all the way down to sub-floor two where there was a meager landing and a pale-looking blast door that appeared as if it hadn’t been properly maintained in years. EMERGENCY & SUB-LEVEL EVACUATION EXIT was painted on the rusty portal.
Tom found a second set of numbers located on the diagram. He dialled in the combination. The door disengaged, and he was in. He entered a long, dark passage and hurried all the way to the end, which seemed like a mile; there he found a retired service elevator.
He stepped into the metal compartment and pressed the operation’s button for sub-floor four. The weight of his upright body created worrisome cable stretching sounds that were coming from the antiquated overhead pulley system. The elevator squeaked as if it were going to break at any moment, but he was relieved to reach the bottom in one piece. The doors rolled partially opened, and he found himself in a dingy area for discarded protective clothing.
He squeezed through the storage department to the exit and cracked open the security door and peeked up and down the clean, well-illuminated tunnel. He heard a telephone and followed in the direction of the ring.
The tone was coming from an automated voice system. Tom entered the room and saw a bulky-looking communication’s device. It repeated over and over again THANK YOU FOR CALLING CARRAVECKY AND SONS; YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US as it transferred and directed calls. Tom suspected big Carravecky was spying in on company conversations. He got that sneaky impression. The old guy doesn’t trust anybody, not even his own blood.
An unidentifiable sound directed his eyes from the spy room to a cluttered supply closet with a small window fitted with safety glass that was aged with dust and cobwebs. Tom fanned off the years of neglectful housekeeping and peered through.
About sixty feet below, were men dressed in protective white clothing with full-face shields. A few others were clothed in a silvery-type suit equipped with self-contained breathing apparatuses strapped on their backs.
Tom observed an overhead crane carrying a long, skinny projectile. Some workers stopped and watched the operator manoeuvre the lift boom as he lowered a sleek-looking object labelled L-18 MISSILE onto a loading system, which then guided the computer-instructed bomb inside the sky unit’s weapons compartment.
The skid was an odd-looking craft, a thin diamond-shaped vehicle with a rough outer skin, which measured a good ninety-five feet or more in length and sculpted with sharp angles and juts designed to elude radar detection from the ground surface or earth’s outer space. It was like a chameleon; it was the only thing on the work area deck, and it blended in perfectly with the pale blue concrete floor epoxy.
Tom pressed his face hard against the window for a better view of the site. A man was instructing a group of white suits and bellowed. “Activate the main processors; then test the gravity motor’s power output,” the thick voice ordered from behind the protective face shield. The men hopped to it.
The computer operations’ lab consisted of a spacious mezzanine that was located to one side, which currently housed four technicians wearing hooded white suits; and for safety purposes, they worked behind blast-proof glass.
Tom’s hands itched; this was where he would have to load the data hound device. He slipped from the room and followed the directional wall markings. The workers’ changing room door was ajar. Inside the cramped quarters, a tall, chubby-faced technician was preparing to suit up as Tom strolled in like he owned the town.
“Hey, you, you’re not supposed to be here,” the worker alerted him with an authoritative finger as he halted in his cramped suit.
“Can you tell me how to get to Mars?” Tom said seriously.
“Crazy-Man, I’m reporting you to house security,” the man motioned with a contorted step.
“Not today fat boy,” Tom saluted, and pounced with the spring of a jackhammer and knocked the man to the floor. Tom used his emerging Nukyi skills unbeknown to him and temporarily paralyzed the engineer’s nervous system. The man was not hurt--simply in a deep sleep.
Tom dragged the deactivated worker behind the lockers out of sight; then he suited up in a protective white suit with a hood and full face shield.
From the decontamination area, he entered the man-lift and dropped down to the work floor. An overhead warning light indicated that there were no hazardous contaminations detected before the doors unlocked. Tom stepped out; two silver suits were handling a special box marked with radioactive symbols. They didn’t stop to chat.
“Hey, Pedro, come over here and give us a hand,” a grumpy man called (chief project manager was labelled on his clean protective suit) and pointed at Tom.
“Just my luck,” Tom mumbled, and kept his head down as he walked toward the engineer. Although it was difficult to see into the headdress with only the eyes noticeable, Tom desperately hoped that this was enough to conceal his assumed identity.
“Pedro, system readouts for the gravity motors indicate a disrupted internal power flux. I want the pump chambers tested and, if need be, retested; I need this problem identified and corrected,” the chief engineer demanded and handed Tom a torque-like device before heading off.
Tom pretended to inspect the motor unit; instead, he was eyeing the four men who were hunched over the control panel inside the operations lab.
The overhead crane churned about lifting another missile. A team of men controlled a conveyor system that placed the projectile into the skid’s belly compartment; a total of eight L-18s appeared to be loaded as a hatch plate powered shut.
