24 Declassified: Death Angel 2d-11

by David S. Jacobs

  “Ten years ago when I first came to work for you, I set my plan in motion. I saw the way of it, the lay of the land. Scientists, we who can split or fuse the atom, create or destroy like the gods themselves—

  “And yet we’re relegated to the back of the bus. Hirelings for the big bosses, the number crunchers and bean counters, the bottom-feeding money boys who suck the oyster dry and leave the empty shell for the rest of us peasants to fight over. They rule the world and revel in its treasures while we worry about mortgages and budgets and nagging wives.

  “Not me. Not Hugh Carlson. The workman is worthy of his hire. From the moment I set up shop here, I’ve had only one objective: control. I got my hooks into the computer network early. Suborning, subverting, invading. Taking it over. Control the computer controls and you control all.

  “That message on your screen is a sample of my handiwork. Our security watchdogs are experiencing my power all over Ironwood right now — like you are — and they don’t even know it. With a few keystrokes I can nullify the built-in surveillance programs and fail-safes. No vault is secure from me. Divert any surveillance. Subvert any scanner.

  “OCI was doomed from the start. Their network is an open book to me. Their system intersects ours at innumerable points and each one of those points is a highway right into their sanctum sanctorum, their holy of holies, where they keep the records of their constant snooping on all of us scientists. It’s easy to crack their vault — when you’re smart. But such control is only a means to an end.”

  “And what would that be?” Nordquist asked, keeping his tone mild, noncommittal, the way he’d talk to a crazy person, humoring him. He figured that Carlson had cracked up, suffering a nervous breakdown. Unfortunate that it had to happen when the two of them were alone in the control room, with no one close by to call on for help.

  Carlson’s eyes glittered in a face shiny with sweat. “While you’ve been fooling around with your petty little mirrors and ray guns, what have I been doing? Stealing the crown jewels. The day long ago that the PAL codes came to us for an overhaul and revamping, I saw the light. And it was brighter than a thousand suns, as Oppenheimer put it when the first Trinity A-bomb test was a success. In my hands were the secret codes that unleash atomic destruction.”

  * * *

  PAL — permissive action link. The complex digital codes required to launch nuclear missiles, they neutralize the fail-safe mechanisms designed to prevent unauthorized launches of missiles with atomic warheads. The cyber keys to unlock the seals of atomic Armageddon.

  There was more. No land-based missile in America’s atomic arsenal could be launched without the PAL codes. But there was always the danger of the codes falling into the wrong hands by disaster or design.

  From the need to prevent such a nightmare eventuality, PALO was born. PALO — the PAL overrides. The PALO codes were an auxiliary backup system. Inserted into a computerized launching sequence, they could override the PAL codes and shut down the launch, preventing the firing. They were the ultimate safety fuse to forestall unauthorized personnel from deliberately or by mistake unleashing a nuclear holocaust and triggering World War III.

  Such awesome power was reserved solely for the President in his role of Commander in Chief, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  But PALO had a sinister corollary. Just as it could be used to override and abort an authorized PAL-input launch, the reverse was true. The PALO codes could be reverse-engineered to trigger an unauthorized nuclear launch.

  In the year 2000, Nordquist’s cadre at INL had been given the assignment of tweaking the PALO codes, refining, hardening, and improving the product. This was done over the course of several years. The new, improved PALO codes were then submitted to the custodianship of the Joint Chiefs.

  But the data — oceans of it; seas of zeroes and ones whose sum total added up to overlordship of America’s atomic arsenal — remained on the INL computer system.

  Buried and locked up tight, so the guardians believed.

  Carlson knew better.

  “The PALO codes! Here was a prize worthy of my talents,” he said. “A star-high goal. A Promethean quest. For endless years I endured the petty, bureaucratic vultures gnawing at my innards, tearing at my guts. Why? Because I had a purpose.

  “I copied them — the PALO codes. Computations so big they took years to steal. Swiping a few screens of data here, a few there. Encoding them so they looked like something else, seemingly innocuous files from a host of unrelated projects.

