To his dismay however, the screen displayed the words:
Login failed. Please enter a valid access code (2 attempts remaining).
“What the hell?” Something was wrong. He glanced at Deep Blue who looked equally concerned.
“King’s phone uses biometric security,” Deep Blue said, the question implicit.
Aleman nodded. The device, his own design, needed only a thumbprint scan—very useful for both preventing unauthorized use and rapid access in the field. There was no password or access code. Then, as lines of machine language began filling the screen, Aleman realized what he was seeing.
“That’s not King’s phone,” he gasped. “We’re being hacked.”
Override accepted.
Impossible. No one in the world could hack through the layers of firewall protection he had built to protect the Chess Team mainframe. Even with the power of a device like the supercomputer used by the NSA’s Echelon program, such an attack would have taken hours…days even.
Aleman was up and moving in a heartbeat, dashing across the room to a console that contained only a single, red button. Without even a moment’s hesitation, he slammed his palm down on the killswitch.
Lines of code continued to flash across the plasma screen. The hacker had anticipated this action and evidently disabled the killswitch remotely. That left only one option…if it wasn’t already too late. He pivoted and headed for the door.
“Aleman,” Deep Blue barked. “What in God’s name is happening?”
“Someone is in our system.”
“Shut it down!”
“I can’t. They’ve locked me out of the hardware.”
“Then pull the goddamn plug.”
“That’s what I’m going to do.” His profound respect for Chess Team’s leader compelled the tech expert to delay a moment longer. “But the only way to do that is to destroy the mainframe. A couple incendiary grenades should do the trick. But we’ll be completely cut off.”
Deep Blue’s eyes widened as the gravity of this revelation hit home. Chess Team’s effectiveness owed no small part to their access to information and instantaneous communication. The fire suppression system would probably prevent the destruction of the entire facility—probably—but immolating the computer mainframe would be a severe blow in the long term. In the short term, it would mean hanging King out to dry. But what choice was there?
“Do it.”
23.
Paris—2027 UTC
Bandar Pradesh straightened in his chair as the message on the display monitor changed. The tenth and final quantum device had been activated and was synching. A progress bar indicated that the process was nearly complete. It was taking longer than the others had, but the difference would be measured only in seconds. The quantum network was, without question, the fastest and most powerful computer on the planet. With nine nodes already active, its stutter-logic artificial intelligence could almost instantly adapt to any security protocols. The time lag was almost certainly due to the volume of information the system was downloading from the parallel network, which evidently was larger than any of the others had been.
He sighed in relief. Brown’s reluctance to simply activate the tenth device hadn’t been merely an aggravation. It had threatened the success of Pradesh’s true agenda. He had been tempted to simply take the device and perform the final synchronization himself, but doing so might have tipped his hand at the most critical moment. In the end, he had decided to tolerate Brown’s dismissal, awaiting a better opportunity to act.
He’d heard some loud noises earlier—gunshots?—no doubt Brown dealing with a captive, but he’d thought better of leaving the safety of the control room. Now he was glad for his restraint.
The progress bar jumped to 100%. The device was now synchronized and the network was active.
Adrenaline stirred in his veins and with trembling fingers, he tapped a command into the prompt:
>>>Awakening.exe
24.
King wrenched his head sideways and let the Spetsnaz drive the point of the blade down. The knife pierced through the air where his face had been an instant earlier and punched deep into the fiberglass deck. Almost simultaneously, the Russian’s finger depressed the release stud on the hilt.
The knife handle went cold in King’s grasp as the compressed carbon dioxide charge expanded inside the tube, but because the blade wasn’t going anywhere, the blast instead blew the hilt, along with the four hands gripping it, straight up like a piston into the Russian’s face.
Even as the Spetsnaz winced from the impact, King released his grip on the hilt and fumbled for the heavy object that had pounded him earlier—the Russian’s gun. His fingers found the cool metal frame and recognized it instantly—an Israeli-produced Uzi 9-millimeter machine pistol, outfitted with a noise suppressor. His hand curled around the grip, depressing the safety mechanism, and in a single decisive motion, he jabbed the extended barrel up into the Russian’s abdomen and pulled the trigger.
Hot brass cascaded from the ejection port, but there was hardly any noise or recoil as the magazine emptied into the Russian’s torso. King felt the man lurch as the rounds punched through him, but even before the bolt blew back on the last chamber, the Russian slumped atop him, dead or very nearly so.
King heaved the corpse away, his hands now slick with the man’s blood. His eyes caught the glow of a cell phone, its light illuminating Brown’s face. The gambler seemed oblivious to everything else, his attention consumed by whatever was being displayed on the screen. King snatched the device from the other man’s grasp. It was the quantum phone. The small screen showed just two words:
Operation complete.
He grabbed Brown’s shirtfront with his free hand and pulled the man close. “What did you just do?”
The gambler’s defiant smile was particularly creepy in the phone’s glow. “Locked in my bet. Nothing you can do about it now.”
