Now the only digital record of his work was encrypted, sitting on their servers, along with all the other process records, results, and finally, 'products'. They stored the information here, but also spun off a certain amount with extensive backups, all sent over the internet to Russia, using encryption even the super computers of the NSA couldn't crack. But this backup process was always a few weeks behind and critical discoveries – the most recent and best procedures, perfected after long, diligent work – were saved here on his servers, sitting in the USA and no where else. Their greatest fear was the Americans might read their encrypted files, which meant they had to be transferred by hand, on large drives via diplomatic pouch, another bottleneck. Combined, the records on their servers described the daily progress and research on cloning they'd been perfecting for six years. Whatever it was they were doing excited their bosses and the elite of Russia who were expecting the product they were starting to create in quantity. To be able to reproduce this discovery they had to find a way to transfer everything at one time to Russia, something their bosses were desperate to do. Until then it would stay in the blue building, under Grigor's care, a secret worth not Billions, but Trillions of dollars.
Compared to busting heads and carrying out assassinations in Russia and Europe, Grigor's job in America was nothing, the greenest recruit could have done it. In Mother Russia they recruited from the Spetsnaz, Russia's special forces and parachute brigades, men with a taste for sadism and murder, with proven ability and hard hearts who would follow any order. But these men were not available here and trying to import them would trigger scrutiny, exactly what they were trying to avoid.
Limited by the far stronger police and federal agencies in America who investigated illegal activities, they couldn't buy them off or infiltrate their ranks. This meant treading lightly. Given the omnipresent threat from law enforcement, some things could not be allowed, like going to the police or drunkenly yammering your head off in a bar or chatting online about what they were doing at the covert research labs a mile away.
His data facility backed up and provided wide area networking with secure storage for the entire operation. Nothing important was stored on the hundreds of individual computers scattered in the offices and laboratories in this and other locations. They used fiber optic lines buried in plastic conduits, supposedly invulnerable to attack because they didn't emit any RF radiation. But he knew that anything could be compromised, since he'd heard of exotic, high tech spying operations performed by his government and the US, the continuing Cold War that had supposedly ended when that dreamer Yeltsin took over.
Grigor was in charge of the data facility and the latest intrusion by Jabo terrified him. It was a failure on his part and a big mistake, enough he'd held back from telling his superiors. The worst case meant a difficult to detect 'backdoor' program had been injected into one of their servers, something that would allow outsiders direct entry to his computer network and their vast collection of secret files. The only connection they had to the organization trying get into their system were the spies he'd sent Lance to follow. If it was the worst intrusion threat possible. The information they could extract would reveal everything, forcing them to abandon what had been described as research labs which were really production facilities – starting to produce the first HXX 'products'.
Grigor assumed there was more to this than making superior cows and sheep, identical clones of animals whose production numbers were a few percentage points above the top exemplars of their breed. Reporters were given limited access to bolster the cover story, trumpeting their company's capability in newspapers and online – a Potemkin village version of their cloning results, but never the truth Grigor knew was far more sinister and interesting.
Not told what was really happening in the labs, it was something so secret they'd ordered the death of two men to protect it and had just sent a signal to the other workers in the company by wiping out the second man's family along with a few border patrol officers and an old couple. It was like the old Soviet system had taken over the main offices. The men over him, in charge of overall security, were some of the few native Russians, all with KGB backgrounds, brought in under HB-1 visas describing them as programmers. They gave him a dead eyed stare if he asked about anything outside his responsibility, ignored his questions, giving a very clear hint he needed to stop thinking, go back to his job or he'd be on the chopping block next.
The rich assholes who were behind this were scattered all over the world. They needed men like him, to do what they were incapable of, and for shit money, compared to what they had, for what was expected from him and his men. His bosses spent more on whores, booze and jetting around the world than they did on men like him, the ones who kept them safe and did their dirty work – got things done, fixed problems. If he decided to talk they'd all go to jail, even if they all ran off to Mother Russia to hide, him in his old village and his masters in their mansions and dachas on the newly reconquered Crimea, a hilly, barren island taken from Ukraine solely for its naval base and warm, southerly beaches so the elite could build a new set of getaways, filled with young women and fantastic toys.
“Sir, they're calling, asking for you,” the nervous young man showed up as Grigor hurried to the control room, meeting him at the door. It was one of the geeks, as they called them, a computer technician who spent his entire day messing with the metal boxes that filled the entire building. What a demeaning life, but the short pasty faced man probably made more money than him, for playing with computers!
“Who is calling?” They were so dull witted, these Americans. We'll drive over them as they look up in terror and disbelief, seeing a horde of armored vehicles and with streams of red bullets flying out – our invincible armies. The man looking at him wouldn't last a day in the barracks of the Russian Army where new recruits were beaten day and night for a year, until the next cadre arrived, when the roles reversed and the beaten lorded over the newest crop. It made hard men who were fearless in battle, ruthless and able to do anything they were ordered, like Grigor.
“Lance's friends, they've got him and they asked me to find you so you could talk to them.” The young man, an office worker not on his security team, gave Grigor a hopeful look, thinking he was doing Grigor a favor, passing along a message from a colleague who'd had a problem in town – car trouble or a twisted ankle.
