by Tom Clancy
"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."
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 Washington and Baltimore. A bright hacker could use those to pile half-a-dozen trains up into big heaps of smoking scrap 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."
"Shit."
"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 shift 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
Saturday, 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 Coke 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."
Steers ‘n' Queers, he called that room, after an old joke his uncle had once told him about Texas. He liked to check in there once in a while and do a little VR vampire stuff on the fags, leading them on and all before he blasted them. He had a great little piggyback virus, a Trojan horse he could embed in an e-mail. That was a hot piece of software, infecting e-mail, since you supposedly couldn't do that. The queers'd open the mail, read a few lines of the hot sex stuff he put in, then bap! the virus would infect their computer. Unless they had the latest immune system software installed, it would eat their drive in about two days.
Served ‘em right for being fags.
He took another snort of the blended liquor and Coke, and laughed again. He was remembering little Jay Gridley hopping out of that VR truck, trying to figure out why the sucker had slewed to a stop in the middle of the freeway. Time he got it, it was too late. Haw!
Platt was on the wireless modem, had beamed a signal to a rebroadcaster, and then into a little throwaway stupecomp he'd set up in a rented room in San Diego, California. The stupecomp was set up for e-mail only, and rigged so it logged onto WOL and then sent the message and squeal at exactly 11:59: 59 Eastern Standard Time. When the squeal went off, it sent the signal back to the stupecomp, which routed it back through the rebroadcaster and to his laptop, to let him know. Then the stupecomp wiped its hard drive and RAM disk clean, then fried the modem's memory real good—a complete wipe that nobody was going to undo—and shut itself off. Probably they'd have a team of feds kicking in the room's door in an hour or two, but that was okay. It'd give ‘em something to do, but finding the computer in San Diego wasn't gonna do them no good, no good at all. They couldn't get anything off it that was gonna point them at him, three thousand miles away in Georgia laughing his ass off.
He lifted his glass, rattled the ice cubes, and held it up in a toast. "Yo, Net Force. Happy Fucking New Year!"
He drained the rest of the dark brown and slightly fizzy liquid in two big swallows, put the glass down on the table, then shut the laptop off. The info in the squirt wasn't much, a list of all the patients treated for STDs—sexually transmitted diseases—reported to the Atlanta CDC MedNet for the last six months. By law, certain things had to be reported to the states, and eventually some of these things wound up at the Centers for Disease Control. There were a few eyebrow-raisin' names on the list, politicians, actors and actresses, some high-profile big-money types, and even some visiting big shots, including a couple of sand nigrah princes. No real tactical value, the list, but it would be embarrassing as all hell trying to explain to your wife just how come you was treated for the clap. Mainly it was something to rattle Net Force's cage, to show that the little manifesto Hughes had cooked up was legit. A throwaway, that was all.
Outside, the sounds of firecrackers and gunshots still echoed through the cold Georgia night.
"Oh, yeah, yeah—we havin' fun now, ain't we, boys?"
Saturday, January 1st, 2011, 1 a.m. Washington, D.C.
Hughes sat in bed, reading a recent biography of the Norwegian Vidkun Quisling. Quisling, a career army office whose name later came to be synonymous with "traitor," had in the late 1930's, formed a national socialist party in his country, the Nasjonal Samling. The party hadn't done much, had never had any real power, but then the Germans had started a war and, in due course, had invaded Norway. Quisling tried to form his own government, which the Germans knocked down pretty quick, but since he was a home-grown national socialist who had once met with Hitler, the Nazis saw him as one of their own. Quisling became a collaborator who was ultimately deemed responsible for sending hundreds of Jews to the death camps, along with trying to convert the schools and churches into pro-German organizations.
One of the first things the Norwegians had done after their liberation was to round up and arrest scores of known collaborators. These were quickly tried, then quickly executed.
Quisling had been at the top of their list.
The biographer was convinced that Quisling's policies had cost Germany the war. Had he not tried so hard to "Nazify" the country, the writer was convinced there would not have developed much of a Norwegian resistance movement. The Norwegians were from good Viking stock, not the least bit cowardly, as evidenced by the famous tale of their king and the Jewish symbol—when told that Jews must wear the Star of David sign in public to show who they were, supposedly King Haakon VII took up the symbol himself and urged all his people to do the same. Thai could be apocryphal, of course, but truth should never stand in the way of a good story. The Norwegians were also smart enough to figure out which way the winds of war were blowing. If things hadn't been bad at home, they would have hunke
red down and allowed the storm to blow itself out. But Quisling's policies pissed them off.