“We’ll see about that,” King growled. He punched Brown squarely on the chin, the slim phone in his hand adding just a little bit of heft to the blow, and the man slumped unconscious onto the deck.
King dropped the quantum phone into his pocket, then bent over Brown and rifled through the man’s clothes to find the Chess Team phone. He was dismayed to see that it was also radiating light; somehow, Brown had activated it. He swiped his thumb over the screen and spoke the voice command that would put him in touch with Deep Blue back at headquarters.
As he waited for the call to connect, he retrieved the Uzi from the fallen commando. A quick search yielded half a dozen magazines of 9 mm rounds for the gun, a satchel full of improvised explosives—flashbangs and claymores, along with loose packets of plastique and blasting caps, and another ballistic knife. He then hauled Brown’s unresisting form into the Zodiac he’d originally commandeered and climbed in after, shoving off from the damaged boat. He didn’t see the third boat anywhere, but the apparent absence of the remaining members of the Spetsnaz team did not fill him with confidence. They were out there somewhere. It was only a matter of time before they realized what he had done. As he aimed the prow of the inflatable craft toward the nearest land—Île de la Cité—he heard a familiar voice in his ear.
“King!” Deep Blue sounded more frantic than King could recall ever hearing. “What’s happening? Wait…”
King could just make out the words that followed over the whine of the outboard. “Aleman. Abort. I’ve got King on the line.”
Abort? What’s going on?
The voice returned to full strength. “All right, King. Report. And make it quick. We’ve got a shitstorm brewing here.”
King did not immediately answer. He thought about the quantum phone…about how his own phone had been active when he’d taken it from Brown... “I think maybe your problems are related to mine,” he said finally.
He hastily recounted what had happened on the riverboat. Aleman joined the conversation, peppering him with questions he couldn’t answer when the su
bject of the quantum computer devices were brought up. He didn’t go into detail about the game he had played, and ultimately lost, with Brown, but instead focused on Pradesh.
“Shiva?” Aleman said, using Pradesh’s hacker alias. “That explains what happened here. In fact, it’s the only explanation.”
The tech expert quickly related the details of the cyber-attack, which had inexplicably ended only a few seconds before King had called, and just before he’d pulled the pin on a handful of incendiary grenades that would have reduced the Chess Team mainframe to a puddle of molten goo. The virtual damage was already done; there was now nothing to be gained by physically destroying the mainframe.
“With a quantum computer at his disposal, Shiva could break into any computer, anywhere. Government computers, banks…he’d control everything.”
“I’m not sure that’s Brown’s plan,” King countered. “Think about what we already know. Brown tried to develop an alternative energy source with Bluelight. Then he hosts a conference about the future of energy. And now we know he hired one of the architects of the Stuxnet computer virus to help him design the ultimate computer. What does that add up to?”
There was silence on the line, so King laid out his conclusion. “I think Brown wants control of the power grid. I think he plans to use the quantum computer to put Stuxnet into the computers controlling the grid.
“He was very insistent about making sure that the quantum computers went to ten men, all of them operations managers at big power stations. The power grid is designed so that if one station goes down, the demand can be met by others, but if you could knock out several of them simultaneously, the whole system would crash. I think Brown plans to use that threat to hold the world’s electrical supply hostage.” A light bulb flashed on in his head. “Or maybe he wants to destroy the grid so he can step forward with Bluelight, a power supply that doesn’t require the grid.”
“There’s a problem with that,” Aleman said. “Stuxnet is sophisticated, but it capitalizes on what are called ‘day-zero’ vulnerabilities. In other words, it exploits weaknesses that are built into the original programming language.”
“Then he’s using a different virus,” King said.
“You’re missing the point. Someone like Shiva wouldn’t need a quantum computer to pull off what you’re suggesting. Heaven knows, the power grid is vulnerable enough as it is.”
That stopped King. “You’re saying it would be like trying to drive a nail with a sledge-hammer?”
“More like with a jackhammer. There’s something more going on here.”
“I’ve got one of the quantum phones with me. Maybe we can use it to reverse engineer their system and find a back door. And I’ve got Brown.” King glanced over at the form of his nemesis. Willingly or not, the gambler was going to answer all their questions.
Suddenly a squeal of static filled his ear and he jerked the phone away as if it had stung him. The screen now read:
Connection lost
He waited a moment to see if the problem would resolve itself but there was no change. On an impulse, he took out the quantum phone but its display was dark.
He returned both phones to his pocket and focused on the immediate task of piloting the boat. The wheels of Brown’s plan were now turning, he was sure of that, but where they were rolling was anyone’s guess and time was running out.
25.
The cold water was more of shock to Timur Suvorov’s body than the surprise attack that had preceded his plunge into the river. He remembered that Kharitonov had called out to him, warning that something was wrong, but before he could grasp what was happening, another boat had crashed into them and the next thing he knew, he was sinking into the Seine.
Sinking!
