by Pat Mullan
Roy Sinclair was a small neat man in his early sixties. He followed Nurse Smythe as she carried the tea into the drawing room. He was holding a barmbrack, an Irish raisin bread, on a round wooden carving tray. He didn't speak. Just stood there with a beatific smile as Nurse Smythe made the introductions. She relieved him of the barmbrack and guided him to a comfortable high-backed rocking chair. He perched on it and began to rock gently back and forth.
"Half an hour only," Nurse Smythe admonished. "he tires easily."
As the Nurse departed, Owen opened his briefcase and placed a number of documents on the small table between the Reverend and himself and started to talk directly to him. He talked about America, about Charleston and about the Free Universal Church, showing Rev. Sinclair photos of the Church, the neighborhood in Charleston, even a gathering of church elders with whom he had worked. But he met with no reaction. Rev. Sinclair just continued to smile in a trance-like way gently rocking back and forth in his chair. Owen persisted. He started with the photographs again. He had a number of photographs of Rev. Andrew Magee mixed in among all the others; some taken in groups, some head and shoulders, some closeups, even one of Rev. Magee in the pulpit. It happened quite unexpectedly. The rocking chair stopped and Rev. Sinclair picked up the photo of Rev. Andrew Magee in the pulpit, held it out in front of him, and simply said "Andrew!". But, just as quickly, his eyes lost their focus and the rocking started again. Still afraid to hope, Owen continued to talk. He talked about Zachary Walker, about the General's appointment as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, about the Followers of God, about religious cults. He was still talking to Roy Sinclair when Nurse Smythe returned.
"It's time, Mr. MacDara. This is enough stress for him."
"Thank you, Nurse Smythe. I just wish we could try a little more. He almost remembered for one brief moment."
"Mr. MacDara, it's most frustrating. We all love him. Those brief moments are so elusive. They raise our hopes and then dash them again."
As Owen prepared to gather up his documents and photographs he accidentally overturned his briefcase. Everything scattered on the floor at Rev. Sinclair's feet. Kate and Nurse Smythe dropped to their knees to help pick things up as MacDara berated himself for being a klutz. The grip on his wrist was strong and firm and unexpected. He looked up. Rev. Sinclair had stopped rocking. He held a photograph in his hand that he had taken from Owen. It was a close-up of the tattoo found on the inner arm of the albino.
"Sodom," distinct and strong. Rev. Sinclair stood up as he uttered the word. He just stood there staring at the photograph.
"The Circle of Sodom," he said again in a voice one could imagine he used when preaching a sermon.
Just as suddenly, he let his grip relax on the photograph and it floated to the floor.
They left the bottle of Black Bush they had picked up in Shannon. Rev. Magee had told them that Roy was fond of a night-cap. He was still smiling and rocking away as they thanked Nurse Smythe for their visit
MacDara climbed the stairs at Ardree House to his office on the second floor. The large window over his desk looked directly west over the lough. Smoke was rising from the chimneys of a few widely scattered cottages in this sparsely populated land. Four yucca plants thrived behind the natural dry stone wall that bordered the front gardens, nourished by the warming influence of the Gulf Stream. MacDara reckoned if he could see over those low hills the next land to the west was America. It somehow made it seem as if New York was next door.
He stepped over piles of newspapers, books and magazines that still lay on the wooden floor from his last time in the office. At the desk, he opened his sturdy blue Lands End traveling bag and took out his laptop. In a few seconds he was on-line to the Internet. Following the instructions that he had committed to memory, he accessed the General's E-mail system and entered his passwords. Cleared to transmit he sent the following message:
At Ardree House. Saw the Reverend. New information on the tattoo. Check out 'The Circle of Sodom'. Arrive New York, Kennedy, at 2:00 p.m., Friday. Will make contact then.
TWELVE
Washington, D.C.
Shields had never seen Sanderson so agitated. The words were tumbling from his lips in bursts as he paced the General's office. He was unintelligible. Shields waited until Sanderson shifted to a lower gear.
