by Paul Stein
Weaver peered over the edge as Kilmer unclipped the rope from his climbing harness and, with two hands firmly placed on the inside of the glass, dove through the opening in the window and disappeared from view.
“I’m in,” Kilmer said. “Hang a tick ‘til I conk the alarm.”
TWO
AS SOON AS RICHARD KILMER’S hands hit the floor, he somersaulted, which returned him to an upright position in the middle of the office. He only had forty-five seconds left to reset the surveillance sensors before they completed a diagnostic recalibration. If he failed, the sensors would default to the preset variables, sounding the alarm.
He grabbed a chair from near the window and approached the first sensor located opposite the door. Kilmer deployed a handheld diagnostic device used by alarm companies to set surveillance parameters. By activating the manufacturer default variables, the unit would reset to factory settings, wiping out what the installer had programmed. He connected the unit to the sensor via a small access port and pressed the default button. A series of red flashing LED numbers scaled down to zero, indicating this sensor was now temporarily deactivated.
Kilmer moved swiftly to the opposite sensor over the door to repeat the procedure with only twenty seconds remaining. He climbed the chair then softly cursed under his breath.
“Bugger me. Shit howdy, the access port’s jaked.”
Kilmer’s only recourse was to jam the connecting wire through the obstruction and hope it didn’t damage an integral component inside. Fortunately, the material seemed to be harmless Styrofoam, flexible enough to allow the docking port to access the sensor without difficulty. In less than five seconds, he would know for sure— either a shrill alarm would be triggered or he would once again see the red lights counting down to zeros. The room remained silent. The LED lights began sequencing. The office security system was neutralized.
“We’re aces. System’s down; git in here, pally,” Kilmer smoothly commanded through his mic. “Let’s put a rush on.”
Weaver had finished dragging the glass to the roof, disconnected the tie rod, and then reconnected the rope to his own harness. It was now his turn to rappel over the edge of the building.
“On my way, Boss,” Weaver replied, eager to see what was happening on the sixth floor.
While awaiting Weaver’s arrival, Kilmer began searching the office for anything unusual. He noted with passing interest that the owner was an avid Forty-Niners fan. There was an array of memorabilia and several autographed footballs in protective Plexiglas display cases. One large photograph prominently displayed Coach Bill Walsh, Joe Montana, and Jerry Rice with an unidentified, gaunt-looking man that Kilmer figured was the scientist occupying the office.
“Yer slow as a wet weekend. What’s the deal?” Kilmer inquired when Weaver hadn’t turned up within a few moments.
“Right above you, enjoying the peep show,” Weaver replied. “Geez…this guy’s got a nice secretary, man.”
“Ya bludger! Git yer arse down here now, soldier!” Kilmer commanded, unmistakably angry. “Quit screwin’ the pooch.”
“Keep your shirt on, Boss,” replied Weaver. “I know the drill… you can shove that rank crap.”
Dallas Weaver was accustomed to Kilmer’s officious tirades whenever things got dicey; even with years of command experience, his disposition never improved. Weaver first met the Aussie commander in the Gulf War in 1991 while stationed with the SEALS covert ops unit alongside Captain Clarence Hartley. Hartley’s SEAL team had been paired with English forces led by Kilmer. Iraqi zealots were indiscriminatingly setting fire to the Kuwaiti oil fields in the wake of Saddam Hussein’s first loss to allied forces. Their joint mission was to eliminate as many of these subversives as possible before all the operating oil fields in Kuwait were set ablaze. They’d kicked ass together.
Subsequent to his honorable discharge, Weaver and others of his unit had been recruited by Kilmer to devote their extraordinary lethal skills to lucrative mercenary endeavors. Each had been trained as highly proficient killers—their professional training bought with taxpayers’ dollars. But following this distinguished patriotic service, they were unceremoniously discarded and left to find work in a society for which they were ill-suited. Richard Kilmer had assembled his covert band of tactical warriors by constituting a rigorous examination process, which included a personal reference from an existing member. In this fashion, Kilmer knew intimately the strengths and weaknesses of each of his commandos.
