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Authors: Stephen J. Cannell
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the desert north of Palm Springs. Its landing lights
illuminated the sagebrush and sand that blew under the chopper, tattooing the
side of an old weathered barn. The pilot was from a DOD scramble flight group
in L.A., but he'd never been out in this part of the desert before. The area
was restricted by a
Code 61, which prohibited flyovers without special DOD clearance. When he
landed, the chopper captain was puzzled because the place looked deserted—just
barren miles of fenced, open desert. He watched as four men ran out of the old
barn dressed in black government assault gear, flak-jacketed with body armor,
and packing fully automatic MP-5s with thirty-round clips. Two of them were
wheeling a metal cage. They slid the heavy box into the bay of the helicopter
and piled in after it. The pilot looked back. There was Something alive in the box.
For a second he saw unearthly fingers come out and grasp the metal bars, but
then they disappeared inside the cage. What the hell? Then he heard
heavy breathing and a very strange noise, unlike anything he'd ever heard
before, high-pitched and angry. Suddenly, a dank, fetid odor clogged his
nostrils.
"Shhh, Pan," one of the soldiers said.
"Let's go. Get it up," Ranger Captain Dave Silver ordered as
he jumped into the helicopter.
The pilot pulled back the collective and the Bell Jet Ranger lifted off
the desert floor, heading toward the landing pad on top of the Federal Building
in San Francisco.
Roland was still hunched over his
computer working offline an hour after he had finished the download from
Gen-A-Tec.
He was in the zone.
It happened like that sometimes—you just lost track of everything. He
couldn't get Herman on the cell phone, and the overweight attorney wasn't at
Streisand's house, so Roland finished composing an e-mail to Strockmire and
sent it off to Herman's computer.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: no subject
CC:
DEAR STROCK . . .
I want a raise . . . I'm too fucking good
. . . I have again saved your dumpy white ass & am expecting some big bucks in
return. No more of your empty promises. Send $$$!!! (heh-heh-heh)
I am e-mailing some downloads I got from
the Gen-A-Tec computer. I was magnificent, by the way. I wrecked the SA they
had on night duty out there. Stole all this shit right out from under his bony
ass.
Enc. include the RESH file on corn, e-m,
& some skeevy looking encryptions that were filed under DARPA (Defense
Advanced Research Projects Agency). DARPA is a secret gov't weapons research
org I've heard some evil shit about . . . I think we found some bodacious
bogosity. Why would gov't spooks be investing in food research? What evil
lurks? Gen-A-Tec had this program coded in a secure data bank so this is
DEFINITELY something they don't want seen.
If you or Susie get a chance, run this out
to Zimmy, my bud I told you about. He's a cryptology freak who plays with this
kinda shit when no one's looking after-hours. He ties ten sun solar
mega-workstations together & does complicated decoding problems for fun.
He'll jump at this challenge, but keep it to yourself, Strock, 'cause if they
catch him he'll get booted for misuse of computer time. Zimmy should be able to
break this in a few nights of gut-tickling fun (heh-heh-heh).
PS: There was something else in the
Gen-A-Tec computer that was encrypted—a short line that I'm doing myself. (I
need my workout, too.) I'll let you know if it turns into anything juicy. In
the meantime . . .
I remain the one and only. MASTER OF THE
GAME
ATTACH
After he sent
the e-mail, Roland went back to work decoding the short line of code he had
found in the Gen-A-Tec database. Like his buddy Zimmy, Roland thought that
breaking code was a wonderful mind game. He had been working for a half hour
and already had
illuminated the sagebrush and sand that blew under the chopper, tattooing the
side of an old weathered barn. The pilot was from a DOD scramble flight group
in L.A., but he'd never been out in this part of the desert before. The area
was restricted by a
Code 61, which prohibited flyovers without special DOD clearance. When he
landed, the chopper captain was puzzled because the place looked deserted—just
barren miles of fenced, open desert. He watched as four men ran out of the old
barn dressed in black government assault gear, flak-jacketed with body armor,
and packing fully automatic MP-5s with thirty-round clips. Two of them were
wheeling a metal cage. They slid the heavy box into the bay of the helicopter
and piled in after it. The pilot looked back. There was Something alive in the box.
For a second he saw unearthly fingers come out and grasp the metal bars, but
then they disappeared inside the cage. What the hell? Then he heard
heavy breathing and a very strange noise, unlike anything he'd ever heard
before, high-pitched and angry. Suddenly, a dank, fetid odor clogged his
nostrils.
"Shhh, Pan," one of the soldiers said.
"Let's go. Get it up," Ranger Captain Dave Silver ordered as
he jumped into the helicopter.
The pilot pulled back the collective and the Bell Jet Ranger lifted off
the desert floor, heading toward the landing pad on top of the Federal Building
in San Francisco.
Roland was still hunched over his
computer working offline an hour after he had finished the download from
Gen-A-Tec.
He was in the zone.
It happened like that sometimes—you just lost track of everything. He
couldn't get Herman on the cell phone, and the overweight attorney wasn't at
Streisand's house, so Roland finished composing an e-mail to Strockmire and
sent it off to Herman's computer.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: no subject
CC:
DEAR STROCK . . .
I want a raise . . . I'm too fucking good
. . . I have again saved your dumpy white ass & am expecting some big bucks in
return. No more of your empty promises. Send $$$!!! (heh-heh-heh)
I am e-mailing some downloads I got from
the Gen-A-Tec computer. I was magnificent, by the way. I wrecked the SA they
had on night duty out there. Stole all this shit right out from under his bony
ass.
Enc. include the RESH file on corn, e-m,
& some skeevy looking encryptions that were filed under DARPA (Defense
Advanced Research Projects Agency). DARPA is a secret gov't weapons research
org I've heard some evil shit about . . . I think we found some bodacious
bogosity. Why would gov't spooks be investing in food research? What evil
lurks? Gen-A-Tec had this program coded in a secure data bank so this is
DEFINITELY something they don't want seen.
If you or Susie get a chance, run this out
to Zimmy, my bud I told you about. He's a cryptology freak who plays with this
kinda shit when no one's looking after-hours. He ties ten sun solar
mega-workstations together & does complicated decoding problems for fun.
He'll jump at this challenge, but keep it to yourself, Strock, 'cause if they
catch him he'll get booted for misuse of computer time. Zimmy should be able to
break this in a few nights of gut-tickling fun (heh-heh-heh).
PS: There was something else in the
Gen-A-Tec computer that was encrypted—a short line that I'm doing myself. (I
need my workout, too.) I'll let you know if it turns into anything juicy. In
the meantime . . .
I remain the one and only. MASTER OF THE
GAME
ATTACH
After he sent
the e-mail, Roland went back to work decoding the short line of code he had
found in the Gen-A-Tec database. Like his buddy Zimmy, Roland thought that
breaking code was a wonderful mind game. He had been working for a half hour
and already had
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