"Larry, you've been here for almost ten minutes and I haven't understood a single thing you've said. Slow down and get a grip on yourself."
"Sorry, Boss. The AI system has just blown my mind. It's thinking! Literally thinking!"
"What have you got for me?"
"I fed it the data on your tattoo as well as the description of the albino. I also gave it scenarios on the killings in New York. And I input the 'Circle of Sodom' data and the religious variables."
"Did it produce anything?"
"Boss, it's still running! The possibilities! You're hardwired to STOP. Let me connect my laptop. I've got the AI screens loaded and I'll walk you through what we've got. I'll bring up the Preliminary Thoughts screen, PT1, for you. Look at that."
Page 1 of the PT1 screen appeared on Sanderson's laptop and Bart Shields began to read:
Preliminary Thoughts : After looking at all the data I believe that the snake in a circle is more than just the logo of a club or a gang. I'm searching for a deeper meaning. There is definite religious and supernatural significance. Adam was tempted in the Garden of Eden by the Devil who appeared in the form of a snake. The Hopi Indians of Arizona believe that snakes are their brothers. They believe they are the children of their ancestors, the Snake Maid and the Snake Hero, who were changed into snakes. They hold a snake dance ceremony every two years. Look at the religious dimension in James Dickey's poetry. Dickey believes in reincarnation and hopes that the soul passes from one kind of creature to another. In his poetry he reincarnates man as a rattlesnake.
Dickey sees the rattlesnake as a symbol of justice and, in a definite biblical reference to the Garden of Eden, he has said : "The justice of the Lord, in its most striking case, depended on the intervention of the snake."
Preliminary Probability : The snake in the circle tattoo probably identifies a member of an organization. The organization might be secret. It might also be religious. Its mission might be to exact justice.
I must do more research. I'm searching.
Shields was on his feet pacing back and forth just like Sanderson. Except that Sanderson was still seated at his laptop.
"That's astounding, Larry. Do you mean to tell me that the STOP AI system produced that screen from the input you gave it?"
"That's right, Boss. You are looking at a true Artificial Intelligence. This has never been done before."
"Well, you're right, Larry. It is mind blowing. When will we get more?"
"It's a matter of total system availability. I suck up every resource in the configuration. I'll have to wait until the weekend to initiate AI again. Let's say Monday. If I get the run time, I should have more for you then."
"Excellent! Top shelf"
Sanderson logged out, disconnected his laptop from the hardwired line in Shields' office, and left. Shields sat down at his desk, turned to his P.C. and entered an encrypted message to be retrieved by MacDara the next time he accessed the E-mail system. The text of his message read:
Owen, STOP's first results on your tattoo. Thinks you should be looking for a secret, religious organization. I think you might be dealing with some kind of cult. I'll know more by Monday. Contact me soon.
Cambridge
Massachusetts
Doug Holder was nervous. Security was tight at Task Four Systems. Their defense contracts were highly sensitive and their software top secret. Everyone, visitors and employees alike, had to present authorization to the guard at the main entrance before they were permitted into the building. All briefcases had to be opened for inspection by the guard. Every item leaving the building, other than personal possessions, had to be accompanied by a permit, authorized and signed by the resp
ective department head. Computer and software items got special attention. Even program diagnostic listings had to have authorized approval to be taken out of the building. Floppy disks, CD Roms, and any other storage media were not permitted to enter or leave the building under any circumstance. Employees wore photo ID badges. The badges were also the keys that facilitated access throughout the company. There were three levels of access: operational and clerical areas only; high risk areas that included the data processing and communications center as well as programming and systems development; finally, complete access including the executive offices on the fifth floor. Few people, other than the President and his top executives, had this highest security level. As a Senior Programmer in the Software Development Division, Doug Holder had the next level of clearance.