Weaver was thankful he measured up to Kilmer’s meticulous background investigation, and was especially grateful that Kilmer recognized his unique skill for breaching seemingly impregnable computer programs. This had earned him a spot in Kilmer’s elite mercenary squad.
But Kilmer’s unquestioned authority didn’t excuse his obnoxious behavior, either. Weaver didn’t appreciate that he sometimes barked orders like there was still a military command structure. That, he couldn’t tolerate.
Weaver re-inverted, taking care to guide his rope into the directional device, and within seconds he rappelled to the sill of the office. He squatted to draw some slack in the rope, deftly unclipped his friction device, and leaned down to dive headlong through the window five stories above the parking lot. His entrance was not as graceful as Kilmer’s. He did not immediately spring to his feet, but simply rolled over onto his stomach before standing up.
“Good on ya, mate,” Kilmer groused, looking down at Weaver. “I thought I might order up one of yer Yanks’ pizzas,” he added sarcastically.
Weaver straightened up, unbuckling his harness and staring impudently back at Kilmer. “Sweet,” he said. “I like New York-style thin crust…with anchovies…since we’ve got the time. You place the order; I’ll start hacking the mainframe.”
“Can it,” Kilmer blustered. “Git yer arse to the terminal. Just like we planned—the Feds can’t figure anyone but Marshall. If they think the hacker used the backdoor, it’ll change everythin’. Holloway’ll go berko.”
“You got it,” Weaver said, taking a seat behind the console as the monitor lit up. He could see Kilmer’s face in normal light for the first time, both having taken off the night-vision goggles.
“Mind ya…use the password. That fingers Marshall from the git go,” Kilmer said.
Weaver could see the concern etched on Kilmer’s face. “How’s our time? It’ll take me five minutes to hack into the server and retrieve the data; another minute or so to compress the formulas and download; probably a couple more to cover our tracks and establish the misdirection clues. I need at least ten minutes to be thorough.”
Kilmer watched carefully over Weaver’s shoulder. He looked at his watch. “Listen up; ya need to be squared away in ten ticks. We’re cool so far…but we could run up a gumtree once we leave. Some wanker’ll patrol up here between 23:00 to 23:15 hours. Ya have a fair go till then…but let’s be on El Camino Real by that time,” he answered in a calm, composed manner.
Dallas Weaver’s fingers flew rapidly over the keyboard while images and numbers briefly flashed on the computer monitor. Kilmer was fascinated by the expertise of his prized computer genius as he smoothly orchestrated what appeared to be unbelievably complex commands. He had no clue what Weaver was doing, nor did he really care. His singular interest was to extract the data Holloway sought and make the Feds suspect Ryan Marshall. Simply knowing that the password was Amerigodevina was enough to put the Feds on Marshall’s trail. But Holloway demanded that they unmistakably implicate this unsuspecting pawn in the master plan.
Kilmer marveled at the thoroughness of Alastair Holloway. How he had conceived a plan as ingenious as the one they were undertaking was a total mystery. Not only was the plan brazen, but it was calculated to the finest detail, including supplying an obscure password that could take hours to unravel under normal computer-hacking methods. There was no mistaking the man’s resourcefulness. He was a brilliant, extremely wealthy, and forceful human being, and woe to anyone that crossed him.
Weaver completed downloading the closely guarded proprietary information from the main server. He then integrated telltale clues in the retrieval system of the computer’s hard drive. This would provide a veritable thumbprint for who had most likely hacked the files belonging to the Quantum Corporation.
Quantum was an affiliate of the Stanford Research Institute, which meant this theft, would be considered industrial espionage. That would draw in the FBI, which would first look to see if the backdoor was breached. The Feds would recognize that there was no infiltration from beyond the firewall established to protect the system. When they eventually discovered that the password was used, they would follow a path leading unmistakably to Ryan Marshall.
Incredible, Kilmer thought. While the Feds are all over Marshall and his cousin, we’ll be making history in Kentucky. This’ll be the most outlandish heist in the annals of criminology.
