by Mark Russell
The chemist had anaesthetized his grief by throwing himself into work. He refused paid leave and rigorously attended Wing Chun Do classes at Billy Georgia's dojo. He trained hard, his punches and kicks fired by harsh emotion and a refusal to fall down from the undying pain of losing his family.
During this time he thought about returning to Australia. Nostalgic memories were like the salve of a soothing narcotic: university and its student culture; the on-tap energy of ambitious friends; late-night inner-city parties; impromptu north shore beach parties; Spectrum and Tamam Shud concerts in town halls and surf clubs. Memories stacked on each other like golden emblems of better days. They were great times. He felt more of the same awaited him should he return home. However it would have been legally difficult to break his employment contract and so he'd stayed on in America.
Now, nearly two years after his loss, time had healed much of his hurt, to the extent he was on speaking terms with his mother. She was sober, a working nurse, and a well-regarded sponsor in Portland's AA community. Even so Goldman would never forget his mother's part in the inexplicably macabre period that came into play when a berserk gunman had robbed the late-night register of a 7-Eleven in Camden, New Jersey.
The chemist rubbed his eyes and looked about the computer room. The featureless walls and blank screens were as he expected: indifferent to the emotional pain that had risen inside him. He took a deep breath and looked at his father's employment file on the screen. A red asterisk was beside the date of his father's death. He suspected the asterisk was there because he'd logged onto the system using General Turner's VERTEX RED password.
He swallowed hard and scrolled to the bottom of his father's file. A red footnote cross-referenced his father's work file to another file in a VERTEX RED directory. Goldman read the name and address of the file the footnote referred to. He fingered his stainless steel watchband. There was no going back; not now. He looked to the door, his ears primed for the slightest sound. But he only heard the racy beat of his heart as his fingers danced across the keyboard.
THIRTEEN
Troy Reid looked through the plate glass doors of the administration building. He rested against the Formica-top table he'd placed near the doors the day before. Little was happening outside. High streaks of cloud hung lazily in the sky while a light breeze drove a smattering of dead leaves across the car park. All the while red-breasted robins frollicked about the building's landscaped entrance. Reid's shoulders were tight with tension and faintly throbbing temples spoke of a headache in the making. Great, just what he didn't need. What he did need was a visit to the men’s room. His bladder was close on bursting. He cursed, therefore, when a long black Lincoln with tinted windows and a boomerang antenna on its trunk pulled up outside.
A rear door opened.
Corporal Reid stood to and straightened himself, adjusting his sidearm in the process. An aura of authority radiated from the Lincoln's dark interior. A lean, silver-haired man climbed from the backseat of the car, his polished black shoes contrasting the blanched bitumen underfoot. The three-star Lieutenant General tugged at his uniform sleeves and marched from the sedan with a brisk and determined step.
Reid opened one of the doors, knowing not to salute a superior indoors. General Turner acknowledged the Colonel with a cursory nod, his penetrating gaze making Reid only too aware of his mediocre position at the base.
Reid closed the door and watched the straight-backed general climb the stairs leading to the upper floors. Turner seemed to know where he was going. Good for him. Reid wondered where the DIA inspectors were. He made a hawking sound, hitched up his pants and headed for the mens' room, hardly caring if the inspectors showed. He couldn't get Turner's burning eyes from his mind as he pushed open a sky-blue door with a small black symbol of a man on it. God help him it was Friday afternoon. He wanted nothing more than to go home without any fuss or bother.
Goldman shifted in his seat and studied the screen. He'd begun an accelerating probe into his father's past. But what was he looking for? He didn't know, but as he leaned forward and stroked his chin he thought there might be more to his father's death than generally supposed. He had a feeling he was about to unlock a dark secret lurking behind an officially closed door; well such was his excitement as he continued his illegal search on the gargantuan database. A recalcitrant part of him wanted to shout victoriously from the thrill of being where he didn't belong. His workaday mind, however, became absorbed by the screen's instruction:
WELCOME TO AUDNET 501
RESTRICTED VERTEX RED DIRECTORY
Please enter codeword.