“Fine, you may go,” he pressed the blinking button on the phone, looking over to make sure the other desks in the area were empty. The techs on the many shifts each had their own area, easier to keep things from getting lost when each person showed up for work. The man who'd stopped him when he'd been walking back to the control room was someone he recognized, a network technician, different from the ones who pulled out the computer trays and looked at the blinking lights then pushed them back in, some minor fix done or the operations verified. It was as menial as cleaning toilets to Grigor, and as appealing.
“Grigor, we have Lance and we want to talk,” Jabo made his attack, throwing a grenade over the walls to explode in Grigor's mind.
“Keep him, he knows nothing,” his large hand nearly crushed the plastic handset as his rage built up. That idiot Lance had got himself caught instead of sitting in his car at a distance, in public where they couldn't do anything. Americans took pictures and videos of anything they thought was wrong and called the police about the slightest dispute or disturbance.
“Okay, I'll tell him that, in fact I'll play him this conversation, should cheer him up his boss is ready to throw him to the wolves.” Jabo stayed calm, his voice empty, like he'd been with Lance, scaring him by not revealing his feelings or intentions.
“Maybe I'll call the police, tell them you've kidnapped him.” Grigor would never do what his bosses had killed two men for doing, talk to the police. Forming a plan in his mind, he wondered if the fool taunting him would provide a better way to find him or offer to meet, even dumber and over confident, a typical American reaction.
; “We could meet, talk this out, no need for Lance to lose his life. This is between you and me, if you have the courage.” Jabo used the Russian slang for virility, exactly the same as the American term, 'Balls'.
Grigor slammed the phone down but it started blinking again, making the sound of a bird, what the tech who used this desk had loaded into the device to amuse himself when the phone rang. He stomped back to his control room and ran everyone out but the man who'd, Bin, come with him when he dealt with the first idiot who'd copied secure information on what they were doing, then tried to find someone to sell it to in the press, become famous at their expense. At least Missange had the guts to tell the FBI without expecting any rewards or acclaim.
“Show me the best feeds on this man who was working on our computers earlier this morning, and blow up his face so I can recognize him when I see him.” He'd set up an ambush and capture this son of a whore who'd challenged him. Grigor could call on vast resources if he wanted but this had become personal and the less his bosses knew the better. He needed to turn failure into success. That, in turn, would mean another promotion, to a job worthy of his abilities.
“Was that a good idea? Now he knows we're on to him,” Albert was nervous, concerned that Jabo was rushing things, turning this into a fire fight instead of a secret attack on their computers, what he felt confident would provide them all the information they needed to take this company down, legally. But the first yield had proven nearly useless, due to the gigantic number of files and the clever way they were both distributed on the disk and encrypted, using unique programs that had to be broken, individually. It could be years before they knew anything, without the passwords and a general idea of how their file systems worked.
Jabo ignored him, looking at the notes he'd made in El Paso, then calling the number. “Ball? Oh, then get me Ball, Senior Master Sergeant Ball, good, have him come to the phone, who? Me? Tell him its that asshole officer, he'll know, go, and don't tell anyone else I'm calling, its all hush hush, hurry, do it!”
Jabo waited, smiling at his co conspirators, already thinking of what he'd need for the plan unfolding in his head, a laundry list for Sergeant Ball to liberate and bring to him – because he'd already shown he could operate off the books.
“Ball, you get that bird running? Good, you're detached to me, special mission if you can fly a commercial huey, the later version, a Bell Ranger, yeah, let me ask,” he turned to Cathy, “what's the year of your dad's helicopter, the big Bell Ranger?”
“Jabo we can't use it for anything that will get us in trouble,” she frowned at him as she wrote the answer on a notepad and handed it to him. She was angry he hadn't let her know what he was thinking, not knowing he'd finished working it out when the crusty Sergeant at the other end of the line answered, 'what the fuck do you want this time... sir?'
“2014, NJ model, whatever the hell that means, you can, great, get a pen and write this down and if you have any problem call this number,” he rattled off Albert's number, his private cell, then started listing all the equipment he wanted Sgt. Ball to 'find', implying some honest theft was expected if anyone objected. With his loot packed for travel he was ordered to fly down to Austin where they'd meet him at the terminal.
“Why don't you use my father's private jet as well?” Cathy growled, pissed she was being used instead of consulted. She seemed to forget she'd suggested she might carry the ball, now literally, on logistics.
“Great idea,” he returned to the cellphone, “can a small jet land at your little base? No, then you'll have to haul it out to the closest private airport, what companies with private jets use,” there was a slight delay as Sergeant Ball yelled at someone, then he returned, “the closest one to you is Javalina? Nice name, got it, when I know I'll call you, get rolling Ball and eyes only on this, right, no paper, off the books is preferable, I know, that's how I roll, you got it, just like last time, and sergeant, bring your boy along, you make a great team...”