That gave him little comfort on this particular day. He had closeted himself in the men's room, taken off his shirt and t-shirt and taped two three and a half inch diskettes to his body. The disks contained the latest release of communications software scheduled for installation at a number of strategic military sites in North America and Europe in exactly thirty days. He never left the building at the five o'clock rush hour but today would be an exception. He wanted the guards to be well occupied as he left.
But he didn't have to worry. It was a Friday evening and everyone's mind was on the three-day weekend. Monday was a holiday. The guard was processing people out the door as fast as he could. He gave Doug's briefcase a quick once-over and wished him a good weekend.
Within the hour Doug Holder was at Logan boarding a flight for Atlanta. He changed planes there, travelled on to Memphis and booked into an Inn near the airport. At nine the next morning he was sitting in his favorite place, the Cracker Barrel, enjoying his favorite breakfast. Eggs over easy, sausage patties, biscuits with white milk gravy and a generous helping of baked apple slices simmering in their special cinnamon sauce. He was half-way through when Will Baxter joined him.
"Any problems?", asked Will, seeking confirmation that all had gone well.
"No. Not a thing".
"Have you got it?"
"Yes. Are you all set?"
"We're ready. We've completed coding and tested it on your current software release. Works every time".
"What's the game plan?"
"We'll put the code into your new release. Then we'll do regression and acceptance testing on each of the modules to make sure everything works as intended".
"How long will that take?"
"All weekend. We've got it scheduled hour by hour. You'll just about make your return flight on Monday. The data center is on hot standby waiting for us to begin".
"OK, let's do it!".
One hour later, Doug Holder was sitting in Will Baxter's jeep climbing into the mountains. Mountains that he and Will grew up in, went to school in, chased girls in. He'd lost his virginity in these hills. And his innocence too. At sixteen he'd lost his father and his faith in American justice. He was named after his father. Douglas. The Reverend Douglas Holder, pastor of the local Baptist Church. His father had been alone in his church the night he died. When he wasn't home by midnight, his mother called the Sheriff and asked him to check and see if everything was alright. The Sheriff found his father lying in a pool of his own blood. He'd been bludgeoned to death and the church ransacked and looted. Everybody knew who'd done it. They arrested the three of them the next day. Black trash that his father went out of his way to help. There was a trial, if you could call it that. They went scot-free in three weeks. Circumstantial evidence. Insufficient to prove that they were guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. The American Civil Liberties Union brought in one of their big guns, one of Kunstler's fellow travellers, to defend them. Turned it into a race issue. Will Baxter's father was angry. Everybody knew that he was in the Klan. So it was no surprise when burning crosses appeared outside the houses of this trash. And even less surprise when one of them was found hanging from a tree near his father's church. Doug Holder blamed America, the American government, the American justice system for freeing his father's murderers. He also blamed America for his father's murder. It hadn't been difficult for Will to recruit him, to give him a chance for revenge. And there was a sweetener. Colonel McNab was paying him well. A third payment of fifty-thousand dollars would be deposited in his account in Switzerland when this release was successfully implemented.
The present abruptly erased the past as Will Baxter rounded a bend and came to a full stop at the entrance to the Millennium Covenant. Doug Holder had been here before and he had always been impressed by the drill. Two guards, armed with machine pistols, manned the guard-post that straddled the chain link fence. They knew Will but they still asked for his ID and his visitor's authorization for Doug Holder. Then one of them made a phone call requesting authority to let them enter and, at the same time, announcing their presence. Task Four Systems could learn a few things about security from these people, he reflected.
