Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“That was my contact in Washington.” Kerikov nodded in the direction of the destroyed telephone. “There have been two unsuccessful attempts to stop an enemy who will now be coming on the offense. I know him well, and I know that our only chance to defeat him is to step up our timetable. You must be ready within forty-eight hours. Otherwise we may be forced to abandon the project.”

“No!” The anger in Mossey’s voice charged his entire body, squaring his narrow shoulders and firming the soft flesh that passed as a chin.

Ted Mossey had a face shaped like a spade, his weak chin forming its point and his rounded cheeks forming the bowed top. He had no cheekbones to speak of, so his face appeared to slope in on itself; only his small nose added any definition. His glasses were hooked behind wildly recurved ears that were nearly hidden by lank blond hair. Angry red scars pocked his face, adolescent acne that followed him into early adulthood with embarrassing ferocity. But Kerikov had not hired Mossey for his appearance. He’d taken him into the fold of Charon’s Landing because the twenty-eight-year-old was a computer virtuoso.

He could debug one program while simultaneously writing another, one keyboard under each of his ambidextrous hands, his eyes shifting between screens so fast that they would blend into one homogeneous image. Mossey was responsible for the parent 3-D generators used on the next-generation video games, and a program he’d designed as a geometric data cascade was so advanced that it could not be used until computer speed increased another hundredfold.

However, there was another aspect of Ted Mossey that had attracted Kerikov above all the other hotshot computer geniuses that the United States produced in alarming numbers. While many of Kerikov’s earlier candidates certainly possessed the skills he needed, only Mossey had the element that made him an easy recruit. Mossey was a rabid environmentalist, an ecoterrorist who used his knowledge of computers to wreak havoc among timber companies, mining concerns, and heavy industries. While many environmental activists seemed more impressed with publicity than results, Mossey preferred to work from the shadows, destroying computer systems and causing millions of dollars in damage to those he saw as destructive to the planet. Once Kerikov approached Mossey and outlined in brief strokes the principle behind Charon’s Landing, the young American almost begged to join.

“I won’t let that happen,” Mossey said angrily. “This is too important. I can do it in forty-eight hours, no problem.”

Kerikov recognized the bravado in Mossey’s voice. He didn’t need assurance; he wanted the truth, so he spoke accusingly. “You’re not scheduled to work at the Marine Terminal again for three days, and I’ll need you at the terminal within two. How will you manage it?”

“Simple. Right after I got the programming job at Alyeska, I inserted a virus into their system that will lock out all the workstations from the mainframe. No one will be able to use their computers. I can unleash the virus from my system at home and freeze every computer on the Alaska Pipeline. In the past few months, they’ve come to see me as the resident expert, so they’ll call me to get the system back on line.” When Ted spoke about computers, he had an authority that masked his physical frailty.

“Won’t they know that their system has been accessed from outside the facility?”

As much as he dared, Mossey shook his head at such an insult to his abilities. “I’ve already deleted the backtrack subroutine of their antivirus program. They’ll have no record of an outside contact.”

“If that’s the case, can’t you initiate my primary program in their mainframe from your own computer?” Kerikov asked reasonably, the subtleties of computer hacking lost to him yet hoping to avoid the security risk of placing Mossey within the confines of the Alyeska Marine Terminal.

“I told you before,” Mossey sighed. “Your program was buried inside the computer core during the 1986 system upgrade. When your programmer hardwired it into the mainframe, he made it impossible to activate from anywhere other than the main computer room in Valdez. That way, no one could ever stumble across it at a desktop unit or find it by hacking into the system. He made it impossible to discover and at the same time very difficult to access. My antibacktracker is child’s play compared to the protection your guy put into the system.”

Kerikov understood that there was no other option than to get him into the computer room at Valdez in order to initiate the programs planted over a decade ago by one of Kerikov’s best agents. The computer sabotage had been the only active element of Charon’s Landing Kerikov had carried out prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union. Everything since then had been his own doing, with financial backing from Hasaan bin-Rufti and others. The computer codes were the only items Kerikov needed to pirate the former KGB operation.

“How soon can you lock them out and get yourself to the facility?” Kerikov asked, the ripe scent of victory already detectable. Philip Mercer might still be alive, but there wasn’t anything he could do to stop Kerikov once the control program was primed.

“About four hours after I get to my apartment in Valdez. Once I freeze the system, they’ll call me within minutes. After that, I can start your program in just a few hours.”

“Excellent. I want you to drive back to Valdez tonight, but don’t lock them out until I call you. The delay shouldn’t be more than twenty-four hours, thirty-six at the most, understand?”

“Yes, sure, but why wait?”

“Initiating my computer program is only one phase of the overall operation; there are others that you are not aware of. I have to make certain that everything is in place before we take over the system entirely.” Kerikov wasn’t in the habit of explaining his orders.

Kerikov didn’t wait for Mossey to leave before he strode from the living room to his bedroom. The phone extension there was now the only working unit in the suite. As he dialed an in-house line to reach Abu Alam two floors below, he fished in his pant’s pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter.

“Yes,” Alam answered.

“We are leaving in a few hours. There has been a slight complication. The people in Washington failed.”

“Mercer is still alive?” Despite his instability, Alam retained enough professionalism to ask the right questions.

“Yes. Rather than try again, I’ve decided to draw him to Alaska, then send him on a wild-goose chase. We can take care of him later. To ensure he comes, we need to return to Homer. Fuel the car. I’ll meet you in the lobby” — Kerikov looked at his watch — “at ten o’clock.”

“Should we be armed?” Even Alam had some respect for American law enforcement and traveled with his beloved SPAS-12 semiautomatic shotgun only when necessary.

“Yes. We will take my own men on this trip.” Kerikov needed the steadier hands of his two German guards instead of Alam’s murderous Arab gunslingers. While the former Stasi agents had bungled the interrogation of the fisherman and his son, they were well trained and disciplined, and tonight’s work would need their professionalism. He cut the connection and immediately redialed the phone.

“I can’t speak now, we’re still loading,” a voice responded brusquely, then hung up.

Kerikov looked at the mute instrument for a moment, but since he’d called to get a situation report from his agent, he was satisfied. He made another call, ignoring the time difference, not caring that he’d wake the man at the other end.

“Hello,” came a sleepy voice after a few rings.

“You’ve failed again. Mercer is still alive.” Kerikov could hear the man swing himself out of bed.