  “I salted them throughout the network, parking them for future retrieval.

  “Copying, encrypting and moving them was the easy part. The hard part was the downloads. They were more closely tracked by our departmental network with its surveillance programs and by OCI’s watchdogs. I took out the data bit by bit, block by block, piecemeal. Then reassembled them with my home computers.

  “At times it felt like trying to drain the sea by carrying away a bucket of water at a time. It took years, almost a decade to do it properly without tripping any alarms. A supreme exercise in self-control. Will. One piggish excess of too much data downloaded at once might have upset all my plans. But I persevered.

  “Now, they’re mine. What do you think the governments of the world will pay for them? To render America’s nuclear deterrent worse than useless — dangerous? A double-edged sword about to rebound on its wielder.

  “What do you think about that, Glen?”

  Nordquist’s reply was straightforward and instinctive. “Carlson, you’re fired. You’ll be reported to OCI and the appropriate steps taken. Now get out.”

  Carlson preened with self-importance and droll bemusement. “Glen, you’re beautiful. Talk about running true to type! You’re priceless, you really are. Blinkered, hide-bound, pettifogging—

  “You haven’t been listening, Glen. You’re not in control here. I am. You couldn’t contact OCI now even if you wanted to. Through my computer I control all. I’ve blocked you from all outside contact. There’ll be no interruptions to this final little chat of ours.”

  “I’m curious about one thing, Carlson. What’s the point of this exercise? What do you hope to gain from this pathetic confession of yours, apart from a life sentence in a federal super-max prison? Or, more likely, confinement to an insane asylum?”

  “A fair question. Mainly I did it just for the doing of it. To show it could be done and that I’m the one who could do it. Me, Hugh Carlson, the smartest of them all. And then of course there’s the rewards, the glittering prizes, treasure houses plundered. World-shattering power at my fingertips—”

  Carlson jabbed a pointing index finger at Nordquist’s monitor screen. “My little joke, to give you a taste of what I can do. It should say, ‘Hello, Stupid — and Goodbye.’ That’s what this is: goodbye.

  “My only regret is that you won’t be around to see the results of my wizardry. It’ll be a real game changer. Argus, Perseus, everything you’ve worked all your life to achieve will be so much dust in the wind. Meaningless.

  “Seventy years of Los Alamos product. Millions of man-hours of calculation and computation, trillions of defense dollars spent in building and refining our intercontinental ballistic missile fleet, the linchpin of America’s nuclear deterrent.

  “Overthrown by one man — me! Talk about a New World Order! Too bad you won’t be around to see it. You can go to hell knowing you’ve seen true genius at work—”

  Nordquist’s computer was equipped with a portable keyboard for greater mobility at his workstation. Carlson grabbed the keyboard with both hands. He raised it high and brought it down hard, clubbing Nordquist on top of his head.

  The impact drove Nordquist deeper into his seat. Pieces of plastic broke and went flying, as did numbered and lettered keys.

  Carlson struck again, opening a wide gash in Nordquist’s scalp. Blood flowed. Nordquist’s glasses broke in half at the nosepiece and went flying off his face. Sinking, failing, he raised his hands in a weak and futile at
tempt to protect himself.

  Carlson battered, grunting each time he brought the keyboard down. Nordquist slumped in his chair, dazed, semi-conscious.

  Carlson tossed aside the remains of the keyboard and lunged at Nordquist with both hands. An expression of fiendish malignity stamped his face.

  Big hands circled Nordquist’s thin neck and squeezed. Fingers sinking deep into flesh. Throttling. Shaking the other while strangling him, like a terrier worrying a rat clenched between its jaws.

  Nordquist’s bloody face darkened, eyes bulging, tongue protruding. Carlson leaned forward, putting his weight into it. Nordquist felt the room spinning around him, consciousness dimming.

  * * *

  Nordquist looked up at the faces of his listeners: pale, strained ovals. The auditors were motionless, silent. All except Whitcomb. The SECTRO Force commander was breathing gustily through his mouth.