....................................
Please enter codeword? Goldman bit his lip as he pondered the request. A further password. He'd obviously found a collection of files to which few persons had access. Quite likely AUDNET 501 was one of General Turner's private directories. Goldman drummed his fingers on the workstation's counter top and put his mind to work. Very likely Turner would use the same password while moving about on the Milnet. Well, the venturesome chemist certainly hoped so.
With little else going for him, he typed in Turner's password. He wasn't greatly surprised when granted access to the restricted-entry directory. Another main menu unfolded on the screen. Goldman prickled with excitement.
He typed the LIST command. The screen filled with numbered files. It dawned on him that each file wasn't a text file but a digitally stored audio-recording. He'd uncovered a library of audio-recordings whose subject matter plainly warranted such elaborate protection.
After returning to the main menu, he typed in the file name he'd copied from the red footnote in his father's employment file: TAPE 64. He sat back and waited, massaging the nape of his neck. He thought he heard footfalls in the corridor outside and tensed, but again it was only his lively mind playing tricks. With narrowed eyes, he focused on the screen:
TAPE 64 DURATION 23 MINS 28 SECS 10/5/79
JOHN HANOVER AND SAM SPAYERS
1381 LONGRIDGE WAY, ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND.
PRESS KEY OF CHOICE
PLAY TAPE: A
COPY TAPE: B
ERASE TAPE: C
PERFORM WORD SEARCH
ALL SECTORS: D
SECTOR ONE: E
SECTOR TWO: F
SECTOR THREE: G
PAGE DOWN TO CONTINUE
Goldman looked along the workstation counter. At the far end stood a gunmetal gray cassette deck with a yellow number 2 on its side. A fresh six-pack of cassette-tapes was beside the machine. He got up from his seat and unwrapped one of the tapes. PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT P621/35 was printed at the bottom of the tape's blank label. He inserted the tape into the cassette-deck, then went back to his console.
He punched the keyboard's B key, and after a screen prompt, entered the number of the cassette-deck. After yet another prompt, he inputed that the tape be recorded in high-speed mode. RECORDING NOW IN PROGRESS shone on the screen in bright red script. He heard clicks from the cassette-deck at the end of the counter, saw the blurred rotation of the cassette-tape's plastic spools.
'Well, Steve,' he said with a roguish chuckle. 'I did promise not to use the printers.' He was happy to be getting a quick copy of Tape 64 and wanted nothing more than to pocket the tape and run. He was confident the twenty-three minute conversation would shed some light on his father's murder, if indeed there was more to the crime than officialdom stated.
The chemist ran his hand through his hair and called up AUDNET 501's command menu. He was taken by the new world of computers and had learned much about them from Stephen Artarmon. And of course from Rod Haslow. One command in particular caught his attention: WORD SEARCH ALL SECTORS OF AUDNET 501.
Having got this deep into the system, he was full of daring. He pressed the quoted keys and read the instructions. He sensed he was witnessing a new type of technology, which made him push ahead. He raced over to a work bench and grabbed one of several microphones beside a stack of technical manuals.
After sitting down and inserting the microphone lead into a socket at the bottom of the console, he switched on the microphone. Positioning his lips the suggested distance from it, he said: 'Goldman.'
WORD NOTED appeared on the screen. Goldman surmised the Cray-linked computer would analogue his spoken word into a digital code, then sift through AUDNET 501's files for a digital equivalent of the word. He leant back in his seat and wondered how many years would pass before such technology became available on consumer markets. A moment later, he hunched forward and looked at the screen:
LOCK ON TAPE 17, SECTOR FOUR
LIEUTENANT COLONEL SCOTT JEFFERSON AND RANDY SPIKER
HOTEL SAN FERNANDO, TEGUCIGALPA, HONDURAS. 11/12/78
AUDIO PLAYBACK OF SECTOR ABOUT TO COMMENCE
Though forewarned, Goldman jolted as a life-like voice piped from a speaker at the bottom of the console.
