by Mark Russell
'Rod, please.' Goldman chuckled under his breath and raised his hand in a placatory gesture. 'You're gonna give yourself a goddamn coronary at this rate.' The thirty-three year old Australian tossed aside his work bag and dropped into a nearby seat. He had an honours degree in Molecular Biotechnology from Sydney University, and previously worked in drug discovery and development at a UCLA research centre. Goldman had American residency due to his father's Priority Worker, US Permanent Immigrant status.
'No,' Haslow replied, 'you're gonna give me a goddamn coronary if you don't rein in your attitude around here. For God's sake, why can't you toe the line more?'
'Okay, so I left my access card at home. Jeez, it's no big deal ... other than I have to make sure I'm not docked a sickie because of it.'
Haslow dropped in front of a computer and brought it to life. The soft whir of its drive overrode the room's silence. 'You know it would be easier for everyone if you were more of a team player.'
'Come on, that's a bit rich coming from you. Considering how much work I put into our little project.'
'That's not what I meant and you know it.'
Goldman got up and paced the room, upset the day had started so badly. He cursed the unforgiving rules and regulations of his workplace. Mornings like this made him regret ever having set foot in the place. Thank God his employment contract was nearly expired. He still didn't know if it would be renewed. The great brass on high had left him dangling. Well, he was sick of the goddamn place anyway.
Goldman had been contracted two years ago due to Haslow's inability to synthesize the neurochemical Oxytocin. Haslow had been a one-man-show at his workplace for some time due to his ongoing ability to singlehandedly come up with the goods; but this time outside help had been called in.
The CIA's Directorate of Science and Technology learned in 1976 that doctors at the Serbski Institute for Forensic Psychiatry in Moscow had injected Soviet dissidents with large doses of synthetic Oxytocin, which in turn caused the prisoners to fall into trance-like states conducive to hypnotic suggestion and interrogation. Not surprisingly, the DST wanted to pursue this promising new development in the hypno-chemical field. In recent months Goldman had diffused synthetic Methylphenylethylamine-Oxytocin with a fortified MDA base – and from all accounts had created a psychotropic drug surpassing its Soviet counterpart.
Haslow tapped the keyboard and glanced at a pie chart on the screen. He turned to Goldman and presented an appeasing smile. 'Listen Scott, you're a damn good researcher and I'm proud to work with you. You know that.' He stroked his chin and looked at cluttered shelves at the back of the laboratory, as if searching for appropriate words. 'But try and keep a lid on your devil-may-care behaviour, otherwise ... well, you're going to attract all kinds of unwanted attention.'
Goldman lifted his eyebrows and shrugged noncommittally, his defiant attitude worsening by the minute. Haslow toyed with prescription glasses, but seemed far from dropping the issue. 'Listen, if the DIA get wind of you being a possible security risk, they'll monitor your sweet ass to the ground ... and probably mine due to close association.'
'Jeez mate, they've really got you under their thumb.' An overhead skylight only heightened Goldman's derisory features. 'Hell, there’s even a thumb print on your head, and by the look of it it's been there since the day you walked into this lousy joint.'
Haslow tssked like a harried school teacher. 'Listen, I doubt you'd be this foolhardy in your home country. But I'm warning you, be careful, cause bad ole Uncle Sam doesn't give a damn where you hail from.'
Goldman picked up a small spring scale and used its hook end to clean his thumb nail. An uncomfortable silence prevailed with only the muted sounds of trucks and machinery coming from the back of the grounds.
Drawn up in the Pentagon in the summer of 1955, Silverwood's civilian employee charter contained a proviso that ensured the employment of civilian chemists in a research laboratory. For security reasons, the laboratory was located on the ground floor of the administration building, which prevented civilian employees from being elsewhere on base.
Goldman looked about the room, its familiarity uninspiring. The Australian had reddish hair and penetrating gray-blue eyes, while his tall, wiry frame spoke of on-call strength. He replaced the spring scale and cleared his throat. 'Listen, Rod, I know it's short notice, but I've arranged a dinner party at my place tomorrow night, and you've gotta come. Belize and Manuela will be there. I told you about Manuela earlier in the week. I really think she's your type.'