  “I thought I was dying. But I didn’t die. The next thing I knew, this young man was trying to bring me around,” Nordquist said, indicating Jack Bauer.

  “Carlson did all this? Hugh Carlson?” Whitcomb asked, incredulous.

  “That’s what I said,” Nordquist snapped, with a touch of his characteristic asperity. Jack thought that was a good sign that Nordquist was rallying and was going to make it.

  “Carlson has the PALO codes?” Orne Lewis asked.

  “He said he did,” Nordquist replied.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “He’s not without a certain facility in computer technology,” Nordquist said, almost grudgingly.

  “Does he have the skills to steal the codes?”

  “Yes. Do I believe he did it? Yes — not because of what he said but what he did,” Nordquist said. “Carlson’s a time server. He’s always had his eyes on the main chance, the sure thing. He wouldn’t have burned his bridges without being damned sure he had something better lined up.”

  Nordquist’s head sank back into the cushioned headrest. Debra Derr leaned in.

  “Is there anything else you can think of that might tell us what Carlson is going to do next? Anything he might have said?” she asked.

  Nordquist weakly shook his head no. His heavy-lidded eyes fluttered. He fought to keep them open. “That’s all I know. I’m afraid I’m a poor prophet when it comes to predicting Hugh Carlson’s next move. I didn’t see this coming. Never thought he had it in him, to tell the truth.”

  Dr. Brand pleaded, “We need to get this man to a hospital.” The paramedics were wide-eyed, stiff-faced. They’d understood enough of Nordquist’s narrative to realize that they’d brushed up against weighty matters indeed.

  “Everything that you’ve seen and heard here tonight is classified. Divulging this information to any unauthorized persons is a federal offense,” Debra Derr said, speaking to Brand and the paramedics.

  “We’re all aware, we’ve been called to the facility before,” Brand said.

  “We’ll get you the confidentiality documents to sign later,” Derr said.

  Brand motioned the paramedics to get moving.

  As he was being wheeled away on the stretcher, Nordquist fired a parting shot at the security contingent. “You’ll get him,” he said confidently. “Carlson always was a second-rater. A bungler! Why, he couldn’t even manage to kill me properly—”

  Nordquist was wheeled out of the control room and into the hall, to take the elevator to the ground floor and the ambulance waiting outside.

  “I’ll let the boys know they’re coming down,” Whitcomb said. He spoke into his cell phone. “Dr. Brand is coming down with Nordquist to take him to City Hospital. Let them through to the ambulance. Have one of our men accompany them to the hospital. Send along a couple more men in a separate car as an escort. They can guard Nordquist at the hospital. Make sure the doctor and the two paramedics do not say anything or contact anyone on the outside. We can’t take any risks. Call me from the hospital with a situation report.”

  Whitcomb put away his cell. “A patient like Nordquist is a security nightmare. The things he knows should stay locked up in his head. Doctors, nurses, orderlies will all have to be screened and debriefed.”

  “Just be glad that Nordquist is alive. We can’t afford to lose a mind like that — a man like that,” Jack Bauer said.

  “Lucky that Carlson botched killing Nordquist.”

  “No, and he didn’t kill Hickman or Harry Stempler, either. He had an accomplice working with him tonight to handle the rough stuff. The one who lured McCoy and me into the Snake Pit while Carlson locked us in and turned the laser on us.”

  “Can you identify him, Jack?” Orne Lewis asked.

  Jack shook his head. “I never got a good look at him.”

  A thought occurred to him and he amended his statement. “If it is a him. It could have been a her for all I know. Whoever it was could shoot, though — pretty damned accurate with a handgun.”

  “He’d have to be good to take Hickman. Hickman was nobody’s fool.”

  “That was a loss,” Jack said, his expression sour. “The shooter was someone who knew his way around the LRF. That lets out the usual run of thugs and killers.”

  Whitcomb was restless, agitated. “What about Carlson? Where is he and how do we find him?”

  “When you figure that out let me know,” Orne Lewis said.