“Good oh, mate. Time’s up,” Kilmer said, looking up from a steady gaze at his watch. “Hustle up…we’re out o’ here.”
Weaver never hesitated, but kept punching the keys. “I’m about there…just a couple more keystrokes to seal off the server and we’ll be ready to rock and roll.”
He shut down access to the mainframe and removed the memory sticks that now contained all the formulas on the antigravity device they were extracting. A few more moves and the screen went blank.
“Done,” he said, standing up abruptly while carefully tucking the memory sticks into a protective case. “We’re gone.”
Kilmer was careful to remove all the equipment they had brought into the office, and just as careful to drop some evidence that would further implicate Marshall. He placed a couple of strands of Marshall’s hair near the computer terminal then tossed a crumpled-up piece of scrap paper under the desk. The paper was from a notepad with Marshall’s company name, Levitation Solutions, across the top. It contained a note and phone number in Marshall’s handwriting. He paused, giving one last glance to assure they had not missed anything, and, convinced they were ready, nodded for Weaver to open the door.
Weaver slowly opened the outer office door that emptied into the hallway of the Quantum Building. Immediately to his left was the elevator, but they turned in the opposite direction to access the stairwell only fifty feet to the right.
Both men moved smoothly into the stairwell and began ascending the steps. Their footsteps upon the steel treads were silenced by their rubberized boots. Suddenly Kilmer stopped and held his hand up. They both froze. It took only a second to realize they were not alone. Trudging slowly down the stairway from the floor above was someone else. A researcher. The man was lost in thought and appeared to be reading a lab report as he walked.
Realizing the man wasn’t a security guard, Kilmer motioned to Weaver to follow his lead. He knew the scientist would have no time to react if they approached him in as normal a fashion as possible.
“Did ya catch the Lakers last night?” Kilmer asked in an upbeat tone as he rounded the stairs on the sixth-floor landing. “I swear Phil Jackson’s cunnin’ as shithouse rat,” he said loudly.
“No, I missed the game. Bridgett and I were invited by one of her friends for dinner. Boring evening…what a guy’s gotta do to keep peace in the family,” Weaver replied, catching on as they approached the startled scientist.
The man looked up from his document at Kilmer and Weaver as they rounded the landing that he was slowly approaching. The look of confusion on his face quickly gave way to suspicion.
“Hey…what are you people doing in here?” he demanded, stopping upon the stairwell. “Where’re your badges? I’ll have to call security and…”
Kilmer was on him in a flash. A swift and powerful karate chop to the side of the neck temporarily incapacitated the scientist as he slumped to the floor. Weaver had moved behind the man to help brace his fall. He would be unconscious for at least five minutes, giving them enough time to consider their options.
“What the fuck do we do now?” Weaver asked angrily, lowering the scientist onto the stairwell. “What’s the use of all the incriminating evidence we just planted if this bozo can tell the cops he saw two commandos leaving the building?”
“Cut the crap. Give me a sec to noodle this through,” seethed Kilmer. “By Jingos, we’ve got options here…but we need to move careful.” He quickly ran through the list of alternatives:
“The quickest would be to off the miserable bloke—that would remove an eyewitness; but then we’d have a body. If we left ’im behind…this would finger Marshall in a murder. Holloway’d bust a gut. More worries short term would be to let the pester live, in which case the cops’ll think Marshall had an accomplice. Not bad…but he’s supposed to be alone. Cripes, we’ve got the rough end of the pineapple here,” he mused, looking unsure. “Really, the only solution’s to keep ‘im breathing. We’ll break into ‘is office so it looks like the blighter caught us red handed, but the two events are unrelated.
“Git ‘is badge,” Kilmer hastily demanded. He began searching the man for any information on where he worked in the building. “We’ll let the wanker live.”
“Wouldn’t it be more practical to kill the guy, take the body with us, and dispose of it somewhere off-site?” Weaver asked as they ransacked the unconscious scientist’s pants and lab coat. “I’m not convinced another B&E is our best move. That’ll set off the alarm and bring security right to us. Even if we can get into this son-of-a-bitch’s office…what in the devil’s name do we look for? And what can we possibly steal to make it look real?”