The resistance movement was never more than a small thorn in the Nazis' side, but it did cause a fair amount of industrial sabotage. Foremost among the attacks was a major strike against the heavy-water production facilities in Rjukan. The writer postulated that if the Germans had been able to speed up their atomic experiments, they would have likely developed a working atomic bomb before the United Slates did, and that such a weapon would have turned the tide of war in their favor. A few of those in the noses of V2 rockets launched from ships off the U.S. mainland at American cities would have done the trick.
If you accepted the theory, that was a reasonable assumption. A mile-wide smoking crater in the middle of New York or Washington, D.C., would have given the Americans something to think about, all right.
Too bad for them, the Germans ran out of time. It was left for America to build fission bombs that finished off the Japanese; atomics hadn't even been needed to beat the Germans.
Hughes thought this Quisling-cost-the-war theory was something of a stretch, but the writer nonetheless echoed a valid point from all the vaults of history: For want of a nail, a war could be lost. One man, in the right place, at the right time, could alter the course of the entire world. There was a popular sci-fi plot device that frequently used this idea. What would happen if a time traveler went back and throttled Hitler as a boy? Or some Christian zealot time-traveled and rescued Jesus from the cross? Or a fumble-footed paleontologist went back and accidentally killed the first protohuman ancestor from whom mankind would evolve?
A butterfly flapping its wings in Kansas today contributes to the tornado in Florida tomorrow. All things are interconnected, so the theory went.
Hughes grinned. He dog-eared the corner of the page and closed the biography. He turned off the light, settled down into his orthopedic biofoam pillow, and stared into the darkness.
Quisling had probably not been aware that he was a contributor to history. Certainly he hadn't wanted to be remembered as a traitor. But men who were less than adept did not control their own destinies, much less how they personally would be viewed years later. History, after all, was written by the victors.
History…
Hughes had always been fond of the story about the French physician Joseph-Ignace Guillotin. Elected to the French National Assembly a few years before the Revolution, and being a man of medicine and of a kindly nature, Le Docteur Guillotin's major political ambition seemed to be a wish to make criminal executions less painful. He had witnessed a few botched beheadings, wherein a headsman had gotten sweaty-palmed, or had arrived drunk, and had had to hack several times at a screaming victim's neck before managing to lop off the offending head. Such a thing was barbaric for civilized people like the French. The Scots, the English, mon Dieu! even the ignoble Poles possessed bladed mechanical devices they used for executions—although these were mostly for nobles, to be spared the embarrassment of an inept headsman. So the doctor helped pass a law requiring that legal execution be performed by a machine that would not miss, to be more humane to the condemned, rich and poor alike.
Le Docteur hardly wanted to be remembered by history as the man primarily responsible for the head-cleaving device at first called La Louisette. He certainly had not wanted to see the killing machine, which he had no hand in inventing, tagged la guillotine, the name that eventually stuck.
What a wonderful legacy for one's relatives. A family name with which to inspire gasps and revulsion, how lovely that must have been. And how ironic, given Le Docteur's good intentions.
But men like Quisling and Guillotin had been small of vision, and not gifted with Hughes's intelligence. In a few days, he would be going to Guinea-Bissau, to sit with the head of that small country's government, to strike a deal that would someday be viewed by history as one of the most daring and clever schemes of all time. If history was written by the victors, then surely he would write his own.
He did not for a moment doubt it.
Saturday, January 1st, 2011, 7 a.m. Washington, D.C.
In her kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to finish brewing, Toni held the sheathed kris in both hands. Traditionally, silat players would not want a "used" kris. If you didn't know who had owned it or what he had used it for, you might be inheriting some bad hantu; you might find yourself connected to dead people by an evil blade, soaked in blood and karma. But since this was Guru's family blade, it was certainly reputable.
Maybe it did have enough magic to help her with Alex. She had been sleeping with it in its wooden sheath on her night-stand, blade carefully pointed away from her head. She was willing to take any help she could get…
Even if she was peeved with him just now. It hadn't taken long for the story to get back to her about his little adventure in the desert during that raid on the terrorists. Naturally, he hadn't told her, but it hadn't taken long for him to figure out she knew either. He was supposed to be the Commander of Net Force, not a foot soldier! How dare he risk himself like that?