“... she was arrested in 1901 for trying to assassinate President McKinley. Apparently she published a monthly paper on current affairs from an anarchist-feminist perspective. Yes, Emma Goldman is considered the first rebel woman to ...”
The computer stopped the audio-recording and inquired, by way of its screen, if Goldman wanted to hear more of the playback. He pressed the N key and the computer continued its word search. He sat back with his hands behind his head as the computer locked onto another tape.
“... of course, you should stash your loot with them, Hassim. They give financial advice to some of the biggest companies and governments in the world. Goldman Sachs manages the wealth of ...”
After another prompt, Goldman instructed the computer to continue its word search. He chewed his thumbnail and wondered whether to buy more alcohol for his dinner party. Bottles of bubbly would stimulate any budding attraction between Rod and Manuela and could only liven the evening. Better to err on the side of too much than too little. Whatever drink was left over he and Belize would make light work of the following weekend.
Goldman had now heard enough to know AUDNET 501 was a library of unsanctioned recordings, most likely procured from telephone taps, bugging devices and wired persons attending meetings and events. He soon guessed why General Turner would keep such tabs. Knowledge for one. Blackmail for another. Leverage to help the general consolidate his power base, to help him further his political ambition.
The cassette deck shut off. Goldman got up and grabbed the tape from the machine. After putting the tape in its case and hiding it in the front of his undershorts, he zipped up his jeans and patted himself down. He stretched back and craned his neck. Tension fell away from him like the collapsing walls of a thawing iceberg. Friday at last. Time to grab his bag downstairs and hightail it home. The intrigues of the Milnet would have to wait another day.
He switched off the console beside him running the third and untouched round of The Heavens Are Falling. As he reached down to turn off the remaining live terminal, the computer displayed the next tape it had locked onto in the course of its word search.
LOCK-ON TAPE 64, SECTOR EIGHTEEN.
JOHN HANOVER AND SAM SPAYERS
1381 LONGRIDGE WAY, ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND 10/5/79
AUDIO PLAYBACK OF SECTOR ABOUT TO COMMENCE
“...come on Sam, you gotta be kidding. Where'd you hear this? You're saying Turner whacked some white coats at Tech Dynamics?”
“Sure, I don't make crap up. Denson or Denton and this ex-DARPA guy, Goldman...”
The computer stopped the audio-playback and displayed its Y/N question about the tape's next sector. Goldman hit the keyboard's Y button.
“... well John, a Company operative photographed blueprints for the guidance system of the Trident Hawk cruise missile in the home of a known KGB agent. Apparently prints from Tech Dynamics had been turning up in the East Berlin house for some months, most of it prime stuff.
“Well when Turner and his back room council of hawks heard about it, they agreed to plug the leak at any cost. Understandably Turner was livid that the Russkies had Uncle Sam farther over the barrel ...”
Goldman jabbed the Y button in response to the computer's question about uninterrupted playback of the tape's remaining sectors.
"Get to the point, Sam, and pass me your lighter ..." – the loud, outside roar of passing motorcycles – "... have you got the goddamn Angels in your street?"
“The Southern Rebels actually.”
“In this neighbourhood?”
“Crime pays, as you well know, John.”
“Couldn't take it myself.”
“Neither could I. I just organized some DEA muscle on them.”
“Through Roger, no doubt. Pass me your lighter, you slippery sonofabitch. And please, get to the goddamn point!”
“Okay, short and sweet. The blueprints turning up in East Berlin were all hand drawn, but accurate enough to excite Russian engineers. Well, DIA agents making inquiries at the Tech Dynamics plant in New Jersey learned all schematics and blueprints are stored in a vault. Apparently you can't get into the vault without the security code from the plant manager, who checked out squeaky clean. So from company records no one had been in the safe for over a year, as the plant was developing a new system unrelated to previous work.
“So whoever was moving product from the plant had to be drawing the diagrams from memory, or from previous rough drafts. Very likely one of the plant's electrical engineers. I mean, if it was the plant manager, he would've just copied...”
