Digital Fortress

Chartrukian turned and looked out at the deserted Crypto floor. The hum of the generators below sounded louder every minute. He sensed that time was running out. He knew he was supposed to leave, but from out of the rumble beneath Crypto, the Sys-Sec mantra began playing in his head: Act first, explain later.

In the high-stakes world of computer security, minutes often meant the difference between saving a system or losing it. There was seldom time to justify a defensive procedure before taking it. Sys-Secs were paid for their technical expertise… and their instinct.

Act first, explain later. Chartrukian knew what he had to do. He also knew that when the dust settled, he would be either an NSA hero or in the unemployment line.

The great decoding computer had a virus-of that, the Sys-Sec was certain. There was one responsible course of action. Shut it down.

Chartrukian knew there were only two ways to shut down TRANSLTR. One was the commander's private terminal, which was locked in his office-out of the question. The other was the manual kill-switch located on one of the sublevels beneath the Crypto floor.

Chartrukian swallowed hard. He hated the sublevels. He'd only been there once, during training. It was like something out of an alien world with its long mazes of catwalks, freon ducts, and a dizzy 136-foot drop to the rumbling power supplies below…

It was the last place he felt like going, and Strathmore was the last person he felt like crossing, but duty was duty. They'll thank me tomorrow, he thought, wondering if he was right.

Taking a deep breath, Chartrukian opened the senior Sys-Sec's metal locker. On a shelf of disassembled computer parts, hidden behind a media concentrator and LAN tester, was a Stanford alumni mug. Without touching the rim, he reached inside and lifted out a single Medeco key.

"It's amazing," he grumbled, "what System-Security officers don't know about security."

Chapter 47

"A billion-dollar code?" Midge snickered, accompanying Brinkerhoff back up the hallway. "That's a good one."

"I swear it," he said.

She eyed him askance. "This better not be some ploy to get me out of this dress."

"Midge, I would never-" he said self-righteously.

"I know, Chad. Don't remind me."

Thirty seconds later, Midge was sitting in Brinkerhoff's chair and studying the Crypto report.

"See?" he said, leaning over her and pointing to the figure in question. "This MCD? A billion dollars!"

Midge chuckled. "It does appear to be a touch on the high side, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." He groaned. "Just a touch."

"Looks like a divide-by-zero."

"A who?"

"A divide-by-zero," she said, scanning the rest of the data. "The MCD's calculated as a fraction-total expense divided by number of decryptions."

"Of course." Brinkerhoff nodded blankly and tried not to peer down the front of her dress.

"When the denominator's zero," Midge explained, "the quotient goes to infinity. Computers hate infinity, so they type all nines." She pointed to a different column. "See this?"

"Yeah." Brinkerhoff refocused on the paper.

"It's today's raw production data. Take a look at the number of decryptions."

Brinkerhoff dutifully followed her finger down the column.

NUMBER OF DECRYPTIONS = 0

Midge tapped on the figure. "It's just as I suspected. Divide-by-zero."

Brinkerhoff arched his eyebrows. "So everything's okay?"

She shrugged. "Just means we haven't broken any codes today. TRANSLTR must be taking a break."

"A break?" Brinkerhoff looked doubtful. He'd been with the director long enough to know that "breaks" were not part of his preferred modus operandi-particularly with respect to TRANSLTR. Fontaine had paid $2 billion for the code-breaking behemoth, and he wanted his money's worth. Every second TRANSLTR sat idle was money down the toilet.

"Ah… Midge?" Brinkerhoff said. "TRANSLTR doesn't take any breaks. It runs day and night. You know that."

She shrugged. "Maybe Strathmore didn't feel like hanging out last night to prepare the weekend run. He probably knew Fontaine was away and ducked out early to go fishing."

"Come on, Midge." Brinkerhoff gave her disgusted look. "Give the guy a break."

It was no secret Midge Milken didn't like Trevor Strathmore. Strathmore had attempted a cunning maneuver rewriting Skipjack, but he'd been caught. Despite Strathmore's bold intentions, the NSA had paid dearly. The EFF had gained strength, Fontaine had lost credibility with Congress, and worst of all, the agency had lost a lot of its anonymity. There were suddenly housewives in Minnesota complaining to America Online and Prodigy that the NSA might be reading their E-mail-like the NSA gave a damn about a secret recipe for candied yams.