The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Embed the attached file in an e-mail message.

  1. Send the message to someone you know at a facility with “impenetrable” computer security;

  2. The program will return a message called “Blue Rook.” Follow the instructions in the message.

  3. You will get a snapshot of the entire system on your desktop.

  4. GIVE A COPY OF WHITE RABBIT TO A FRIEND. 8-)

  He attached White Rabbit code to the message.

  Now for the labor-intensive part: building the addressee list. His priorities included:

  1. Close friends

  2. Foreign embassies

  3. All Mutual UFO Network sites

  4. Electronic Frontier Foundation

  5. American Civil Liberties Union

  6. AP, UPI, Dow Jones, CNN

  7. The rest of the world

  He worked on the list for an hour and a half. It was almost done when a blue van pulled up next to the trailer.

  * * *

  Outside Yuri’s car, wind screamed across Freedom Ridge. Daylight turned to dusk. They waited, playing games.

  “Okay,” Yuri said, “here’s one: American League’s Most Valuable Player for 1986?”

  Katrina laughed. “Piece of pie. Roger Clements, Boston Red Sox.”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Now, my turn. The category is Russian music. What was the name of Petr Ilich Tchaikovsky’s last symphony?”

  “Pathétique. He died ten days after finishing it. Who made a famous sacrifice play that gave the Red Sox a victory in 1993?”

  Katrina wrinkled her nose, stumped.

  Yuri waited a long moment, then turned solemn. “I should be the one making the sacrifice play tonight. Alone.”

  “No. We keep with the plan—I go in.” She put her head against his shoulder, becoming comfortable.

  “I know this wretched place, Yuri. I’ve memorized it from satellite photos. I’ve lived with the curse of it. I understand the science of it. I’ve smelled the stench of death from it. I can do this. I’ll bring back the evidence we need to keep us alive.”

  “You don’t need—”

  She patted his arm. “Yes, I do. For Vladimir, and for my friend, Kostiya. And for myself.”

  “They can kill you, Katrina. Like Zfar said—normal protocol has been suspended.”

  “If you’re with me, they can kill us both. Then we’ve got no chance. Eventually, they’ll kill the others—Anderson, Jafri, Li. They won’t stop. You know it.” She closed her eyes, puffed her cheeks, and exhaled. “We’re both dead people, aren’t we?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She gave him a soft peck on the cheek. “You need to be out here, my Prince, in case something happens. And I... need to fill in the logical holes. Like documents with the fingerprints of Richard Chandra. Biological material, linking Groom to the Johns Hopkins lab. And if possible, I need to find what you Americans call the smoking gun—evidence of decisions to kill Mr. Dugan, Vladimir and me, and the names of people responsible.”

  “We need to add a couple of items to your checklist for tonight. A radio. It’s tuned to the one in the car. Don’t use it unless you have to—they can pick up the signal.” He retrieved a bag from the back seat. “And a remote detonator. It has only a small charge, but you can put it near something combustible.”

  “No. We talked about that before. I don’t want that thing.”

  “Katrina,they have weapons. This just evens the odds. Trust me.”

  She sighed. “I trust you, Yuri.”

  “Good. All you have to do is place it on the way in. I can trigger it from here. It’ll give us a diversion if we need it.” He unholstered his pistol and began to load rounds. “I’ll come in if you’re in trouble.”

  She laughed. “Guns blazing. An American cowboy. A real Russian would use his head. Like in a chess game.”

  Yuri smiled, snapping the cylinder shut. “This isn’t chess.”

  * * *

  Deke peeked out the window.

  The blue unmarked van that pulled up to the International UFO Research Center was from Groom. Two men in black got out.

  He returned to the computer, hastily preparing to send the White Rabbit message. Outside, he could hear Gray barking and growling. There was a metallicclick and a loudPOP! , followed by a short, soulful whimper. Then, silence. He was ready to transmit when a size 12-E boot kicked in the door.

