“What does that mean?”
“The DOE’s unclassified center at Oak Ridge, which you or anyone else can visit,” said Lulu, “has a Cray XT5 named Jaguar. It clocked in at 1.75 Petaflops and was named the world’s fastest supercomputer in 2009. Then, in 2010, China’s Tianhe or Milky Way computer took top honors at 2.57 Petaflops, which really freaked people out. Last count,” Lulu said, “China’s got 74 of the world’s 500 most powerful supercomputers, up from zero a decade ago, second only to us with 263. Of course, we’re kind of broke these days.”
“While the Chinese have almost limitless resources,” said Decker.
“Exactly. All my friends at MIT say that if the U.S. falls behind in supercomputing, we could soon lose our edge in all areas of science, in industries like oil and gas exploration, pharmaceutical research, the military. You name it.”
“Good. Then, we’ll be able to hack into their systems and rip off their copyrights for a change.” Decker laughed bleakly. “But what’s your point, Lulu?”
“Today, IBM has the fastest supercomputer, the Sequoia, running at more than 16 Petaflops.” Lulu took a step closer to Decker. She tilted her head. “But, while my friends at MIT are worried about stuff like oil and gas exploration, and mock nuclear testing, that’s not why we should be concerned. All these non-classified, public systems — they’re just the tip of the iceberg. They pale in comparison to what’s going on behind closed doors, at top-secret facilities like Building 5300. And not just here in the United States. All over the world.”
“We reached Exaflop more than a year ago,” said Braun. “That’s one quintillion or 1018 operations per second and expect to reach Zettaflop by the spring.”
Lulu visibly blanched. “That’s… I don’t know the word, but fucking amazing comes pretty close.”
“Those are two words,” said Braun. “And some think we’ll hit Yottaflop by the end of next year.”
“Now I get it,” said Decker. “The Bluffdale Data Center. All of those intercepts they’re storing in Utah. That kind of cryptanalysis requires two major ingredients: a whole bunch of data, which we’re clearly gathering, and then something fast enough to conduct brute-force attacks on the encrypted messages. Building 5300. A lot of that foreign government stuff we’ve never been able to break is 128 or less. Break it and we’ll be able to extrapolate how they did business—”
“And how they may do things in the future,” Lulu concluded.
“But that wasn’t the problem for Matt,” Braun continued. “That’s a good thing, at least that’s what we thought at the time.” He moved toward the front of the cabin and looked out the window. “The problem was, it isn’t just ‘government stuff.’ It’s everything. George W didn’t just authorize the installation of deep packet inspection systems at the telcos’ landing stations, the two dozen or so sites on the borders of the United States where fiber-optic cables come ashore. If they’d done that, they could have limited their eavesdropping to just international calls, which was all that was legal at the time. They didn’t. Instead, they chose to put the wiretapping rooms at key junction switches, in places like Bridgeton, Missouri, thus gaining access not only to international communications but to most of the domestic traffic flowing through the U.S. And not only telecom switches. Satellite receivers too, in places like Roaring Creek, Pennsylvania. Matt and I… well, that didn’t sit well with us. You know, Matt did a lot of fundraising for President Obama back in ’08. He was always left-leaning politically. And, not long thereafter, he abandoned work on his own project too. He gave up on refining his cyber-doppelgänger — his representative in cyberspace.”
“What happened to Zimmerman?” asked Lulu. “Who deflated his tire, Rutger? You know, don’t you?”
Just then, the kettle started to whistle and Braun moved back to the stove to remove it. With each step, his face fell out of humor, as if he were removing one mask after another. By the time he stood over the stove once again, he had slipped on the grimace of terror. As he fiddled with the kettle and tea, he kept glancing over at a corner of the cabin.
When Decker followed his gaze, he noticed a pair of funky-looking glasses in a box by the bed. Even from this distance, they looked like the VR goggles they’d spotted in Zimmerman’s home, with dark wraparound lenses and some kind of circuit board over the nose bridge. Two thin electrical cords dangled down to a couple of earbuds. Decker walked over to examine them more closely. “What are these for?” he asked him.
Braun began to rock back and forth. He returned the kettle to the stove. But he would not answer.
“Rutger,” said Lulu approaching him. “What is it? What’s wrong? Have you used those goggles before? What do they do?”
“Who killed Matt?” Decker asked. “I know you know, Rutger. Just tell us. We’ll protect you, I promise. Was it government? NSA? FBI? Or was it this private industry group, this Riptide?”
Then, Braun did something that neither of them had expected. The fear fell from his face, like scales from his eyes, and he started to laugh. “Do you know the one about René Descartes?” he asked out of nowhere.
“What? What are you talking about?” Decker said. Zimmerman’s assistant seemed to be losing his mind.
“He’s flying from Paris to New York, and the flight attendant comes up to him and says, Can I get you something, Monsieur Descartes? Some coffee, perhaps? Some tea or a drink?”
Lulu’s car suddenly roared. Decker glanced out the window. Somehow, it had started up on its own. He pulled out the Python… but there was no one to shoot at. The car roared again and suddenly lurched toward the cabin.
Decker found himself leaping through the air. He tackled Lulu from behind and they rolled to the floor just as the Ford crashed through the front of the cabin, directly through the bay window.
There was a terrible crash. Glass and splintered wood scattered about. They hit the wall, rolled, and Decker saw the car strike Braun full in the chest.
It drove him back to the rear of the cabin, crushing his chest and his face before punching right through in a blossom of blood.
The stove teetered and tipped, spilling the burning wood all over the rear of the cabin. Fire licked at the walls.
Decker grabbed Lulu and tore through the breach at the front of the cabin. They rolled onto the snow, turning just in time to see the structure burst into flames.
The last thing he saw was a murder of crows peppering the snow-covered branches above him. At the tips of the trees, the whole world went white.
CHAPTER 38
“John. John wake up. John!” Lulu shook Decker’s shoulders until he finally swam up through the darkness. “Oh, thank God.”
Decker rolled to his feet, reaching for his holster at the same time, but the Python was gone. Then, he remembered. It had slipped form his grasp as he’d tried to save Lulu and now it was somewhere in what was left of Braun’s cabin, burning furiously only a few yards away. Decker grabbed Lulu by the hand and dragged her away from the wreckage.
“His car!” Decker said. He rushed to the side of the cabin. The tarpaulin covering Braun’s car was starting to melt. He pulled it away, revealing a starlight black 1964 Pontiac GTO.
“Holy shit,” Lulu said. She ripped open the driver side door and climbed in. There was no key in the ignition but it took her only a minute to reach down and hotwire the vehicle. Thankfully, it started up right away. “Get in.”
“Hell no,” said Decker. “Slide over. I’m driving this time.”
She did so and he jumped in beside her. Moments later, they were spinning and sliding down the snow-covered driveway.