Once inside the compound they made a beeline for the data center, the only building with satellite dishes on the roof. More security, even tighter this time. Guard at the entrance, card key access through the outer door and then Holder was taken to the security office for processing. Bristling with electronic gear and TV monitors, his fingerprints, palm prints, photograph, and voice prints were taken and compared to those still on file from his last visit. Then he was issued a temporary access badge that would facilitate his access for the next two days; at midnight on Monday it would expire. That accomplished, he followed Will Baxter along the hallway until they reached a floor to ceiling steel turnstile. Putting his access key in the lock, Will entered the turnstile to be trapped in a six by six-foot enclosure facing a door with a two way mirror and observed by a camera mounted close to the ceiling. Standing directly in front of the camera, he placed the palm of his right hand on a square glass top of a free-standing verification module. At the same time, he spoke into a wall mounted microphone, giving his name, occupation and his own personal identification code. That done, the door clicked open and he was free to enter the data center. Doug followed but it took him twice as long. He felt especially vulnerable when he was trapped between the steel turnstile and the inner locked door. He breathed a sigh of relief as the door clicked open. Will was waiting for him inside and echoed the thoughts in his own mind.
"Yeah, I know. It's a bitch, man. I don't like it either. But we have no choice. Can you imagine how many people would give their right arm to get in here?"
Bypassing the 'machine room' with its impressive arrays of disk drives and consoles they continued past the 'printer pool' where all the printers and other input/output devices were pooled for more effective resource management. Next they circled the true nerve center, the communications room, with state-of-the-art consoles arrayed in a semi-circle monitoring every terrestrial line and satellite transponder node in their global network. Finally they reached their destination, the project acceptance test site, a very modern utilitarian room filled with terminals, flipcharts, chalkboards, whiteboards, wall-to-wall bubble and gantt charts showing critical path time-lines, milestones, contingency plans, restart/recovery plans and 'drop-dead' objectives. Five people, three men and two women were standing in a circle around one of the project milestone charts. They opened up the circle to greet Doug and Will. Introductions were unnecessary. Doug knew them all from the last intensive four days he had spent here. Doug handed over his two diskettes to be copied and backed-up for recovery. A detailed testing plan for the day illustrated one wall. According to the timing it should have commenced a half hour ago. Each of them knew their assignments. They conferred briefly and then manned their respective terminals. It was going to be a very long weekend.
The ringing of the phone startled them. It hadn't rung since Doug had arrived. He looked at his watch. It was one p.m. on Sunday afternoon. Been here a whole day already. Felt like a week. Worked right through the night. Kipped out for a couple of hours on the couch in Will's office. He felt grungy
but satisfied. The testing had gone well so far. He picked up the receiver after the fourth ring. It was the Colonel.
"Holder, I want to see you before you leave. Twenty minutes time. My office. OK?" It was a command, not a request.
"Yes, Sir. I'll be there".
Doug Holder was surprised. He hadn't expected to meet Colonel McNab on this visit. When he entered his office the Colonel was playing with his favorite pacifier, an iron railroad spike. He was tapping the corner of his desk with it, just like a drumstick. Finally, he returned it to the desk drawer, cleared his throat, looked at Holder and commenced to talk:
"I wanted to thank you for the work you've done. I know we're paying you well for the risk but I also know that you want to avenge your father. We can't bring him back. But we can bring back the values we believe in. Turn this country around. Make it a real God fearing place again. With liberty and justice for the people who are entitled to it. And hell and damnation for everybody else!"
The Colonel got up, drew himself to his full erect bearing, and looked out the window.
"Your hills. My hills too. And they'll be our children's hills and their children's hills. Even if we have to fight for them tree by tree."
Turning around, he walked over and looked down at Holder who hadn't moved a muscle since the Colonel started to speak:
"Our people are fed up with the liberal mollycoddling of criminals and the destruction of the morals of this nation. They will turn out those bastards in Washington and their 'intellectual' friends who are destroying our institutions. But we don't expect them to give up without a fight. That's why we need to be prepared. The work you are doing is part of that preparation. If the time ever comes when we have to use it, we will. It's better to cripple our own forces than risk another civil war in this nation. That would make Sherman's march on Atlanta look like a boy scout outing. No, we don't want that. Nobody would win. And we must not lose this one. So, I look on this as an insurance policy. And you're carrying that policy for us".