  * * *

  By eight thirty, darkness engulfed Groom. The wind had stopped. Katrina moved down a ravine, crouching to reduce visibility. She wore Yuri’s black turtleneck sweater and carried a small backpack. She saw the maintenance shed located close to the ravine, worked her way to it and entered.

  After a minute, she emerged with Ben, wearing a maintenance jumpsuit and a security ID badge. They both carried toolboxes.

  As they walked toward the Research Center, Katrina thought she heard the sound of a small animal scampering across the desert floor.

  * * *

  When the door fell in, Deke spun around. He didn’t have time to arch an eyebrow and say, in a Bond-like voice,Dobbs. Deke Dobbs.

  The men in black were pure action. They hit Deke on the head and broke his right arm.

  He awoke on the floor. One of the men in black searched the trailer, the other pointed a gun at his head. He felt incredible pain in his face and arm.

  “There’s a light on in the attic,” one of them said, grinning. Then he tapped the gun on Deke’s forehead. “You know—the attic?”

  Normally Deke would have responded with a snappy repartee, but all he could think of was pain and survival.

  The second man in black stopped searching and moved next to Deke. He smiled.

  “Breaking your arm was just the beginning, Mister Dobbs. Are the LANL files the only classified files on your system, or did you steal others?”

  Deke tried to speak, but the sounds that spilled from his throat were gurgles, not words.

  The second man slapped him.

  The other one broke his nose.

  Deke blacked out.

  * * *

  Ben and Katrina entered the Research Center through an emergency door. Ben pointed to a security camera on the ceiling, then opened a small maintenance closet, blocking the camera’s view.

  “Most of the staff is gone by now,” Ben said. “Security cameras can still see us in other parts of the building. Just act like my assistant. I’ll tell you what to do. Whatever you want to take out of the building needs to fit in these tool boxes. We’re going to Area G, the biological containment area. You said you were interested in rats. That’s where they are.”

  Katrina removed Yuri’s radio from the toolbox—her only link to the outside world. She put it in her pocket, just in case.

  Ben started down the corridor. She snapped the toolbox shut, and followed.

  * * *

  Dmitry slouched at attention in front of Gallagan’s big desk. He looked at his shoes. He looked at his watch. He looked at the bald spot on the top of Gallagan’s head.

  Meanwhile, Gallagan silently read Dmitry’s report, carefully turning each page, muttering, “hmm” and “umhmmm” in appropriate places. Finally, Gallagan sighed, closed the report and leaned back in his chair, touching the tips of his fingers together in a practiced way.

  “The upshot is that you don’t know how it works—this computer code that infected our system—but you think you can use it. Is that right?”

  “Your secretary doesn’t know xerography from pudding, Nikolai, but she can still make copies of your letters. She just puts it in the machine and presses the button.”

  “I think your head resembles pudding. We’re talking about software.”

  Dmitry almost responded with a quick comeback, but thought better of it. “Using this computer code is easy. It’s executable code, so we just encapsulate it in other pieces of software. Encapsulation is like putting a letter in an envelope. The mail system can’t handle bare letters, but it is geared for hand
ling envelopes with proper stamps and addresses.”

  Gallagan mulled over the analogy. “So if we encapsulated the code, we could send it back to the Americans and screw up their systems?”

  “You got it, baby!” Dmitry exclaimed, switching to American slang.

  Gallagan grinned. “I like that. Yes, I like that very much. And the report tells how to do it?”

  “Yes,” Dmitry said. “And the pocket on the back cover of the report contains a diskette with the executable code—just in case they don’t understand Russian.”

  “Good work. Moscow will truly be impressed. Now go home to your family and get some rest. And take Monday off.”

  “I don’t have a family, Nikolai. You are my family.”

  “Get the hell out of here, will you?”

  “Yes, father,” Dmitry said, with a wink, a smile and an unmilitary about-face, closing the door on the way out.