“Get on with it, Sam. I'm bustin' for a goddamn leak!”
“Okay, okay. So it boiled down to the three electrical engineers. Like I said, Turner was more than pissed. You can imagine, there's a serious techno-drain in the company that manufactures the guidance systems for a quarter of Western Europe's tactical cruise missiles ...”
“You mean nukes?”
“Damn right. Then you discover that some of the blueprints that've made it into East Berlin make it only too easy to work out the ULF broadcast that'll effectively knock out the anti-scramblers on the Trident Hawk guidance systems.
“Short and sweet, the Russkies could make the missiles go ape shit after their launch, before the birds even made it into Eastern Bloc aerospace. Enraged, Turner gets, uh, Goldman taken out first, as he was the real brains of the shop. Some hit disguised as an armed robbery. Pretty standard Turner stuff.
“Anyhow, a month later, blueprints turn up again in Berlin. Dauntless, Turner has Denson or Denton taken out in the guise of a hit and run. Several months pass and no more blueprints turn up. But just to be sure, hey, maybe the third white coat is really the guy pushing the goods and understandably he's decided to cool things off, Turner waits until the guy takes a holiday in Mexico and then has him whacked in some fancy resort.
“Undoubtedly rumours and conspiracy theories were rampant among Tech Dynamics staff, but in the end, as you well know, John, what can anyone prove one way or the other?”
“Yeah, just a few more defence scientists checking out under mysterious circumstances. Read about it all the time, especially in England. But tell me, Sam, before I piss myself, how could you know any of this?”
“Well, truth is my brother-in-law told me about it after the Ravens game the other night, over a bottle of Jack. Anyhow, Carlos is a good man, an ex-Navy SEAL and a hands-on member of Turner's covert council. Look John, it goes without saying that all this is strictly confidential. Between you and me and these goddamn walls.”
“For Christ's sake, Sam, I gotta take a leak.”
THE FINAL SECTOR OF TAPE 64 HAS FINISHED glowed on the computer screen in bright red script. Goldman, though, had already left the room.
FOURTEEN
Troy Reid leaned against the Formica-top table and looked outside. Uneventful hours and idle gazing seemed part and parcel of his new posting. Red-breasted robins still frollicked about a wild plum hedge on the other side of the glass door. Whether the birds were fighting or playing in the westering light, he couldn't tell. He sensed someone was behind him and tur
ned around. General Turner and General Kaplan were at the far end of the corridor. Two other men, most likely DIA inspectors, joined the generals.
Reid straightened and assumed an officious air. The spotlight was on him and it was important – no, imperative – that he be on his best footing. Any shortcoming in front of General Turner and the inspectors, should they stop and talk, would only reflect badly on his father-in-law. General Kaplan wouldn't take kindly to any attitude or conduct that was less than becoming. No, he wouldn't take kindly to it at all. Reid watched the four men approach. His stomach tightened and his tension meter ratcheted up a notch. The sooner Turner and his snooping cronies were gone the better.
Ten metres and closing.
Reid was in no mood for anything other than a brief and formal exchange. God help him it was late Friday afternoon and –
– something on the staircase caught his attention. A blurred movement of scuffed runners and denim jeans. His mind reeled at the implication of what his senses reported.
Goldman.
It couldn't be. The rusty-haired chemist was hurtling toward the ground floor with the runaway motion of a derailed train. That Goldman looked upset was an understatement. An unthinkable confrontation was about to happen. And right in front of General Turner and the inspectors.
Great. Just great.
Reid could see Goldman was distraught, about what he could only imagine. What concerned Reid, however, was how he would conduct himself in front of his superiors. His encounter with Goldman was going to be anything but formal, of that he was certain. Nevertheless he had a job to do and he wasn't about to shirk the responsibility of his new guarding role, especially in front of his father-in-law.
Goldman came off the stairs and made a beeline for the front doors. Reid unclipped the carbon-fibre holster of his Beretta handgun.
So close now.