“It’ll come out in the wash, Dallas,” Kilmer replied with a sneer. “We don’t have time for yackin’. He’s got a nuclear badge, so he’s bein’ monitored for rads. The way we’re dressed, he’ll figure we were tryin’ to nab uranium. All we do is make it look like we were fingerin’ some. Or, better yet…we make it look like we’re doing recon for a later hit. Howzat?”
Kilmer grabbed the man from underneath the armpits. “Come on, gimmie a grip. We’ll drag ‘im back to his office. With ‘is badge, we’ll be able to git into ‘is lab. From there it’s no sweat. ”
Weaver moved reluctantly. He was scowling from this unforeseen development. Nothing ever seemed to rattle Kilmer. The more precarious or dangerous the situation, the calmer and more deliberate he became. There never seemed an occasion past or present that could shock him into incapacity. While this was unnerving at times, at this particular moment Weaver was relieved there appeared to be an immediate plan to follow other than his, which would have been to throw the unfortunate soul off the roof.
Both men awkwardly hoisted the medium-sized man and draped an arm around each of their shoulders to bear his dead weight. They were thankful he didn’t seem to weigh more than about 180 pounds or dragging him to the third floor would have been much more difficult. They proceeded to the third level and could hear the man’s feet bumping on each successive step as they dragged him down the stairwell. His head was slumped heavily forward with his chin resting unnaturally on his chest. His breath had a fetid smell as though he had just consumed some particularly rank Limburger cheese. This combined to make a particularly difficult task all the more unsavory.
“Drop ’im here a sec,” Kilmer said when they reached the third-floor landing. “Stay here. I’ll sort out a safe route. Keep radio silence.”
Kilmer opened the door to the hallway and took a sly peek down both sides of the wide corridor, scouting for guards. The stairway was equidistant between each half of the building, so it was imperative to choose the correct direction to begin his search for the scientist’s lab. Guessing that this floor was likely oriented identically to the fifth, he promptly deduced that room 313 would be in the opposite direction from where they had infiltrated room 539 above. He proceeded into the hallway and moved to his left, relieved that his deduction was correct—the numbers were indeed descending as he swept down the hallway.
Kilmer quickly reached lab 313 and noted that this unit appeared to occupy the entire
remaining corner of the building. Above the door was a placard with the word “CAUTION” emblazoned in bright red letters. There was also the obligatory insignia indicating the presence of radioactivity. A second, smaller sign warned that everyone entering the lab was required to wear a radioactive detection badge.
He took the researcher’s security badge and swiped it through the card scanner at the left of the doorway. The scanner emitted an annoying buzz, indicating that the entry procedure had not been accepted. Kilmer immediately recognized the reason he was not permitted entry. “Ya mug!” he hissed.
In conjunction with the security card, the user was required to place a thumbprint on the scanner to verify entry to the premises. At this point, Kilmer knew his work was done; to proceed further, he would be forced to retrieve the scientist and use his fingerprint to access the lab.
Kilmer reappeared in the stairwell and was shocked to see Weaver trying to choke the struggling scientist.
“Blimey! What the fuck?” he asked, exasperated by Weaver’s actions. “I told ya to keep the bloat alive, not choke the bastard.”
“The son-of-a-bitch was starting to come around. What was I supposed to do…hit him again?” Weaver explained. “I’m about out of patience with this bullshit.” The quick-tempered tone in his voice spoke volumes. The tension was getting to him.
“Righto,” Kilmer replied. More upsetting would have been walking into the stairwell and seeing the scientist regaining consciousness. Weaver had acted correctly to neutralize the situation before something else went awry. “Listen, mate, I jumped ya wrong. My bad. This gig’s g’ttin’ more complicated by the minute. Help me git ‘im to the lab. I need his thumb for the security scan.”
They both stooped and once again awkwardly heaved the sagging scientist to his feet, securing his arms over their shoulders. They walked swiftly to reduce their exposure and get through the open hallway as quickly as possible. Finally reaching lab 313, Kilmer lifted one of the scientist’s thumbs and pressed down on the reader.