  It was late. Gallagan was ebullient over the software triumph, but he was also exhausted from dealing with Katrina’s situation and the pressure of getting out the weekly report to Moscow—a report rife with critical but delicate political issues. He stared at the ceiling and rubbed his eyes.

  Katrina’s short phone call from a New York pay phone told him she was running and that Operation Majority was in pursuit. Still, there might be a net benefit to this. She would either flush out and expose the secrets of the program—or she would die.

  That meant she was highly motivated.

  Secrets, he thought, when exposed to the light of day, are no longer secrets and no longer worth killing for. If you expose a secret—in a way that all the world can independently verify—then the bureaucratic drill becomesspincontrol , not revenge. Exposure cuts to the highest bureaucratic priorities—survival of funding, survival of the organization and career survival of bureaucrats.

  In order to really help Katrina, Gallagan needed more leverage. Dmitry’s software gave him some, but not enough. All he could do was muck up a few U.S. computers. They had no real delivery mechanisms like the American one—a mechanism that dropped the code bomb into computer systems from a safe distance. The idea of a balance of power weighed on his mind when he looked down and saw rapid movement out of the corner of his eye. Hairs crawled on the back of his neck. He tried to remain calm. He did not make any overt intention movements.

  He opened a few desk drawers, attempting to move as naturally as possible. He glimpsed a small animal on the floor under the conference table—a furry ball with a whip-like tail, and a head that nodded up and down. He also saw a hole in the side of a ventilation grill—probably the rat’s entry point.

  He picked up a heavy book, stood up, then walked slowly to the door, closing it, avoiding eye contact. He turned quickly to look at the rat.

  The animal froze in a praying position. Then it scampered rapidly toward the hole.

  Gallagan hurled the book.

  It caught the rat in mid stride with a loudWHUMP .

  He raced to the hole, plugged it with a book, then lifted the stunned rat by the tail, noting unusual protrusions behind its eyes. This was a Project Ganymede animal!

  The rat’s eyes blinked open. It twisted inside loose skin and bit his hand.

  Gallagan laughed, dripping blood on the desk. He squeezed the rat behind the head and looked into its eyes.

  He laughed again.

  * * *

  The radio, volume turned low, penetrated Yuri’s consciousness:Janie’s got a gun—Her dog day’s just begun. Now everybody is on the—run .

  He thought of Katrina, of danger, of time. They had worked out an itinerary. If certain things happened, or didn’t happen, then he knew what to do.

  He opened his eyes in the darkness, stretched for a long moment, held up his wrist watch and pressed a button for illumination: eight-ten. She should have contacted Ben by now.

  The radio tune continued to play:Dum, Dum, Dum, Honey, what have you done? Dum, Dum, Dum, it’s the sound of my gun.

  He switched the radio off, pressedREWIND on a tape recorder in the seat next to him, and listened to a mechanicalwhirr that lasted for thirty seconds. When it stopped, he pressedRECORD, hoping never to hear the sound of a gun.

  * * *

  Gallagan’s nostrils flared with excitement. He gnashed his teeth, staring at the rat imprisoned inside a jar.

  It frantically clawed against the glass walls. It jumped toward the mouth of the jar, attempting to dislodge the book that trapped it.

  “I am your worst nightmare,” he said, aloud.

  He smiled and dialed the phone.

  “This is Gallagan. When does the Moscow courier leave?”

  “After they load the hearse. Ten minutes,” came the answer.

  That’s right, he thought.The body is shipped back tonight . “Hold the courier until we can package some live cargo. Make sure the driver is armed. I have some material that isvery hot.”

  He smiled again. The game was afoot. He had leverage.

  * * *

  On the other side of the planet, there was a portentous knock on a door. Colonel Anatoly Kazikov took a swig of early morning tea, put down a personnel folder and looked up.

  “Enter.”

