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  “Let’s go around the back, Vince. I don’t want to walk in looking like this,” Lenny said.

  “All right.”

  Across the street, the white cowboy took his advice and lifted his partner into the truck.

  “You wait by my truck. I’ll go inside and gather everyone else.”

  “Roger that.”

  They stopped at the back gate to Chicaros and watched the two cowboys drive away.

  “Who are those guys?” Vince asked.

  Lenny simply shook his head. “Tell you tomorrow.”

  “Damn straight, you will.”

  Lenny nodded as the taillights disappeared in the distance. They would be back. It was just a matter of time.

  Vince ran inside and gathered Jason, Matt, and Bud. Vince’s truck could barely hold four people, let alone five. The guys crammed inside, and Vince drove them back to the base. Questions flew back and forth about what happened to Lenny. Lenny wasn’t lucid enough to answer and Vince didn’t feel like talking. Once at the dorms, Vince took Lenny to his room. The scarecrow made it to his bed and passed out.

  Vince walked back to his room and turned on the television. He started to sit when someone knocked on his door. When he opened it, Bud Bailey marched in, still jabbering a mile a minute.

  “Vince,” he said, “I really need your help. I’m struggling with these tests. Isn’t there something you can help me with? Techniques for studying? Something?”

  Vince stood at the doorway as Bud wandered around his room. This guy is a pest, he thought. How in the hell did he latch on to me?

  Bud babbled as he moved around the room. Too much alcohol? This guy never shuts up. Vince closed the door and retrieved a water from the fridge when Bud slowed and eventually stopped talking.

  Vince peered around the corner. Bud had a paper in his hands and looked at it intently.

  Damn. Vince realized he left the copy of the last test on his desk. And Bud Bailey found it.

  “I—I, uh, need to go,” Bud said, as he set the paper back on Vince’s desk.

  Vince clenched his teeth as he took a step toward the door, blocking Bud’s path. He reached back and turned the lock on the door and slowly turned to face Bud.

  14

  August 28, 1995

  * * *

  CURT DAVIS LOVED COMPUTERS. His wife often accused him of loving computers more than his family. That was not true, he would tell her over the years, but he wondered otherwise. He had sat at a computer for the last three hours and analyzed every detail of the Air Force computer system. Curt installed different software into the computer, then logged on and off the system. The process was long and laborious, and his eyes hurt. He stood, stretched his legs, and peered into the hallway. Empty. No wonder, everyone was out to lunch. The flying squadron was always empty this time of day. Curt walked down the hall to find a soda machine.

  This was a tough nut to crack. He thought it was a joke when they first told him about the hacking. Who would want to steal a bunch of tests from a test bank? One of the students, of course.

  Curt bought a Coke and strolled outside and stood by the door. He closed his eyes as the bright sunlight struck his face, and he rubbed them gently to compensate for the abrupt change. He pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it with one hand. Inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, he contemplated kicking the habit. The nicotine fired through his body, racing into his bloodstream to calm his nerves. Hello, old friend. I miss you and I hate you. I’m gonna die before I’m forty-five, which isn’t far off.

  Curt had been outside five minutes when Alonzo drove into the parking lot.

  “You know those things will kill you,” Alonzo said.

  “Tell me about it. Want one?”

  “No thanks. How’s it going over here?”

  “Slow. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Took about two hours to figure out how he accessed the databank. He broke through the firewall with no problem. The databank is encrypted, but not the software. It’s two years old, and they’ve just now installed it on the military computers. System is already outdated, and the Air Force thinks they have something new.” He paused. “Want to know how I did it?”

  Alonzo looked at his grinning colleague. “No, it might scare me. What’s a firewall?”

  Curt took a drag of his cigarette. “A firewall is kind of an ‘iron curtain’ around the computer system. It’s supposed to act like a barrier to stop somebody from accessing your PC.”

  “Are you going to be able to track this guy?”

  “Finding him will be the hard part. This guy covered his tracks well. It’s impossible to trace him, from what he’s done so far. I did figure out what happened with your pal over at personnel, though. That was an accident. Once our guy hacked into the base LAN, he took a wrong turn and ended up at personnel. But the hard drive here is his target. He wants these tests.”

  “Makes sense. So, what’s your prognosis on our hacker?”

  “Well, he’s very good, but not very smart. Been pulling these tests out one at a time. It’s like he pulls them out as he needs them.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “Not if he wants to get caught. If he’s smart, he’d access the system once and pull out every test. I think he’s the typical hacker. This is a game to him. Gets his kicks by beating the system. He takes them out one at a time to see if he’s been found out, or to see if the security has been beefed up.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got this guy figured out. Any ideas on who we might be searching for?”

  “Student pilot. I’ve talked to some of the instructors around here, and they tell me there aren’t many bases where he could be. Four locations: Laughlin and Sheppard in Texas, Vance in Oklahoma, and Columbus in Mississippi. Sheppard may not be a player because they have a different syllabus. I’d say a beginning student based on the tests he’s stolen. He keeps stealing them in order. The instructors here confirm the thefts correspond to where these kids are in the program. Could be someone else, an outsider, but that’s a slim, slim chance. Everything fits together too well, especially when the tests were stolen. It’s a student. I’m positive.”

