The president addressed the room. “We haven’t found anything like that in your various department budgets. So that leaves only one option.”
Reynolds jumped in, “Black Ops. Programs and initiatives not open to congressional scrutiny.”
“Who’s running this program? NSA? CIA? The damn Girl Scouts? Who?”
The phone rang. The president waved his hand to the communications officer and talked into the speakerphone. “Who is this on the line?”
A voice came back over the loudspeaker. “General Tyson, Sir, duty officer at joint operations center. There’s been an attempted attack on Quarterback.”
“How? Why? Who would know the …”
“Sir, it was a truck laden with explosives. It got to within 1,000 feet of the house they were in. One casualty, an Army Ranger. The bazooka man who took out the truck was killed by the blast, Sir.”
“Good God! Are Quarterback and the Admiral okay?”
“A little shook up but fine, Sir.”
“How did the assailants know where they were?”
“Once Quarterback’s team broke through the firewall, they were reverse-traced and the assassin was dispatched immediately.”
“Do we know who the assassin was?”
“Carlsbad PD identified him as Henry Wilson, an explosives engineer on a construction site fifty miles from Admiral Parks’s home. A seemingly otherwise model citizen until he went nuts and rampaged through most of downtown Carlsbad on his way to meet his maker, Sir.”
“I’ll recommend the ranger who did the shooting for a posthumous DSC. Let’s bring Quarterback’s team back to Washington where we can keep them safe.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The president signaled to the telecom officer and the line was terminated.
“Somebody in this room is responsible for the deaths of thousands of Americans and we are not leaving until I find out who it is.”
Celebrity is a potent charm. Anyone whom it touches glows, seemingly forever, with its incandescence. Even in a maximum-security prison, among the formerly notorious and momentarily infamous population, true celebrity had its perks. The yellow legal pad on her lap was proof. A “gift” from a star struck guard. The crayon was a concession to the survival instinct of all prison personnel, lest they become hostage of as simple a weapon as a number two pencil or Bic pen, pressed into their carotid artery. It was a safe and non-threatening Crayola brown, with which she took careful notes.
Penitentiary life did not allow for makeup or beauty salons, yet she was dangerously attractive. A short stint in Tai Bo, building upper body strength through boxing-like exercises, had served her well when one of the dykes, who demanded attention from all the “new bloods,” got a little too friendly once.
Out in the prison yard, in the bright Leavenworth, Kansas, noonday sun, sat two ends of the spectrum — the young “looker,” with the bound and shackled, nutty old lady. They spent all of the exercise hour conversing, taking notes, and occasionally stopping as thoughts coalesced in the younger one’s mind.
A passing guard noticed the large, scrawled crayon heading at the top of the brown-lettered page as he patrolled past, “Inside Club Fed — Part 3 — Martha Krummel — The Gardening Grandmother.” Carly Simone had her next byline.
Army MPs boarded up the shattered windows. Another swept debris off the floor. Hiccock resurrected the workstation as Admiral Parks rubbed a sore elbow.
“Did I forget to thank you for bringing technology into my quiet home?”
Hiccock looked around and surveyed the damage. “I really am sorry about that. Obviously the government will pay all damages … or I will.”
The major entered. “We got orders to bug out back to Washington on the double. Pack up whatever you’re going to need.”
“I won’t be needing anything, ’cause I’m not going,” the Admiral said resolutely.
“Ma’am … er … Admiral, Sir, ma’am, it’s a direct order from the Commander in Chief directly to me! At my pay grade! There’s no ‘no’ for an answer. The president decided you would be safer in Washington.”
“It’s Admiral USN, Retired, Major.”
Kronos walked in with his laptop, an airport wireless antenna sticking up. “It’s close by.”
“What is?” Hiccock asked.
“The point of presence. I phase-detected the shift from the first bounce signal and its spread indicates a lapse time of .23 picoseconds. That’s.000000000023 times the speed of light which equals 8.14 miles away.”
“Translation?” Hiccock said.
“The firewall and possibly the whole shebang is very near. The origin or point of presence is the last stop before the backbone of the Internet.”
Hiccock turned to the major. “We’re staying.”
“You’re leaving … until my orders change.”
Hiccock pulled out his cell phone as he said to the major, “Sorry you lost a man before.”
“The president is personally recommending him for a Distinguished Service Cross. C’mon, we’ve got to go.”
Hiccock put up his finger for the major to wait as his call was connected. “I heard you are recommending a DSC for the downed soldier. Thanks, he saved all of our lives.”
The major’s jaw dropped.
“I know you ordered us back there to Washington, but my main computer geek just located the source as eight miles from here.” Hiccock folded his phone at the end of the brief conversation. The major, still following his orders, started to usher Hiccock out when a radioman appeared.
“Sir, Ultra traffic, decode coming through.”
The major took the radio headset. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Mr. President.” He handed the radio back and looked to Hiccock. “You got to let me borrow that phone sometime. Okay, we’ve been ordered to stay and I’m to assist you.”
“Assist? Not to pull rank on you here, Major, but I’m an SES-4 and you are a 0–4. That makes me a simulated equivalent to some kind of general, you know.”
“Well, I’ll follow any militarily correct order. You get to ask, I get to veto if I feel it endangers the mission or presents unacceptable risks.”
“Fair enough. Okay, what’s your plan, Major?”
“Take a map. Draw a circle and door-to-door it.”
“Forget about the doors,” Kronos said. “This kind of connectivity requires fiber. Flat out DC to light.”
“What’s a fiber look like?”
Kronos plucked a hair out of his head and held it up. “Well, this is the cross-sectional diameter.”
The major took a deep breath and left.
Hiccock’s cell phone rang. Tyler was calling from the FBI psychological profiles lab. A mug shot of Wilson, the truck bomber, was on her computer screen. Technicians were audio scrubbing his answering machine message through a voiceprint analyzer.
“We’re doing voice stress analysis baseline sampling right now,” she said.
“Is that anything that can help us?”
“Our engineer fits the profile. He was on his iPhone one minute, then left his field office and headed for you.”
“So he was another one programmed while online?”
“It appears so.” There was a silence, then, “Bill?”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you come back to Washington and stop playing Army.”
“Playing? I need to be here. We are so close.”
“You are so stubborn. This is just more work for you, isn’t it?”
“Let’s not fight right now, okay? I really need to focus on what’s going on, you know.”
“Okay, but …”
“But what?”
“But be careful. That’s an order from your old boss.” She clicked off. Hiccock said into the dead phone at the same moment the major walked by, “I love you, too, boss.” Hiccock ended the call, addressing the screwed up look on the major’s face. “Not the Prez that time.”