Like famished ants finding food, guards poured out of the nearby structures, Kalashnikov assault rifles slung over their shoulders. They hit the ground in choreographed fashion, dropping to one knee and pointing their weapons with practiced precision. Perhaps DeSantos had misinterpreted their level of expertise. Rodman’s heart beat furiously as his outward calm belied his sudden sense of anxiety. He tried to ignore the troop maneuvers taking place in front of him as he spoke into his encrypted headset. “Uh, boys, we’ve made contact. They’re well armed and seem to be itching for us to make a hostile move. Stand by.”
Rodman engaged the external speakers. Phase two of their charade was about to begin — a bit earlier than planned.
Uzi had felt the chopper approaching before he heard it; the vibrating rumble in his gut told him he needed to get moving. But he couldn’t, not yet — not after finding this hidden chamber. He walked down a long, narrow tunnel that led to another set of steps — and what appeared to be a larger, deeper room. After assuring himself that no one was there, he stepped down into the darkness.
Beyond a fire door lay an area that stood in stark contrast to the environs of the building he had just left. Rows of polished stainless steel racks held computer modules stacked neatly one above the other, color-coded cables feeding each of the units. Uzi knew exactly what he was looking at, having played a role in developing the earlier generation microchips running these very servers.
The chill of air conditioning and metal honeycomb flooring told him that whoever designed this facility for ARM clearly knew what he was doing. According to Ruckhauser, Lewiston Grant was a self-made computer expert. Looking at this subterranean setup and its advanced technology, Uzi had to agree. Unless they hired a contractor who could be trusted with their secret — or unless ARM had another networking guru in their ranks — Grant was alive and well, and keeping his knowledge base sharp.
Uzi did a quick walk-around, his knife clenched in his right hand, ready to be thrown or thrust should someone challenge him. He made his way to the end of the room, looking for the administrator’s desk. It could be anywhere, really, but Uzi had a feeling they would have someone down here overseeing the equipment. He turned down a corridor created by the rows of shelving, and saw a free-standing PC resting on a desk against the bunker’s cement wall.
He didn’t have much time. But the thought of poking around and hacking the server was so tempting he would almost be willing to risk getting caught to see what he could find.
On the desk was a half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee. He removed his glove and stuck his index finger into the drink. It was relatively hot. Whoever had left it had done so to respond to the chopper out front. They could return at any moment.
He rummaged through the desk drawers and found standard office supplies and various computer peripherals: a mouse, networking cables, a discarded hard drive. He reasoned that ARM used a RAID setup, which stored data redundantly, spread out over multiple disks. If one failed, a replacement could be slipped in and the system would automatically recover, without any data loss. While the drive in his hand had likely been trashed, he was certain CART could retrieve its information. But if he got caught, his cover would immediately be blown. There could be no excuse for having it in his possession.
He gave one last look around the desk and was about to close the drawer when he saw a small yellow notepad tucked beneath a book. He scanned the pages, which contained scribbled notations at varying angles. Whoever took these notes had no use for ruled lines. As Uzi read the various entries, he realized it was a scratch pad, kept by a phone, where reminders, names, and events could be scribbled, transferred later to their respective repository: a calendar, a contact list, a database program.
While it would not be something someone would miss, he played it safe nonetheless. He removed the second and fourth pages, figuring Tim Meadows could use alternative light sources and other forensic techniques to raise the imprinted notes taken on the pages directly above them.
Uzi grabbed a pen from the drawer, unscrewed the two halves, and removed the refill. He deftly rolled the two sheets of paper into a tight tube, then slid it into the hollow case. He slipped the pen into his backpack, then checked to see how much time had elapsed. He was three minutes behind schedule. Patience. The easiest way to find trouble is by cutting corners.
He positioned the chair the way it had been before he sat, then retraced his steps toward the tunnel, moving swiftly. Rodman and crew were now doing their thing. He needed to do his.
The militia members began pouring out of a pedestrian gate several feet to the left of the guard house. The men fell into position encircling the grounded chopper, with several peering into the cabin glass. But the windows were deeply tinted, and with the near total darkness inside and the security spotlights brightening the front of ARM’s compound, they would be staring into mirrors.
Rodman waited, drawing it out, not making a move until forced to do so. Finally, one of the men walked up to the cockpit and rapped on the front side window with the muzzle of his assault rifle.
Rodman keyed the mike. “Back the fuck away!” He needed to establish authority without delay. Although he was accustomed to relying on his size, in this case broadcasting his deep baritone voice over the external speakers served as his sole means of intimidation, leaving him less confident of success — particularly considering the neutralizing roar of the copter’s turbines and rotors. But the sooner they realized they didn’t have a pushover in the command chair, the less likely they would be to aggress. Yet he had to be careful not to incite them. It was a fine line.
The man behind the submachine gun quickly dumped his own testosterone into the mix by bringing his Kalashnikov up to his cheek and taking aim through the side window, in the general location of Rodman’s head.
Rodman knew his chopper was made to fly soldiers into combat. It had a built-in tolerance to small-arms fire and most medium-caliber high-explosive projectiles. His team could withstand an assault, but he doubted the cockpit glass was impervious to a high-powered round fired at such close range.
He flipped the commo to the internal channel and informed his crew of the situation and ordered them to stand ready for countermeasures: the release of more smoke from the specially-installed exhaust pipes near the tail. The parasoldiers would likely back off for fear of explosion or asphyxiation.
Rodman switched back to the external speakers. “We’ve got problems with our bird. Didn’t mean to land in your front yard, but we didn’t have much choice. We’re making repairs, but there’s still danger of explosion. Keep back.”
He kept his explanation and warnings incomplete and cryptic, to make them think — and waste time while they debated what to do. But at some point his friends would become frustrated with one-sided communication. How long did he have?
He got his answer faster than he had hoped: ten more armed men moved into position and brought their weapons to eye level. Beads of perspiration oozed from Rodman’s forehead. Their sudden and unexpected reaction made him feel weak — an emotion he did not often experience. Whoever was calling the shots for this group was either a battle-tested military commander, or a decisive and impulsive individual. Either scenario was not good.
Rodman’s eyes stung from dripping sweat. He scraped a shirt sleeve across his face and tried to remain clear-headed. He told himself it wasn’t fear so much as nerves — the lack of control over an unstable situation with an unknown, and unpredictable or underestimated, adversary. If he was only free to deal with these yahoos the way he’d been trained to do, he’d feel much better.