  “Couldn’t it be someone giving or selling the tests to students?”

  “Yeah, that’s my second suspect. But if that were the case, they’d take all the tests out at once. I think it’s a student.”

  “I agree. So, you got anything cooked up to catch this guy? If we can’t track him down, how do we nail him?”

  Davis took a drag of his cigarette. “We wait. This guy hacked several times—he’ll hack again. I checked with the academic guys in the squadron here. There’s not another test for three weeks, which means we could wait for three minutes or three weeks. I think he’s using a new scrambler on the commercial market called SCRAMBLTEK. It’s a program that allows you to call on a modem and make the number you are calling from untraceable.”

  “How the hell did that ever get on the market?”

  “Easy. The manufacturer claimed it’s targeted for those millions of internet users who are plagued by junk mail sent to them from people. SCRAMBLETEK is a good thing, but like all good things, somebody somewhere will use it for the dark forces of evil.”

  Alonzo laughed. “Well, if it’s not traceable, how do we catch him?”

  “My dear friend, lest ye forget, he may be good, but I’m better.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Of course. Now, in layman’s terms, I will simply unscramble his scrambler.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Oh yeah . . . just takes a long time. I’ve built an alarm that will activate a program to track him. Been writing the program for the last hour, but I’ve still got more to do. I also put in a few commands to help me out in case that’s not the exact program he’s using.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is, the odds of catching this guy are pretty good.”

  “Oh, we’ll catch him all right. It’s just a matter of time.”

  THE MEE
TINGS IN THE DACHA COMPLEX had increased to twice a week during the past month. Viktor Kryuchkov nestled in his Corinthian leather chair after the latest session, his feet flat on the floor. The room lay empty except for him. The meeting had been long and draining. It was obvious something should be done. He knew what his country needed. Reaction from the international community would play a pivotal role in bringing his plan to fruition. Viktor was tired. Planning the overthrow of a government was no easy task. They must accomplish it with minimum bloodshed, in the shortest amount of time. The loud knock on the hand carved walnut doors brought him back to the here and now.

  “Enter,” he said.

  Viktor looked up as his old friend, Aleksandr Chebrikov, carried two glasses and a bottle of vodka to his desk.

  “Aleksandr, I thought you left with the others.”

  “I did. However, I began to worry about your welfare, so I came back. Strictly for medicinal purposes.”

  Viktor grinned. “I am sure. And why are you so concerned about my health?”

  Aleksandr sat and filled both glasses with the vodka. He leaned forward and handed a glass to Viktor.

  “I’ve watched you the past couple of weeks. You work yourself far too much. There is something else, though, troubling you. Now, I am here to find out what.”

  Viktor took a sip of the vodka and sat back in his chair. “These are troubling times, Aleksandr. Russia has no soul.”

  “What do you mean, comrade?”

  “This evolution of capitalism overtook the country the past decade and brought with it all the evils of the West. Mother Russia lost her soul when we lost Communist rule. Last month, two fourteen-year-old boys were arrested for murder. Just small boys who should be playing sports. My third cousin on my wife’s side? His daughter is a prostitute. A twelve-year old. Russia is disintegrating around us. We, as a country, have no universal values. There is no foundation for the young people to grow on, to build on. We have no pride; as a result, we have nothing to rally around.”

  “Where are you going with this, Viktor?”

  “Do you remember, Aleksandr, many years ago when we were young officers stationed on the Berlin Wall?”

  “All too well, old friend.”

  Viktor leaned forward. “Where do you think we went wrong with the wall?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The wall was put up for a reason. It was a show of resolve on our behalf. It also kept Western spies from gaining access to our country. But the wall was more of a symbol than an effective means of crowd control.”

  “I agree, but I fail to see where you are going.”

  “When we first put up the wall, we failed to consider the international reaction, particularly the United States. They viewed it as a threat, and they responded accordingly. A few years back, the fool Zhirinovsky made all his boasting and loud comments that did nothing but attract attention from the international communities.”

  “He did generate much enthusiasm from the people.”

  “He also generated much hatred among the people. Hatred for each other; hatred for the violence of the past. That was his downfall. In a modern society, no leader will ever sustain his power if he is a hate-monger. Zhirinovsky was a strong advocate of a return to the Communist Party rule, but his methods brought too much interference from outside sources. He stirred the emotions of that, how do they say, hippie president in the United States,” he said with a chuckle. It was hard to believe America survived as a country the way it picked its leaders. There always seemed to be some scandal surrounding them. Actors, drug-using war protesters . . . it was amazing. Truly the luckiest country in the history of the world.

  “If we are to initiate the new revolution, we must do so slowly, to show the people the ways of the Communist Party will work for their benefit. We must develop a solid foundation that represents a significant amount of the people without attracting too much attention to ourselves. If we can accomplish this, we will be able to avoid the involvement of outside parties.”