Toni grinned as the coffee maker chose that instant to gurgle and belch the last of the coffee into the pot, a kind of brewed raspberry noise, almost as if making fun of her.
She put the kris onto the counter, laying it softly on a clean dish towel, and grabbed her cup from the cabinet. Oh, well. Life was never boring.
Saturday, January 1st, 2011, 7 a.m. Oro, California
Joanna Winthrop stood in the warm spring sunshine, waiting for the train to arrive. She wore a long, yellow patterned dress, a bonnet, and held a small tube-shaped brown leather travel satchel. The year was 1916. She was at the Oro Station, in northern California, and the surrounding fir and alder had sprouted new greenery to herald Persephone's return from the Underworld.
Joanna had been impressed with that legend as a girl, how the Lord of the Underworld had kidnapped the beautiful Persephone, and how her mother, Demeter, Goddess of the Corn, had been so wracked with grief that she turned her back on mankind, causing a cruel winter in which no crops could grow.
Joanna had always felt a certain sympathy with women who had gotten into dire straits because of their beauty.
According to the mythology, after a year of this cold misery, Zeus finally intervened, sending Hermes to ask the Lord of the Underworld to allow Persephone her freedom. The Lord of the Underworld was not happy about this request, for he did, in his own brutish way, love the woman he had kidnapped to be his wife. But one risked the wrath of Zeus with great care, if one dared risk it at all, so by Zeus's request, Persephone was released. Demeter was so overjoyed that the flowers blossomed and the grasses grew, and spring came. Alas, her daughter had eaten seeds of the pomegranate during her stay in the Underworld—there's always a catch in these things—so Persephone was required to return to the Underground for a portion of each year. And each time, Demeter's grief at losing her daughter caused winter to fall upon the Earth…
It was a wonderful and imaginative story to explain the seasons. Although you'd think Demeter would have wanted to cut the apron strings after a few thousand years. God-time must be different.
Too bad she didn't have Zeus to help her find the hacker who had used her computer station. She could use the help. The guy had left a trail, but it was faint, and rigged with booby traps all along the way. She was beginning to get really pissed off. When she found this guy and turned him over to the feebs, she was hoping to get at least one clean kick at his testicles before they hauled him away. Having your supposedly secure computer station used for sabotage was, at the very least, embarrassing.
It was one thing to be thought beautiful when it got in your way. It was another thing entirely to be thought inept at what you did for a living.
The incoming train's whistle blew twice, steam-powered hoots that echoed into the station. There were only a few passengers waiting in her scenario, none of them paying any attention to her. She liked this time; it allowed her to wear clothes that could utterly
conceal her shape and most of her features. People had been polite to each other in 1916, and the pace of life, just before America entered the Great War for Civilization, had been more stately than brisk.
The locomotive arrived, pulling a passenger train of some sixteen cars, blasting clouds of steam, its great wheels squealing and squeaking to a halt at the platform.
Well. It didn't matter how many traps this bodoh left in his wake, she was going to track him down…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday, January 3rd, 8:02 a.m. Quantico, Virginia
Alex Michaels leaned back in his chair and wished he was somewhere else. Just about anyplace would do, instead of sitting here listening to one of Senator White's staffers drone on at him over the phone.
"You understand our problem, don't you, Commander?" Oh, yeah, he understood, all right. He made a sympathetic noise he didn't mean: "Um."
Congress was still out for the holidays, but the staff people got a lot of work done when the bosses weren't around. Probably more than when they were here, getting in the way. The truth of it was, Washington was run by staff. Without them, most congressmen and senators would not have a clue as to what was really going on. How some of the most influential people in the country ever got elected amazed Michaels. Some of these bozos probably had to be led to the bathroom and shown how to work a zipper.
"So I can pencil you in for the committee meeting?" Michaels thought about it for a second. What if he said no?
That would be fun. They'd have to subpoena him. Would Net Force security keep out a federal marshal looking to serve papers if he asked them to? Probably, but Michaels would have to leave the building sooner or later. And the good senator would make mounds of political hay out his refusal to take the hot seat voluntarily. Did the Commander of Net Force have something to hide? An honest man doesn't fear a few questions, does he?