  Major Velon Bunyayev stepped smartly to the area in front of the polished mahogany desk, snapped his heels and saluted. “Reporting as ordered, Sir!”

  Kazikov returned the salute with an informal hand wave. He studied Bunyayev’s face for a moment. “I’ve been looking at your records, Major. Very impressive—up until a few years ago.”

  Bunyayev did not immediately comment, but stood at rigid attention. He could not tell where the conversation was headed, and felt that the less said, the better. He finally responded with a non-committal, “Yes, Sir!”

  “You were in charge of Alpha Unit in August, 1991.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That was a crack unit. If you had succeeded in taking the Parliament Building during the putsch, history would be much different. Now your career is in the doldrums, it seems.”

  Kazikov got up and inspected the Major’s spit-and-polish uniform, fingering the medals that hung like ornaments from Bunyayev’s chest.

  “Many people’s careers have been in the doldrums since 1991.” He drew close to Bunyayev’s face and peered deeply into his eyes. “All of that... is about to change.”

  The edges of Major Velon Bunyayev’s mouth moved upward. “I was loyal,” he said.

  “I know you were.”

  “I believed.”

  “Yes... you did believe. I’m trying to organize all the loyal people—true patriots, who remember the dream. We are growing stronger, again, Velon. We’ve had political successes in the Parliamentary elections. Soon, we will control the Duma. We have a network of people spread across Russia and elsewhere who think the same way and have the same goals.”

  “This democracy is a trap—a popularity contest.”

  “Yes, Velon. You’re quite right. The majority wears ideas like fashionable clothes. They look pretty one day, but are out of step the next. Collective dreams, aspirations and hopes have a very short life span and limited value. There is nothing substantial there. The majority’s views need to be shaped, molded, focused into a consciousness that can make Russia great again.”

  “Democracy is for the weak.”

  “And what we have isn’t even a democracy! It’s a simulacrum—a crude image of democracy which, by its crudeness, allows us to view the dangers of pure democracy from the safe distance of Hell’s outer edge. And what happens when we go deeper? What horrors do we find then, hmmm? We step down through the layers of Hell and at the very bottom is a naked singularity—the raw emotions, contradictions and illogic of the human psyche.”

  Kazikov admired Bunyayev’s well-polished boots—dark mirrors reflecting Kazikov’s own image.

  “Did you know that the first true democracy, Athens, sentenced their greatest philosopher, Socrates, to death? And they did it by popular vote! That’s what happens w
hen the majority rules. It’s not what we need, Velon. Russia needs leadership. That implies a few leaders... and a lot of followers. Dominance hierarchies are ingrained in the Russian soul the way territoriality is ingrained in dogs. The majority must be... instructed.”

  “Strong leadership means a strong country.”

  “Yes. And leadership—the right kind of leadership—must be supported. Politics has emerged from the corridors of power into the corridors of the mind. It’s the dawning of a new age.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I see you will be one of the new breed of leaders, Velon. Therefore I will confide in you. The Americans have a mind weapon. And Nikolai Gallagan, at the Washington, D.C. Embassy, is about to send it to us. We must not let this fall into the wrong hands. Since the current Russian regime is mindless, we must get this technology to the people who can put it to good use. Are you with me on this, Major?”

  “I am with you, Colonel Kazikov. My whole heart and mind are with you!”

  * * *

  Ben and Katrina moved through a mechanical room in the Research Center, surrounded by heating, ventilation and air conditioning—HVAC equipment. The sound of air forced through conduit and the occasional clang of expanding metal pipes echoed eerily in the large chamber.

  Ben’s voice, rising above the whooshes, groans and clanks of the room, had an edge to it. “We maintain the security systems, but that doesn’t mean I have access to G Lab. I had to make certain changes in the system. If it works, we get in. If it doesn’t work...”

  Katrina put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait.” She stopped to inspect a nexus of plumbing, wires and conduit, running her fingers along a pipe layered with dust.