He clawed at the water, trying to swim back to the surface, but the weight of his equipment was bearing him into the murky depths like an anchor. He frantically pulled the sling of his Uzi off his shoulder, and then struggled out of the vest containing his spare magazines and an array of improvised grenades. His sodden clothes and boots still felt like an over-garment of concrete, but he was a strong swimmer and his powerful strokes reversed his journey. Nevertheless, his lungs burned with the acid of trapped carbon dioxide. The dark surface seemed impossibly far away…
He broke through with a splash, not caring if doing so revealed his presence to the enemy that had unexpectedly gotten the better of him, and sucked in air greedily.
He was treading water, turning slowly until he spied the barely visible silhouette of a Zodiac, evidently derelict, drifting a few yards away. The sound of a distant outboard motor drifted across the surface of the river but otherwise all was still. He swam over to the abandoned boat, and with no little difficulty, heaved himself up onto the inflated rubber hull.
The smell of fresh blood and recent death hung in the air. His probing hands found a body, wearing an outfit identical to his own. A wave of fear and anger built in his chest as he tore off the black balaclava to reveal the man’s pale face and light brown hair. Suvorov burst forth in a howl of pain when he recognized the man; his teammate, his brother in every sense but the literal, Ian Kharitonov was dead.
Suvorov peered out across the river and spied the outline of another boat, the still visible wake leading almost directly back to the place where he had surfaced. Kharitonov’s killer—probably one of Brown’s mercenaries—was on that boat and so also, he assumed, was Brown. He mastered his emotions, forcing them down and corking them with a promise.
He couldn’t bring Kharitonov back. All he could do was see the mission through, and hope for a chance to give his friend’s death some meaning.
26.
“What are they saying?” Alexander repeated.
Fiona gaped at Alexander. Yet, even if the intensity of his expression and the barely subdued violence of his hold on her shoulders had not left her speechless, she would have been hard pressed to answer his question. She was faintly aware that Sara had moved close, hugging protectively, seemingly trying to pull her away from the big man’s grasp, but Fiona did not move.
She didn’t know how to begin describing what she felt when she looked at the pieces of stone in the display cases. It was different than with the artwork. The paintings and sculptures seemed to both sing and glow, and while she couldn’t quite put that into words—into English words at least—she was starting to feel like she understood. It was like trying to describe a color; there were no words for it, you just had to find an example. She understood that the pieces of rubble had once been art, but whatever message they contained, ought to have been destroyed when the original statues had been blown up. The message of art wasn’t an intrinsic thing; a message written on a piece of paper didn’t fundamentally alter the paper.
Or did it?
Maybe it was like with a computer hard drive, where no matter how hard you tried to erase old data, there were always ways to retrieve the files. At least that was how it worked in all the police shows she watched on television.
Maybe what she was looking at was the original message, but all distorted and jumbled.
She was still trying to figure out how to put that idea into words when a hideous shriek ripped through the room, overpowering the atonal hum from the speakers. She clamped her hands to her ears, but the sound was undiminished, vibrating through every fiber of her body. Behind Fiona, Sara had collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony under the sonic assault that was playing havoc with her sensory disorder.
Alexander whirled to look at his equipment, undisguised concern on his face, then turned back. “Get out of here! Now!”
Fiona didn’t need to be told again. She knelt beside Sara and tried to help her to her feet, aided by an uncomprehending Julia. The electronically amplified shriek changed pitch, cycling randomly through different frequencies and occasionally falling silent, but even when she heard nothing, Fiona could sense that the sounds were still present, albeit at a range inaudible to the ordinary human ear.
&nbs
p; Then, with an almost painful abruptness, true silence came.
Sara, now on her feet and braced between Julia and Fiona, gave a tortured gasp but seemed to regain some of her strength.
Julia, sensing that her assistance was no longer required, relaxed her grip and turned to Alexander, who was now hunched over a laptop on the table. The curator hastened to confront him, but whatever demand she had been about to make died on her lips when she reached the big man’s side. Her gaze was riveted to something on the table and after a moment, she reached out and plucked up one of the plastic disks. Even from halfway across the room, Fiona could see that something had changed; the center of the disk was now almost black.
“What does this mean?” Julia asked, thrusting the dosimeter into Alexander’s face, her voice trembling with fear.
The big man’s expression tightened, as if trying to hold back unimaginable grief. “You know what it means. We’ve all been exposed to a concentration of gamma radiation.” He took a breath. “A lethal concentration.”
The pronouncement was too mind-boggling for Fiona to process. Radiation? Lethal? That just didn’t make any sense.
“Gamma rays?” Julia countered, her voice edging on hysteria. “From what?”
Alexander’s reply, if he had intended one, never came, for in the next instant, the room heaved and Fiona felt herself falling sideways into oblivion.
CAUSE/BECAUSE
In the beginning, there was everything.
From the first moment of existence, the first moment of time, the universe was complete.
Before that instant…there was no before. Time did not exist. Nothing existed. And then, the singularity...what scientists would some fourteen billion years later call ‘the Big Bang,’ brought everything into being.
Callsign: King - Book 3 - Blackout (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella) Page 10