He saw an opportunity as the testing procedures wound down and walked up the steel stairs that led to the lab overlooking the facility. One of the regular white suit workers stopped him halfway up the stairs. “Pedro, are you feeling well?” he asked with his hand on Tom’s side.
Tom froze and kept his face down and away as he replied, “I’ll live; I ate something this morning, I’m feeling a little dizzy and just need a break.”
“Yeah, do that; but we need that job completed soon,” he released Tom’s arm and went back to the work floor.
Inside the control area the computer operators were checking and rechecking and activating and deactivating the launch codes in the weapon’s guidance system. Once completed, two white suits left the area while the remaining two suits stayed behind for additional equipment testing.
“Chez, are you getting a positive readout on the direction converter switches?” he asked.
“I’m confirming the level of energy flow now, Pep,” Chez replied. His latex-like gloved hands zipped over the control board.
Tom stood behind the two men; they didn’t seem to care that he was there. The complex control system was right in front of him. It was a data farm of vast computing technologies. Tom waited for both of them to take a minute break away from the area.
Once the technicians confirmed that the f
light relay system was fully operational and no new faults were discovered, they were required to make a physical examination of the skid as it sat on the work deck before making their final report and left the control room.
Now, it was Tom’s opportunity as he held the data hound in his hand about to insert it; however, it wouldn’t fit into any of the data slots. The component he held was an abnormal size, slightly wider than standard commercial format. He began to panic in silence until he noticed at the rear of the lab there was a hulky-sized information/data station. The letter X was labelled on the front cabinet. Tom vaguely remembered seeing an X marked on the map, and this machine had to be it.
The operator’s keypad consisted of numbers only. The code to access the system was included on the map. Tom entered the digits, a recessed hatch door popped open, and he inserted the device. The data transfer was slow as it loaded the program into the weapon system, and Tom was getting nervous waiting for it to finish.
The two system technicians had completed their inspection of the sky carrier, and they were on their way back; Tom could hear them talking about a party.
He pulled the technology from the data opening and placed it into his protective suit just as the two flight programmers re-entered the lab.
Chez clapped his hands together with joy, “Hey, Pedro,” he looked at Tom, “we’ve rechecked the carrier; and from our perspective, every thing looks ready, set to go for tonight.”
Pep stepped forward, “The boss asked for the status of the pump chambers.”
Tom gave them a thumbs up; “Tell him one-hundred percent complete, and all systems are a-o-k.”
Pep verbally jumped in with a cheer and patted his co-worker on the back, “Later we’re all celebrating with beers so who cares what the boss thinks.”
Tom attempted to participate with the twin technician’s mixed-language jargon while still remaining anonymous; then he pretended to be feeling ill and held his stomach as he stepped around the Castilian brothers. He exited the area and stepped into the man-lift and returned to the locker room. He threw off the protective suit and stuffed it into an empty locker.
A low voice startled him. He spun around.
“Tom,” Doctor Alvin whispered from the door, “what are you doing here; who sent you?”
“You tell me,” he replied with an abundance of volume. “You know more about what’s going on than I do.”
There was a brief moment of silence between them as they stared at each other.
“I can’t change what’s been started,” Doctor Alvin admitted.
“Why not? Don’t give me that load of crap.”
“If I attempt to stop this madness, my life would end the same tragic way as the others.”
“There’ll be others who’ll die because of you. You must expose Carravecky and go to the appropriate authorities.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Being afraid isn’t an acceptable excuse.”
“I’m sorry, but if I talk, I’m dead.”
“Are you referring to those men who were murdered by Remmie Take?” Tom forced his voice.
“Yes,” the doctor replied, “and we can’t converse here without being discovered.” Doctor Alvin led Tom back to that mouldy, sick-smelling storage room.
“If this advanced system reaches its destination, then we’re all at risk. I’m afraid of the worst.”
“Why is that?”
“This propulsion system is modifiable,” Alvin reported.
“Modifiable into what form?” Tom demanded additional details.
“The craft’s engine, a new type of power resolver, is capable of amplifying power sources thousands and thousands of times, as a nuclear source,” the doctor admitted nervously as he looked down the hallway to see if anybody was spying on them.
“And what about those missiles? Are they standard or special?”
“They’re conventional design, but they can easily be modified into an ultimate weapon using this technology.”
“So you’re worried that someone will modify the power which drives the skid and put it into the warheads?”
“I’ve already told you enough to put your life and mine in serious danger. Bronze, go home and forget about all of this; but be careful; they know you’re here, and they’ll destroy you.”
“They, (Tom studied Alvin’s frightened expression) they are who?”
“Just be careful and don’t trust anybody.” Doctor Alvin slipped away without offering a valid solution to this edgy dilemma.