Sgt. Ball told him he'd be able to get everything but the electronics package he'd need to do his HALO jump and fly the parachute to his target, the same went for a decent parasail chute. The Army equipment was meant for shorter glides – drop high, sky dive to nearly nap of the Earth then pop and bring it in. His son, Corporal Ball, suggested the company that sold HALO package to the Army might be selling it online as well. Whatever the Army did was picked up by civilians or taught by ex-military jumpers. There was little secrecy in the jumping community.
“No way, that shit is secret, we were briefed on what we could say about its use and capabilities, all black stuff, how could they sell it online?”
“A friend of mine says he has one, skydiver, loves to do night drops, his own version of HALO, over twenty five thousand, just for the thrill of falling through the darkness head down, suicidal if you ask me, but he loves it. I could ask him...”
“Fine, send me a text to point me to the company. A place near here, near Austin? Great, thanks,” Jabo hung up and started checking off parts of his plan he saw in his mind. This was how he operated. People who wrote things down wasted time and depended on paper instead of the tools God gave them.
Coming back to reality Jabo glanced at the other two, then gave Albert a look that said he needed some alone time with Cathy. When Albert left he pointed to a chair and had Cathy sit as he stood in front of her, asserting his power over her, as her husband, but more to the point, as her commander since she'd signed up with him.
“That was your one time...” he held up his hand, stopping her from talking, “shut it.” His eyes lost all warmth and intimacy, showing her the other man she'd married, and wanted to work with, wanting to know what kind of things he'd done on his four years overseas, who Jabo really was in this environment. “Never again, that was your one shot. I don't need your attitude or emotional snap reactions that give you permission to question me in front of another person, challenging my authority and decisions. That's all gone now, or you can go find a nice place to turn into a nest and wait for me. Got it?”
He expected her to break out into tears or get defensive, fighting back but she surprised him one more time.
“Alright,” she looked at him defiant then letting it go, trying to get through her emotions she'd let rule her mind.
“Cathy this is not about dominance or being right, it's how I fight. I don't work things out by asking for input and I don't react, its all very reasoned and logical, I don't have time to explain and I won't try, because I don't have to. I'm in charge, you're working for me, and you do what I ask or you're out, and I won't let you back in,” his words were conversational, like he'd been with Lance, giving her a chance to see how much he was a master of himself, able to present any bearing or attitude he wanted. For her he was a gentle, logical teacher, giving her a lesson he wouldn't have time to repeat.
“When I asked for your father's helicopter it was because I'd considered all the other available aircraft in this local area including military ones, what they'd cost, how secure they'd be, the problems we might encounter if we were caught and other issues. Your father's helicopter came out on top, so we're going to use it. Ball and his son will pilot during our mission, nobody from your father's company can be involved, except you of course.” That made her feel better, part of his life in a way she hadn't been the previous four years.
“You'll arrange for your father's private jet to pick them up along with the equipment I requested. What he can't scrounge or steal there, at the base, you and Albert will go shopping for here, in Austin probably or, worst case, in Dallas, since we need it in,” he looked at his watch, “eight hours.”
“Tell me what you want,” she stood up and kissed him, looking in his eyes to see his love beaming out. “You make me really horny when you treat me like this,” her hand rubbed his crotch, making her smile when he shook, startled, and pushed her back for a few seconds before he pulled her back in. They kissed, much too passionately for the time they had, then broke apart.
“Having you with me is...” he was lost for words, never having mixed sex and fighting, until now.
“Stimulating?” she smiled, “I need to call the aviation division and order up some aircraft. It shouldn't be a problem to find the information on that private field we're going to fly into, near El Paso,” taking charge of her piece of the plan without asking, how he'd hoped she'd operate with him.
“We?” Jabo wondered who else was going or why they'd need to.
“Albert and me, we need to go right now, to make some calls and talk face to face with the aviation people at my father's company. This can't be arranged over the phone.” Her expression told Jabo she had this. “We'll make sure there's no issues, then fly out immediately. When we pick up Ball and the stuff you asked for, we'll do the same thing at El Paso, you know, smooth things out, since this isn't official, right?”
“Yeah, sure, and I assume you know where the private airport is, here in San Marcos?” She didn't reply, rolling her eyes, a mild rebellion he'd let slide for now. Fucking your troopers might turn out to be a bad thing, but so far he sort of liked it. It certainly kept him on his toes. Albert and Cathy left, leaving him alone in the suite to complete the rest of his preparations and get everyone moving.
He needed fresh hot coffee, jet fuel for his mind, the hotter and thicker, the better it worked.
“Damn!” He was pissed. They'd run out of the little foil topped cups that made such rich, strong hot coffee damned near instantly. He'd seen guys using them in the in their quarters, but it seemed prissy to him and expensive. If you wanted coffee, heat up the water and pour it through a coffee maker, one of those filtered things – that was fast enough for him. But all he had in his hotel suite was the fancy coffee machine and he was out. He hit the button on the phone that connected to the front desk.
“Do you know anything about the coffee makers you have up here in my suite? Yeah, I'm all out of...” he looked at one of the labels on the small cups, snatched from the waste can, the lettering perforated when it was used to make fresh coffee, “Java something, yeah, that sounds right, could you bring up say fifty of them. What? The darker the better, good, fifty, sure thanks.”
Hell To Pay Page 25