He stopped and patted Haslow’s shoulder. 'Come on, we both know it's high time you got out among the fairer sex. I dare say you've grieved over Madeleine long enough. I mean your social life must be on par with a Himalayan hermit's. Just this time, mate. Come on, what do you say ... you old killjoy?'
Haslow slouched back in his seat and stared at the glowing monitor, mulling over the proposition. 'Well, I suppose I should make an effort to socialize – '
'All right.' Goldman clapped his hands. 'My place, tomorrow night, around seven.' He whistled a few bars of a Top Ten song, and for the first time that morning felt something good might come of the day.
'Hmm, okay then. Your place, around seven.' A weak smile flitted across Haslow's face as he pulled himself closer to the monitor. 'Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to meet the deadline on this MPA presentation report.' He studied a graph and tapped the keyboard, his attention narrowing down to a string of orange numbers at the bottom of the screen.
Of late Goldman was frustrated from having too much time on his hands. Of course he hadn't experienced this dilemma in the private sector. Again, staving off boredom would prove his main work of the day. But how many times could he clean and make an inventory of the laboratory's equipment? Feeling caged in, he drummed his fingers on a nearby workbench, hoping to unearth some Caribbean-style rhythms.
The research laboratory had three main counters to speak of, its walls lined with cabinets, racks of open shelving and tall drawer units. The spacious workplace was home to voltameters, scissor jacks, electric magnetic stirrers, electrodes, clamp stands, accumulator batteries, thermometers, drying U-tubes, digital scales, graduated cylinders, separatory funnels, multipurpose centrifuges, Leibig condensors and various other equipment involved in drug research and development.
After some uninspired drumming, Goldman grabbed an in-house phone and punched in a number. 'I'll be up in five,' he said into the mouthpiece. He dropped the handset back in the cradle. With a flourish of fingers, he belted the counter-top with a rocking R&B beat. He stopped with the precision of a well-rehearsed band, his sure-fire coordination linked to years of martial arts training.
'Hey Rod, I'm off upstairs for a tic.'
Haslow grunted a reply and studied the computer. Goldman hitched up his jeans, straightened his hair and headed for the door. But soon stopped in his tracks as if discovering an explosive trip-wire across his path. He slapped his forehead and spun around, surprised and delighted by what he saw.
With his eyes still fixed on the computer, Haslow waved his key card in the air. 'I believe you'll need this to get back in.'
THREE
Goldman looked nervously about him and rapped on the door. He felt a rush of minor victory when the door slid to on its tracks.
'Steve, my man.' He grinned mischievously and stepped through the open doorway. Stephen Artarmon moaned under his breath as the metal door shut behind his uninvited guest. Seated on a wheeled office chair, the young computer professional rolled back to the workstation he’d been using (having waved his hand in front of the motion-detector on his side of the door to let Goldman in).
'What on earth are you doing here again?' Artarmon wore scuffed brown loafers, stone-washed jeans and a Ralf Lauren T-shirt. He tossed a floppy disk onto the countertop beside him. 'I still haven't got over your visit this morning. Two visits in one day. Haven't you and Haslow anything to do down there?'
'Well, Haslow has. He's still writing the MPA report.' Gold
man picked up the computer disk. 'The Heavens Are Falling. Sounds a bit ominous. What is it?'
'Just a game I copied. A good one too, leaves Space Invaders for dead.'
Goldman chuckled and tossed the disk onto Artarmon's lap. 'Undoubtedly Datacheck will shaft Uncle Sam good and proper for hours spent.' He shook his head and dropped into a spare seat.
'Hey Scott,' Artarmon said excitedly, 'have you seen that hot new chick a few doors down? Latino-looking, frizzy hair. Love a woman in uniform. You must've seen her?'
'Can't say I have, mate. But I've seen your wife and, whew, what a babe. You've got yours so leave the rest to us other guys, okay?'
'Well, my eyes aren't married.' A scintilla of pride permeated Artarmon's voice from Goldman's offhand compliment. The twenty-seven year old computer science graduate had a swarthy complexion and sharp features. With his engaging boyish grin, he'd attracted a lion's share of women in his time, but was now happily married to a wealthy Asian woman who never failed to draw attention upon entering a room or venturing out in public, such were her striking looks. Goldman sensed nothing particularly bad had happened to Artarmon. His middle-class existence had probably been something of a dream run. He was yet to feel the pain of unwanted intrusions in his life.