Tom needed to get back to the conference room before McBridle left. There was a sound of armed guards coming down the hallway in the distance. He knew if he didn’t flee now, he’d be apprehended. He boarded the elevator and pressed the button for sub-floor two.
There was a code red, intruder alert. The guards formed teams and began to search each section of the complex.
Tom stepped from the lift and sprinted as fast as he could until he reached the base of the stairs at sub-floor two. He ran up eight levels back to the security door at the sixth floor, the only thing blocking his escape. He reached into the bottom of his pocket and pulled out the map, which ripped in half, a nervous action created by an attack of clumsiness.
Guards were accessing the security door.
Tom reacted with Nukyi swiftness.
The security door powered open. One guard stayed out in the hallway while the other soldiered in through the opening. The weight of his flak jacket and other small gadgets clipped to his utility belt slowed his mobility as he ambled into the area five or six paces beyond the door. He beamed a light down the stairwell; then he turned to his partner and reported. “It’s okay. It’s all clear. It’s just a stupid little mouse.” They had a good laugh.
Tom hid above the doorway holding onto what appeared to be a sprinkler piping system. His fingers were becoming cold and numb as he waited for the guards to retreat and prayed that they wouldn’t look up.
A minute lapsed; the patrol guards seemed satisfied and activated the door shut. Tom jumped to the floor, waited a ten count, accessed the door; then he entered the hallway. He made his way back to the washroom, which was just up the hall from the boardroom.
There was another person at the sink splashing water on his face. “Did you hear the tragic news?”
“What news?” Tom inquired.
“About Samuel Carravecky,” an office clerk with teary eyes said as he towelled himself off.
“Yeah, I heard; it’s too bad,” Tom replied as he removed his jacket and began to scrub his hands and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He was too ashamed to face himself. He waited until the man left; then walked back toward the conference room.
“Hey, you, stop right there,” a guard called from the end of the hall.
Tom turned around slowly expecting a weapon barrel to be directed at him. “I’m screwed now,” he mumbled.
The guard waddled toward him, “Are you Tom Bronze, Ms. McBridle’s associate?”
“Yes sir. Is there a problem?”
“No sir. These are for you.” The guard handed him the keys to her automobile. “She said the meeting is finished.”
“Thanks.” Tom accepted the key ring.
“I must have walked this corridor a half-dozen times looking for you.”
“I was in the washroom,” he held his stomach. “It’s one of these days.”
The guard seemed somewhat convinced. “Hey, did you hear little Carravecky was discovered dead this morning?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe Samuel was gone.
“It’s a shame; he was a young man with an empire to inherit, and this tragedy strikes him down,” Tom replied. “It’s not right.”
The guard agreed and escorted the visitor to the elevator, which dropped down to the main lobby. “That was too close for my uncomfortable life,” he whispered, and breathed a sigh of relief. He could use a couple stiff shots of whiskey right about now to calm his adrenaline overload. The elevator doors opened, and he
stepped out anxiously dangling the car keys on his baby finger.
Two guards stood at the control post and were monitoring in-going and out-going traffic on the surveillance system.
“Excuse me sir, do you have your access security card?” the round-face guard asked.
“Yeah, I got it here somewhere,” Tom said while searching his pants pockets.
The guard accessed the system and retrieved a name. “Are you Tom Bronze?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Tom replied, and placed the card on the counter.
“There’s a message for you,” the guard said as he repositioned the monitor so Tom could easily read it.
The message was: Horrible news, Samuel was killed. I’ve gone with Doctor Carravecky to identify the body. The guard at the front desk will give you an exit pass. Go back to the office. I’ll be back later today to discuss all the details. Love Celia.
The guard handed Tom an executive security pass and explained that he could exit the compound unquestioned. Time of day issued indicated 11:57 a.m.; the pass was only programmed for maximum time of 15 minutes.
Tom rushed down the marble stairs, fully knowing that this would be the last time he’d ever set foot in this sick, malignant complex, and wondered if he did the right thing by inserting the data stick. He jammed the key into the ignition; then he drove toward the gate. He handed the guard the exit pass and was waved through without incident.
McBridle wanted him to go back to the office and continue working on that bogus report, but he decided to go home and collect his scrambled thoughts and wait for Ivadot Rosky or Detective Gene Riley to come knocking on his front door.
He knew that Remmie Take would somehow be involved in their investigations and that they all would eventually meet in the middle of the crime zone.
Tom watched the gate disappear in the rear-view mirror as he raced toward the industrial highway. One of the guards watched his vehicle as it faded out of sight. “If ever I come back to Carravecky’s, it’ll be all too soon,” he expelled with a glad voice and tossed the data hound out the car window.