  “But Viktor, how can you expect such actions to go unnoticed by the United States? Surely, they will not miss such events taking place?”

  “This is true. They would act immediately. Hostilities could escalate on a global scale.” Viktor leaned back in his chair, glaring at the ceiling, his hands clasped in his lap. “Perhaps they need something else to focus on.”

  15

  August 28, 1995

  * * *

  LENNY BANKS SHIFTED IN HIS SEAT. It had been a long day, but fortunately he was not on the flying schedule. He sat at his desk most of the day, leafed through his flight publications, and pretended to study.

  The biggest news of the day was Bud Bailey’s disappearance. AWOL was the official term, absent without leave. The last time anyone saw him was Saturday night.

  Lenny tried to find Vince on Sunday, but Vince was gone all day and well into the evening. They still hadn’t discussed the incident Saturday night. Vince saved his life. Not that it was worth saving, but he wanted to thank him. The walls started to close in, and he had to reverse that process fast. He also needed to think of a way to find another four-thousand dollars.

  “Lenny, you okay?”

  He recognized Jason’s voice and nodded. “Just a little sore. No, a lot sore.”

  “Who were those guys Saturday night?”

  Lenny glance around, ensuring no one was too close. In a soft voice, just louder than a whisper, he explained his situation with Big Joe McCain. Jason had a blank look on his face.

  “Gees, Lenny. How in the hell are you gonna fix this?”

  Lenny shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” He paused. “Hey, how’s things going with you and Kathy?”

  Jason acknowledged the deflection and followed along. “Good, I guess. She’s kind of aggressive.”

  “All right, my man.”

  “No, not that way. Well, maybe. It’s like . . . like she needs to have somebody there. She always wants to spend time together.”

  “And you’re saying that’s bad?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean, now it is. I’m getting over the divorce, and I need to study.”

  “I can understand that. She is one hell of a catch, though.”

  “True, but I thought the same thing about my ex-wife.”

  “Any word on Bud?” Lenny said.

  Jason shook his head. “Nothing yet. He—”

  “Hey, Banks,” someone yelled from across the room.

  Lenny glanced up to see the scheduler. Captain Dave Smith, who eyed him from behind the scheduling desk. Smith, a disgruntled pilot who received an assignment out of UPT as an instructor pilot. FAIP’s (fāpes), they were called—First Assignment Instructor Pilots.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get over here.”

  “Excuse me,” Lenny said to Jason, “reality calls out to me once more.” Lenny scrambled to the scheduler.

  “Did you finish your pre-requisite for the first instrument block yet?” Smith said.

  Lenny thought for a moment. He had done everything required to start the instrument part of training, but he had not filled out the bubble sheet that would tell the computer he had finished it.

  “No, sir, not yet.” He lied.

  “What do you have left to do?”

  “I’ve done the readings. Still got to go to view the tapes.”

  Captain Smith turned to face the scheduling board. His eyes surveyed the empty slots and the names that could fill those holes. Of those names, Lenny’s was the only one close to being opted for it. Lenny knew he’d have to send someone to sit in the simulator and use it for an hour. If it went unused, that would be Captain Smith’s ass. The flight simulators were owned by the Air Force, but the people who controlled and operated them were civilians under contract. They could care less if someone used it—they were paid either way.

  “Okay Banks, go to the learning center and finish your prerequisites.” Captain Smith scanned the fli
ght room. “Hey Lieutenant Williams. Front and center!”

  Lieutenant Samantha Williams walked over to the scheduling board. “Congratulations, you’re going to sit in the sim for an hour and go over checklist procedures.”

  Lenny patted her on the back as he headed for the door. “Bye, Samantha.” Once outside the flight room, he picked up his pace. He was fortunate to dodge that bullet. The last thing he needed today was to start a new block of training. He was tired, and his ribs still hurt. It had been a long day, but he realized it was almost complete. Occasionally, his thoughts wandered to the missing Bud Bailey.

  Lenny stayed in the learning center for about fifteen minutes. The tapes he was supposed to watch lasted about an hour and a half, but he refused to sit through them again. He returned to his quarters and managed to fall asleep after a mere five minutes. He woke up to the six o’clock evening news on the television. The republican nominee blasted NAFTA and the economy in Russia in a downward spiral.

  Lenny climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom to wash the sleep out of his eyes. The cool water invigorated him. He had slept over two hours and his stomach growled. He skipped lunch earlier and now his body told him to make up for it.

  In the kitchen, Lenny popped a frozen pizza into the microwave. The timer went off as someone knocked at the door. Lenny pulled the dinner out of the microwave and set it on the counter. The hotplate burned his hands as steam rose to the ceiling. He shook his hands to cool them as he walked to the door.

  “Hello, old friend. Do you feel like talking now?” Vince said.

  “Yeah, come on in. I tried to call you yesterday. You weren’t home.”

  Vince plopped himself on the couch and stretched his legs. His flight suit, covered with perspiration salt stains, was unzipped to his navel; the white T-shirt underneath soaked with sweat. Vince appeared to be in a good mood.

  “I was away on business.”