'”Well my eyes aren't married,”' Goldman mimicked. 'Jeez, mate, that's a lame excuse for ogling anything in a tight skirt.' He looked about the newly fitted computer room, finding little comfort in its cold light and featureless walls; indeed its repetitive rows of consoles only spoke of man's subjugation to technology. The chemist leaned forward and tapped a well-worn Reebok on the cork-tiled floor, a mid-afternoon languor upon him.
The room fell quiet.
With narrowed eyes, Artarmon said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'So working for the military runs in your family, eh?'
'What do you mean?' Goldman kept his gaze on the floor.
'Well, your dad was a big gun at DARPA, right?'
Goldman looked up with the inquisitiveness of a hard-nosed detective. 'How do you know that? I never told you.'
'You never told me you were married once, either.' The blunt remark hung heavily in the air. Artarmon shifted in his seat as if sensing he'd overstepped the mark. In any case, Goldman wasn't prepared to shed any light on the matter. The subject was still a weeping wound for him, a minefield of unresolved pain, a place he didn't want to go, especially now Artarmon had made an issue of it.
'Come on, Steve, how could you know any of this?'
'No way, dude. I'm not saying.' Artarmon shook his head like a petulant school boy, but soon broke into a roguish grin.
'You looked up my contract file!' Goldman got up from his seat. 'With Straker away you broke into the system.'
Artarmon wheeled in front of a glowing console and jabbed its keyboard. His livened eyes spoke of the thrill of an earlier find. 'Okay, guilty as charged. Now check this out.'
Goldman met Artarmon in the main corridor of the administration building. The commonality of civilian dress had led to handshaking introductions, and for past weeks the two had developed a workplace amity. A computer science graduate from Cornell University, Artarmon was on the payroll of Datacheck, a large data security management firm. In keeping with a Department of Defense contract, Datacheck had transferred all data from the Pentagon's command mainframe into a new Cray supercomputer at Fort Bruckner, Maryland. With his workplace boss, Clive “Two Fingers” Straker, at a national Datacheck conference in Baltimore, Artarmon was rechecking satellite transmission co-ordinates for Silverwood's hookup to the Cray mainframe at Fort Bruckner.
Of course Artarmon's boss had limited Goldman's visits to the new computer room, but with Straker away at the Datacheck conference, the two civilian contractors (with a long afternoon ahead and a light workload between them) were able to devote themselves to the mischief at hand.
'Well, after you left this morning, I broke into the US Milnet.' Artarmon could only chuckle at his companion's incredulous expression. 'It's not that hard, any console jockey worth his salt can crack AT&T Unix ... especially if the backup password file hasn't been trapdoor functioned. Anyhow, I scanned the general layout for awhile, poking my nose into a lot of boring directories.' He turned back to the lit console. 'Well as fate would have it I uncovered this file called TROJAN X. It was hidden in a backwater directory with a lot of other junk files. Attracted by the name, I decided to have a look.' He flexed his fingers like a pianist about to perform a recital and tapped the keyboard in front of him.
'And?' Goldman asked impatiently.
'And this is the baby. Can you believe it?'
Goldman moved closer to the screen, pleased his afternoon wander had led him to this intriguing moment.
'As you know,' Artarmon continued, 'every kilobyte of the Army's Milnet system was recently downloaded into the new Cray supercomputer at Fort Bruckner, to which we are linked via the satellite dish on top of this building. Well someone involved in the original installation of the Milnet wrote a hidden program that records the passwords of the system's users. Incredibly, TROJAN X is the file that the hidden program sends the passwords to for storage.'
'And these are the passwords on the screen?' Goldman pressed closer, his broad shoulders all but eclipsing Artarmon and the terminal. Artarmon shifted uneasily in his seat, as if having second thoughts. 'Listen, after we make a paper copy of the password file, I'm going to erase the file from the system. And once we've decided on a password to use, I'll destroy the paper copy with that gutsy new shredder over in the corner. Then we'll be untraceable ... as long as we don't open our mouths to anyone. Okay?'
'Hey, Steve, my lips are sealed.' Goldman made a zipper-like motion across his mouth. 'We're in this together, mate. Just you and me till the bitter end.'
