"I need you on the next plane to Detroit."
Mack laughed a big, barking laugh. “Listen, I don't know how you do things in the States, but I don't just walk out on my employers. Now if you don't mind—"
Connell interrupted. “We're going three miles down, Mack."
A brief pause. “Did you say three miles?"
"That's right. And I want you because you're the best. But if you aren't in Detroit tomorrow, I go with choice number two. I know Klaus Honneger would love to shatter your record."
"Now hold on there!” Mack said, anger thick in his voice. “Honneger couldn't dig three miles if you gave him a two-mile head-start. I'm willing to listen, mate, but slow down! You haven't even given me a chance to think about this."
"And I'm not going to give you that chance,” Connell said. “I'm in a bit of a hurry here. I'll have an engineer at that mine tomorrow, it's either you or Honneger."
"What the hell are you digging for?"
"I can't tell you that."
"So you want me to quit my job and fly to Detroit without knowing any details, or even knowing if you're just screwing with me?"
"Our jet will pick you up. Just get here. See what we've got, then you can quit. If you don't like it, we'll fly you back. Are you telling me it's not worth burning a few sick days just to find out if I'm for real?"
Another brief pause.
"Three miles, eh?"
"At least."
Mack sighed. “I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'll be there tomorrow, you pushy, arrogant bastard."
Connell smiled. “Our jet is already at Cape Town. Be on it in two hours."
At 5:33 p.m. Kayla Meyers finally hacked through EarthCore's computer-security programs and accessed the company's intranet. The company's security would keep most people out, even the best hackers in the world. But Kayla, former darling of the National Security Agency, was better than the best.
The NSA's mission revolved around protecting U.S. communications or intercepting foreign communications. The United States government had spent countless hours training her in COMSEC, which was military parlance for “communications security.” Part of her job entailed making sure U.S. communications were free from the prying ears of foreign intelligence operations. The other end of the NSA mission was just the opposite, which was SIGINT, or “signals intelligence."
SIGINT involved intercepting messages from foreign governments and exploiting such information as needed for national security purposes. She'd been trained to pick off messages sent by phone, radio, microwave, laser, or — especially — computer. In addition to training her as a killer and an interrogator, the NSA had trained her to be a communications expert, an artist in data espionage, and a hacker extraordinaire.
Compared to the Kremlin's computer security, EarthCore really didn't pose that much opposition. Still, Connell spared no expense in keeping the company secure and hidden. EarthCore didn't even appear in some government databases. If someone in the company didn't give you a company phone number, you couldn't find one anywhere, in any directory or any database. Even the corporate headquarters were an unmarked suite in Detroit's Renaissance Building. Aside from the building managers and the people in the mail room, no one in the building even knew EarthCore existed.
She relaxed in her chair as she sifted through earthcore.biz's most confidential files. She didn't care about any of them — all she wanted was information on Connell's new project. But she found nothing on platinum, nothing on Sonny McGuiness, not even anything on Herbert Darker. It was as if the new project didn't officially exist.
Paranoid bastard, she thought. Doesn't surprise me a bit, Connell. You don't trust anybody, do you?
Connell had needed that information from Herbert Darker, needed it in case he had to put the screws to Sonny McGuiness. A billion-dollar find. If Connell wanted that site so badly, other companies would pay for that information. The South Africans, in particular, seemed to take it almost personally when platinum was discovered in other countries. If the site was as big as Darker said, it could potentially affect the worldwide supply of platinum, and hence the worldwide price. That was the kind of information companies would pay to know.
Acting on a hunch, she switched tactics and slipped into accounting's travel budgets. Any company's accounting files often provided a warehouse of knowledge if you knew what to look for, knowledge that few companies spent much effort protecting. After all, who gives a crap if the competition sneaks a peek at your travel logs or your expense reports?
Kayla called up all purchase orders authorized by Connell in the past two weeks.
Bingo.
Over ten million dollars of state-of-the-art mining equipment told her she was on the right track, but that wasn't the real find. What finally made her smile was the $356,312.35 paid in advance to Southern Air Freight of Phoenix.
She exited EarthCore's system, erasing all evidence of her presence, and quickly hacked into Southern Air Freight's system. Air Freight's computer system had off-the-shelf protection, and Kayla moved past that with ease. She called up the customer account for EarthCore. Southern's force of five freight helicopters was in the process of shuttling EarthCore's mining equipment from locations around the South to a road-less area in Utah. Kayla noted the delivery coordinates: 38 degrees, 15 minutes north latitude; 114 degrees, 37 minutes west longitude.
A spot in the Southern Wah Wah Mountains.
Book Two: Camp
Chapter Ten
Randy Wright sat in the backseat, sweating like a pig. Despite the air conditioner's valiant efforts, a slimy film covered him from head to toe. He could almost hear the Land Rover's paint bubbling under the angry sun. They would be stopping soon, and they'd have to get out, an act his mind ranked as slightly more fun than having a wisdom tooth extracted.
He looked out the back window. Dust billowed up as if the Land Rover were a bi-wing crop duster, swooping in low over the ground to drop clouds of noxious pesticide. The view out the front wasn't much better — an endless vista of brown and yellow, dotted every now and then with scrub and other vegetation so tough it looked as if it would flourish on the surface of the moon.
He pushed his glasses into place for the hundredth time; the rough, catapulting ride had the frames constantly sliding down his sweat-slick nose. He didn't mind the constant bouncing in the seats, but this heat could suck the fun out of a clown.
The bumpy ride bounced Randy in all directions, but it didn't seem to bother the Rover's other occupants. The driver, a stocky, serious woman named Bertha Lybrand, seemed to take the bumps without notice. The big, blue-uniformed man on Randy's right was having no problems, but that was probably due to his size — it would take a wrecking ball to move Patrick O'Doyle.
Lybrand was also dressed in the blue EarthCore security uniform. She was a big brunette, a strong woman, probably a bodybuilder by the looks of it. Angus referred to her as a “linebacker factory” and a “gorilla with tits.” He said these things very quietly, of course, and only when Lybrand was not around.
O'Doyle kept staring at her, turning away quickly every time she flashed a glance at the rearview mirror. Randy wasn't sure, but he thought O'Doyle blushed once when she caught him staring.
O'Doyle was supposed to be security. He was more like a prison guard. Nobody had been able to leave the lab even to take a piss without first clearing it with O'Doyle, and now he was in charge of camp security. O'Doyle had an aura of confidence and lethality that gave Randy the creeps (of course, the missing ear and accompanying scar tissue added to that feeling). Rumor was that O'Doyle had served in some secret Marine infiltration unit. Rumor also had it he'd once killed five men with his bare hands. Looking at the big man, it was easy to understand why no one in the lab dared voice a complaint about the extra security measures.