  “Carlson had time to make his getaway,” Jack said. “It took me a good twenty minutes to break out of the Snake Pit. His control of the security system let him laugh at locked doors and scanner readers. He got out of the building through a side door, got into his car, and exited the main gate in the usual manner.”

  “But Sabito contacted OCI with orders to hold Carlson and Nordquist.”

  Debra Derr cleared her throat. That got the others’ attention. “Sabito told Director McCoy to make sure that neither of those scientists left the building.

  “McCoy instructed the guards in the lobby at the front entrance to detain Carlson or Nordquist if they tried to leave. That’s the normal way in and out of the building for staffers. There’s plenty of fire exit doors in the main building and the LRF but none of them can be used without setting off an alarm. McCoy didn’t bother to instruct the gate guards to detain Carlson or Nordquist. He didn’t think they would get that far. No one knew that the security system had been compromised and that Carlson could neutralize the scanner readers to enter and exit as he pleased.”

  Jack nodded. “Carlson exited undetected by a side door, got into his car, and drove out the main gate.”

  “And his accomplice?” Debra Derr asked.

  “Carlson might have taken him out in his car. The other could have hid under a blanket in the backseat or in the trunk. Cars aren’t searched on their way out.”

  “Or he may still be inside the building,” Whitcomb said excitedly.

  “It’s possible,” Jack deadpanned.

  That produced an awkward silence. Debra Derr was the first to break it. “Proceeding at the speed limit, Carlson could have reached the badge holders’ road portal at the west end of Corona Drive within ten minutes — well before the alert was put out on him and his car. They don’t stop badge holders at the exit. We have to assume that Carlson got clear of South Mesa and is somewhere at large outside the security perimeter.”

  “With the PALO codes,” Orne Lewis said.

  Whitcomb ground a fist into his palm. “Hugh Carlson’s going to be the object of the largest manhunt in history. He’ll be the most wanted man alive since Osama bin Laden.”

  “With better results, I hope,” said Jack Bauer.

  17. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 A.M. AND 4 A.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

  3:44 A.M. MDT

  Wind Farm, Los Alamos County

  “Here’s a hot one, Jack:

  “One of our informants tipped us that Adam Zane entered the country illegally tonight. He flew in on a private plane from Mexico. A twin-prop job, make and model unknown. It landed on a highway out in the boondoc
ks outside Laredo, where it was refueled and took off again. We had a confidential informant on the service crew handling the refueling job. Zane’s destination is Los Alamos. He’ll be landing at a private strip at the Wind Farm, that alternate energy site owned by T. J. Henshaw that went bust.

  “Sorry we couldn’t get this to you sooner but our man on the service crew wasn’t able to get away and report until now. We’ll keep you posted on any details as they come in. Hope this is of some use to you.”

  That was the message posted on Jack Bauer’s voice mail by Bert Leeds, SAC of CTU’S El Paso office.

  “Think it’s a good tip, Jack?” Orne Lewis asked.

  “One of CTU/ELP’s primary missions is to watch the border for spies, saboteurs, and terrorists trying to sneak into the country from Mexico. That’s always been the nightmare, that a suicide squad of jihadists or al-Qaeda red-hots would enter the U.S. via the southern corridor. Leeds runs a tight ship with a powerful network of informants on both sides of the border.

  “The wisest course is for us to check it out first. Without making too big a fuss that would divert resources from the search for Carlson. If the tip pans out, we can call for backup as needed. If not, no harm done. Besides, the fewer people who know about it, the less chance of Adam Zane being tipped off deliberately or by accident and taking evasive measures.

  “Right now only two people in Los Alamos know about it — you and me,” Jack Bauer said.

  Jack was glad of the chance to be in action again. It beat sitting around stewing at the OCI office at Ironwood wondering where Dr. Hugh Carlson was to be found. He also welcomed the opportunity of putting some distance between himself and Vince Sabito. The murder of Special Agent Hickman was sure to enrage Sabito and inflame his suspicions to fever pitch.

  Jack had enough on his plate now without butting heads with Sabito. He didn’t want the Zane lead trashed by the overzealous participation of the FBI, either.