The instructions left by Linda Reston — the lab’s the decidedly distracted technical support chief — were simple and to the point:
“If any one of those buttons turns red,” she’d said, meeting the gaze of every scientist and agent in the conference room, one at a time, “you hit it with your fist, immediately, and then come tell me about it. Any questions?”
“If more than one button turns red, which one do we hit first?” Schweer had asked reasonably.
“In the highly unlikely event that should happen, you immediately grab the phone line, rip it out of the wall, and then come tell me about it,” Reston had replied matter-of-factly before collecting up her tools and heading back to the lab’s Technical Support Section, where she had far more significant problems waiting.
That had been a half hour ago. They were still waiting for the call-back.
“Rip it out of the wall? Was she serious?” Schweer asked.
“Yes, I’m sure she was,” Ferreira replied.
“Definitely serious,” Hager added.
“And since you’re the closest one to the phone line, you’re the one she’s going to blame if you don’t rip it out quickly enough and the hackers get into our servers during our call,” Renwick pointed out.
Schweer seemed to contemplate that idea for a few seconds. “All of this really is your fault, you know,” he finally said to no one in particular.
The three forensic specialists raised their eyebrows collectively.
“Scientists, as a whole,” Schweer clarified, glaring at the white-coated figures, “definitely all your fault.”
The three forensic specialists looked at each other and shrugged. None of them seemed particularly concerned about the comments being made by the SAC of Special Operations… mostly because he wasn’t in their chain-of-command, but also because they’d been hearing variations on that general theme all morning.
“It’s true,” Schweer went on when he failed to get the hoped-for defensive response from the amused scientific specialists. “When I joined the Service, way back when, the life of a federal wildlife agent was pretty damned simple and straight-forward. Catch a guy with an over-limit of ducks, geese, deer, elk, bear, whatever; check his tags and license; write him up; petition the courts to revoke his hunting privileges; and then go on to the next guy. No pieces, parts and products to worry about; no hybridized species; no DNA testing complicating the issue of what the victim was or wasn’t; no god-damned computers for good ‘ol Bubba and his kids to hide their guide lists and jay-pegs in; and absolutely no god-damned spooks sticking their noses in our business where they don’t belong. Fact is, the way I see it, everything was going along just fine until you scientists started using all these expensive toys of yours to push the envelope.”
The three white-coated scientists looked at each other again and shrugged agreeably.
“Of course that was back when the agents and game wardens had to catch their suspects in the act or in possession — when they were still armed with a scoped rifle or shotgun, and were far more dangerous — because we didn’t have the tools and techniques to match the gut pile from a crime scene back to blood or tissue at the suspect’s house,” DNA specialist Juliana Ferreira reminded.
“And that was before we had automated international fingerprint databases capable of matching a partial latent lift off a cartridge casing to a suspect from another state or country,” latent print specialist Steve Hager added.
“And definitely before we had a computerized bullet and cartridge case system to link up firearms evidence from a single gun to poaching scenes all over the world,” firearms examiner Donn Renwick finished with a cheerful smile.
“Not to mention the fact that if their lab director hadn’t pushed a whole bunch of envelopes, in between driving you duck-cops up the wall, you wouldn’t even have snooping crime scene investigators like me on the force, much less a wildlife crime lab capable of pissing off nosey spooks,” Bulatt pointed out helpfully.
“A mixed blessing at best,” Schweer grumbled. “And speaking of the devil, what the hell was your boss doing in DC when all this started anyway? I thought he was supposed to stay here and keep you people from getting into trouble.”
“As I understand the situation, he was back there trying to con the government into buying us some more expensive toys,” Ferreira replied.
“So we can continue to push our envelopes, and make things more complicated for everyone; good guys and bad guys alike,” Hager added.
“Which nobody told us included a bunch of spooks; but I don’t know that we really care, because that’s what we do for a living anyway,” Renwick finished with a cheerful smile. “No real problem to pick on them, too, while we’re at it.”
“Using a couple of fourteen-year-old juvenile delinquents?” Schweer was starting to look apoplectic.
“Well, no, not normally,” Renwick conceded. “But they’re better at it than we are, in their own area of expertise.”
“Truly evil little bastards,” Hager agreed.
“Fact is, after that first little incident, back when they were twelve, the boss never lets them anywhere near the lab any more — much less near any of our computers — because he doesn’t trust them,” Ferreira added.
“Not that anyone else around here trusts them, either; specifically including their mother,” Hager pointed out.
“You think your boss trusts them now?” Schweer sputtered.
“No, probably not,” Renwick acknowledged, “I think he’s just pissed because the CIA and NSA crime lab directors back in DC slammed the doors in his face this morning when he tried asking for the latent print information nice and friendly-like; and then started ripping into our firewalls right after he left; so he decided to go nuclear.”
“Nuclear?” Shweer’s eyes widened in alarm.
“So to speak,” Ferreira shrugged.
“Yeah, I just hope the kids don’t fry anything expensive, like one of those Cray’s,” Hager added. “Washington Office would probably try to take it out of our budget.”
“What’s a Cray?” Schweer asked.
“Supercomputer,” Renwick explained. “NSA buys them by the dozen.”
“How much do they cost?”
Renwick shrugged. “Depends on how many tera-flops you want.”
“Tera-what??”
“Flops, meaning operations per second, and tera meaning trillion,” Hager explained. “Basically, lots of very fast flopping.”
“And the prices are coming down,” Ferreira pointed out. “The new ones only cost a couple hundred million, give or take.”
“Those kids are going to try to fry a — ” Schweer couldn’t get the words out of his suddenly constricted throat.
“Not fry, really,” Hager said. “More like tug on.”
“Exactly,” Renwick nodded in agreement.
“Tug on?” Schweer was definitely looking apoplectic now.
“Yeah, think of a big tinker-toy structure, made up of lots of extremely powerful computers, all connected together three-dimensionally, and all sending out lots of little tentacles that try to probe at doors and brick walls,” Ferreira explained.
“These kids are going to tug at a tentacle — ?”
“Actually, if they can get a good grip on one, they’re probably going to try to rip it out by its roots,” Renwick corrected.
“And then what?” Schweer’s mouth had dropped open.
“Good question.” Renwick shrugged. “I imagine it’s going to hurt.”
“Jesus — ”
“Might as well face it, boss,” Bulatt said, leaning back in his chair and smiling at to his stunned boss, “you’re a technological dinosaur, at best, and I’m rapidly heading toward — ”
The jury-rigged conference-call system rang, and Bulatt lunged for the ANSWER button.
“Hello?” he queried.
“Khun Ged?”
“Hello, Achara, it’s good to hear your voice again.” Bulatt smiled pleasantly, ignoring the raised eyebrows and suspicious looks passing between the three forensic scientists and his SAC boss.