Digital Fortess - Brown Dan - Страница 36

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On Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. He adjusted his wire?rim glasses and peered after the departing bus. David Becker had escaped, but it would not be for long. Of all the buses in Seville, Mr. Becker had just boarded the infamous number 27.

Bus 27 had only one destination.

Phil Chartrukian slammed down his receiver. Jabba’s line was busy; Jabba spurned call?waiting as an intrusive gimmick that was introduced by AT T to increase profits by connecting every call; the simple phrase “I’m on the other line, I’ll call you back” made phone companies millions annually. Jabba’s refusal of call?waiting was his own brand of silent objection to the NSA’s requirement that he carry an emergency cellular at all times.

Chartrukian turned and looked out at the deserted Crypto floor. The hum of the generators below sounded louder every minute. He sensed that time was running out. He knew he was supposed to leave, but from out of the rumble beneath Crypto, the Sys?Sec mantra began playing in his head: Act first, explain later.

In the high?stakes world of computer security, minutes often meant the difference between saving a system or losing it. There was seldom time to justify a defensive procedure before taking it. Sys?Secs were paid for their technical expertise . . . and their instinct.

Act first, explain later. Chartrukian knew what he had to do. He also knew that when the dust settled, he would be either an NSA hero or in the unemployment line.

The great decoding computer had a virus?of that, the Sys?Sec was certain. There was one responsible course of action. Shut it down.

Chartrukian knew there were only two ways to shut down TRANSLTR. One was the commander’s private terminal, which was locked in his office?out of the question. The other was the manual kill?switch located on one of the sublevels beneath the Crypto floor.

Chartrukian swallowed hard. He hated the sublevels. He’d only been there once, during training. It was like something out of an alien world with its long mazes of catwalks, freon ducts, and a dizzy 136?foot drop to the rumbling power supplies below . . .

It was the last place he felt like going, and Strathmore was the last person he felt like crossing, but duty was duty. They’ll thank me tomorrow, he thought, wondering if he was right.

Taking a deep breath, Chartrukian opened the senior Sys?Sec’s metal locker. On a shelf of disassembled computer parts, hidden behind a media concentrator and LAN tester, was a Stanford alumni mug. Without touching the rim, he reached inside and lifted out a single Medeco key.

“It’s amazing,” he grumbled, “what System?Security officers don’t know about security.”

“A billion?dollar code?” Midge snickered, accompanying Brinkerhoff back up the hallway. “That’s a good one.”

“I swear it,” he said.

She eyed him askance. “This better not be some ploy to get me out of this dress.”

“Midge, I would never—” he said self?righteously.

“I know, Chad. Don’t remind me.”

Thirty seconds later, Midge was sitting in Brinkerhoff’s chair and studying the Crypto report.

“See?” he said, leaning over her and pointing to the figure in question. “This MCD? A billion dollars!”

Midge chuckled. “It does appear to be a touch on the high side, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He groaned. “Just a touch.”

“Looks like a divide?by?zero.”

“A who?”

“A divide?by?zero,” she said, scanning the rest of the data. “The MCD’s calculated as a fraction?total expense divided by number of decryptions.”

“Of course.” Brinkerhoff nodded blankly and tried not to peer down the front of her dress.

“When the denominator’s zero,” Midge explained, “the quotient goes to infinity. Computers hate infinity, so they type all nines.” She pointed to a different column. “See this?”

“Yeah.” Brinkerhoff refocused on the paper.

“It’s today’s raw production data. Take a look at the number of decryptions.”

Brinkerhoff dutifully followed her finger down the column.

NUMBER OF DECRYPTIONS = 0

Midge tapped on the figure. “It’s just as I suspected. Divide?by?zero.”

Brinkerhoff arched his eyebrows. “So everything’s okay?”

She shrugged. “Just means we haven’t broken any codes today. TRANSLTR must be taking a break.”

“A break?” Brinkerhoff looked doubtful. He’d been with the director long enough to know that “breaks” were not part of his preferred modus operandi?particularly with respect to TRANSLTR. Fontaine had paid $2 billion for the code?breaking behemoth, and he wanted his money’s worth. Every second TRANSLTR sat idle was money down the toilet.

“Ah . . . Midge?” Brinkerhoff said. “TRANSLTR doesn’t take any breaks. It runs day and night. You know that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe Strathmore didn’t feel like hanging out last night to prepare the weekend run. He probably knew Fontaine was away and ducked out early to go fishing.”

“Come on, Midge.” Brinkerhoff gave her disgusted look. “Give the guy a break.”

It was no secret Midge Milken didn’t like Trevor Strathmore. Strathmore had attempted a cunning maneuver rewriting Skipjack, but he’d been caught. Despite Strathmore’s bold intentions, the NSA had paid dearly. The EFF had gained strength, Fontaine had lost credibility with Congress, and worst of all, the agency had lost a lot of its anonymity. There were suddenly housewives in Minnesota complaining to America Online and Prodigy that the NSA might be reading their E?mail?like the NSA gave a damn about a secret recipe for candied yams.

Strathmore’s blunder had cost the NSA, and Midge felt responsible?not that she could have anticipated the commander’s stunt, but the bottom line was that an unauthorized action had taken place behind Director Fontaine’s back, a back Midge was paid to cover. Fontaine’s hands?off attitude made him susceptible; and it made Midge nervous. But the director had learned long ago to stand back and let smart people do their jobs; that’s exactly how he handled Trevor Strathmore.

“Midge, you know damn well Strathmore’s not slacking,” Brinkerhoff argued. “He runs TRANSLTR like a fiend.”

Midge nodded. Deep down, she knew that accusing Strathmore of shirking was absurd. The commander was as dedicated as they came?dedicated to a fault. He bore the evils of the world as his own personal cross. The NSA’s Skipjack plan had been Strathmore’s brainchild?a bold attempt to change the world. Unfortunately, like so many divine quests, this crusade ended in crucifixion.

“Okay,” she admitted, “so I’m being a little harsh.”

“A little?” Brinkerhoff eyes narrowed. “Strathmore’s got a backlog of files a mile long. He’s not about to let TRANSLTR sit idle for a whole weekend.”

“Okay, okay.” Midge sighed. “My mistake.” She furrowed her brow and puzzled why TRANSLTR hadn’t broken any codes all day. “Let me double?check something,” she said, and began flipping through the report. She located what she was looking for and scanned the figures. After a moment she nodded. “You’re right, Chad. TRANSLTR’s been running full force. Raw consumables are even a little on the high side; we’re at over half a million kilowatt?hours since midnight last night.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Midge was puzzled. “I’m not sure. It’s odd.”

“You want to rerun the data?”

She gave him a disapproving stare. There were two things one never questioned about Midge Milken. One of them was her data. Brinkerhoff waited while Midge studied the figures.

“Huh.” She finally grunted. “Yesterday’s stats look fine: 237 codes broken. MCD, $874. Average time per code, a little over six minutes. Raw consumables, average. Last code entering TRANSLTR—” She stopped.

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