Artarmon locked eyes with his colleague, probing for any sign of duplicity. 'Well just remember that what we're doing stays in this room, okay?' He jabbed the keyboard and a nearby printer chattered to attention. In no time a lengthy scroll of paper sheeted down to the floor.
Goldman stopped at the printer and tore off the printout. 'Hmm, this looks good.' He handed the curling printout to Artarmon who looked over the columns of names, numbers and passwords with an amalgam of pride and curiosity. The Cornell graduate handed back the printout and swivelled to his terminal. He quoted a parting phrase in Spanish as his fingers darted across the keyboard.
'What?' Goldman dropped back into his seat.
'I just vaporized TROJAN X.'
'Hmm, good riddance. So what are these numbers in front of each password?'
Artarmon sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as if tapping into an inexhaustible reservoir of patience. 'Okay, the military use a hierarchical database, which means there's no record of the data you access. Your password and designated code, which is those numbers before your password, are stored in the computer's memory. All military data has a security rating making it accessible only to authorized personnel. Basically one number before your password means you have access to a limited amount of data, whereas six numbers before your password means you have access to all data on the Milnet.'
'Let's see.' Goldman scanned the alphabetical list spilling about his feet. His forefinger moved down the columns of names and numbers until he found what he wanted. 'General Kaplan only has a two number code. So, what's Kaplan's password? Lucinda. Lucinda?'
'Probably his wife.' Artarmon smirked.
'Or daughter.'
'Or mistress.'
'Whatever. At a glance I can't see many six number codes.'
'Well, the list is only populated with this year's entries.'
'Hmm.' Goldman swallowed hard. 'Here's one. In fact the only one I can see. General Alexander Turner. He's not from here, is he?'
Artarmon chuckled and leaned back in his seat with the authority of a long-tenured professor. 'Hmm, you've netted a big fish there. From what I remember, Straker met the general at a preliminary setup conference at Fort Bruckner.
Apparently Turner's big league in the Defence Intelligence Agency. He'd probably have access to the whole Milnet system ... and in all likelihood you have that power in your hands. Mind blowing, isn't it?'
Goldman raised his eyebrows and nodded excitedly, the day's boredom well and truly behind him. He checked his watch. 'So Straker gets back Monday, right?'
'Yep.'
'So we've only got this afternoon and tomorrow to see what we can unearth?'
Artarmon stroked the mid-afternoon stubble on his chin. 'Yeah, but let's not be too long about it, Scott. I mean, I still have some work to do.'
'Okay, I hear you.' Goldman looked about the room, weighed down by the gravity of what he planned. Overhead strip lights reflected off a row of screens beside him. The serial gloss seemed like inhuman eyes probing his organic disposition, his temporal biology. His stomach tightened as he looked at the illegal printout on his lap. 'All right,' he said at last. 'Let's do it.'
FOUR
'It's about time,' Haslow said, getting up from his desk.
'Sorry Rod, I was helping Steve set up a batch file run.'
'Crap. Playing tic-tac-toe more likely.'
'Anyhow, thanks again for your card.'
Haslow threw on his coat, grabbed his bag and grabbed the magnetic-strip card from Goldman. He murmured a cool farewell and left the laboratory.
So soon as the metal door slid shut Goldman sprang into action. He stopped at a separatory funnels cabinet set between a reagants storage rack and a disused electrolysis tank. He grabbed a back corner of the maple and glass cabinet and inched it forward, then bent down and grabbed the plastic bag he'd hidden there two weeks ago. He stood up, unzipped his jeans and secreted the small bag in the front of his undershorts. Once it was comfortably placed, he zipped himself up and pushed the cabinet back in place. He threw on a fleece-lined denim jacket. After grabbing his bag and checking he hadn't left anything behind, he left the room.
The outside corridor was alive with base personnel. Some of the servicemen and servicewomen had just clocked on, while most were finishing for the day. Goldman experienced a fleeting sense of belonging as he fell in step with the late-afternoon crowd, even as his faded jeans and scuffed runners contrasted the pressed uniforms and polished boots about him. No sooner had he turned into an adjoining corridor than the throng about him dispersed. Many of its men and women streamed into the locker rooms and rest rooms at the start of the corridor. He now had a clear line of sight to the building's main exit.
