Authors: Joseph Garber
It was dark, warm, cozy, and safe. Nearby, the equipment made a soothing humming sound. The air was a little stale, but not bad. Dave lay on his side, curled comfortably. His stomach was full and he felt like taking a nap. He liked it here.
Always wanted to go crawl back into the womb, didn’t you, pal?
The perfect hiding place. Dave was delighted to find it, and a little surprised. Senterex had long since moved its Management Information Systems department out to suburban New Jersey. He had thought that just about every other company in New York, including the Wall Street brokerages, had done the same. Manhattan office space was too expensive to waste on computer hardware. Besides, programmers are a delicate sort of breed, and more productive when removed from the pressures of city life.
However, at least one New York company hadn’t relocated its computers yet. The outfit was a subsidiary of American Interdyne Worldwide. American Interdyne, perpetrator of one of the 1980s’ last great kamikaze junk bond raids, was operating under the protection of the bankruptcy courts and an especially senile federal judge. Maybe that was why the company still had its computers located on the twelfth floor of a very expensive Park Avenue office tower.
What does space in this joint rent for, anyway? Forty bucks a square foot, plus or minus
.
American Interdyne’s computer room was in the grand old style—weighty with heavy-duty mainframe computers, whirring peripherals, and blinking consoles. Other companies were dismantling their enormous centralized systems empires, replacing banks of balky $15 million IBM behemoths with sleek workstations and high speed client/server networks. American Interdyne had not. Its systems department sprawled across an entire floor, a quarter of which was given over to the sort of ponderous
mainframes that most executives, Dave among them, thought of as dinosaurs.
He was happy to see them now, though. The nicest thing about the monsters, he thought, was their finicky complexity The pampered giants demanded endless care and feeding. Legions of high paid technicians to coddle them. Custom power systems. Heavy-duty air conditioning. Endless rows of peripherals. Special monitoring and control equipment.
And wire.
Lots of wire. More wire than you can imagine. Large mainframe installations consume oodles of cabling. And you don’t simply hook these suckers up once and then forget about them. No way. You always have to fiddle with the cabling, reconnecting ports, plugs, and interfaces. Oh, the DASD’s connected to the mainframe, and the mainframes connected to the frontend, and the frontend’s connected to the multiplexer, now hear de word of de lawd!
Which meant raised flooring. American Interdyne’s computer room, like that of every other big mainframe user, was built on a raised floor. The wires and the cables snaked beneath. The floor was paneled so that, as was required every so often, the computer staff could open it up and reconfigure the wiring.
Dark, warm, and cozy. It really was quite peaceful under the floor.
Dave needed the peace. Twice after leaving the Prime Minister’s Club he had almost bumped into members of the NYPD Bomb Squad. If they had seen him … tattered, filthy, stinking of vomit, his arms full of stolen food and supplies, and with a brace of exceptionally illicit pistols stuck in his belt …
Would’ve had a little trouble talking your way out of that one, pal. Especially explaining the shootin’ irons
.
The pistols were automatics. One belonged to Carlucci, and one to Ransome’s backup man. They were the same make and model, although what that make and model was, Dave could not say. Neither bore a manufacturer’s stamp nor a serial number. Both had lightweight
polymer fiber frames, factory silencers, laser sights, and staggered clips holding twenty-one rounds of ammunition.
Those rounds were cause for reflection—TUGs, they were called, short for
Torpedo Universal Geschoss
. Dave had never known that pistol versions were manufactured. The bullets were hunting ammo, designed to penetrate deep, mushroom inside the body, rip a target’s heart out. A man hit in the torso with one of those rounds would die where he stood; even a grazing wound would render him immobile.
Just above their safety levers, the pistols had slightly recessed slide bars. Dave guessed that pushing these slides forward converted the pistols to fully automatic operation, turning the pistols into handheld machine guns.
Room brooms. Not quite your old Ingram MAC with the WerBell Sionics suppressor, but wicked enough. Thirty-eight auto, 130 grains for a muzzle velocity just a skosh below the sound barrier. Optimal silencing that way. Punches your target up with a bit more than three-hundred foot pounds of energy. Ouch
.
Also ouch if the authorities ever caught a civilian carrying one. Dave suspected that even
thinking
about such a gun was a violation of the Sullivan Law.
Which raises a few questions about where they come from—and the people who carry them
.
Safe beneath the floor, his head pillowed on a nest of comfortable, rubber-clad 22 AWG wire, Dave tried to doze. His argumentative guardian angel wouldn’t let him. The issue was Helen, of course. Why had she materialized at the side of Ransome’s men? How had they persuaded her to turn on her own husband?
Dave doubted that she’d betrayed him intentionally. Ransome’s people probably had told her some godawful lie
(or worse
, cautioned his inner voice,
some godawful truth)
to trick her into identifying him.
What lie? he asked himself.
What truth?
the angel countered.
He could find answers to neither question. Nor could he—not quite yet—allow himself to explore the alternative explanation to Helen’s behavior.
Maybe she is on their side. Maybe she wants you dead the same as everybody else
.
Nonsense. He’d spent five years working as hard as he could to turn the marriage into a success.
How hard has she worked?
Shut up! I don’t need this!
You know what they say about guys who argue with themselves, and then lose.…
Dave growled and rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable posture. As he turned, the radio that he’d taken, together with sixty-seven dollars, from the corpes of Ransome’s backup man, slipped away. He retrieved it and placed it close to his ear. The volume was low. Sooner or later American Interdyne’s technical staff would be coming back to the computer room. Dave didn’t want them wondering where that odd noise—
sounds like a walkie-talkie to me, Frank
—was coming from.
A conversation was in progress: “… like someone had dropped a ketchup sandwich and smeared it all over the floor. Half of New York City must’ve stepped on the poor bastard’s face.”
Another voice answered. “Aww, man, that’s nasty. That’s just a nasty way to go. Somebody’s gotta call Don … Robin and get us some goddamned orders around here.”
“Negative. Robin’s on personal radio silence. We don’t speak to him until he speaks to us.”
“Aww, man. The cops are letting people back into the building. I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do, but I think we should get our hairy asses out of here.”
“Not without orders.”
“Screw the orders, man. And another thing, screw only Robin and Partridge knowing what this happy horseshit is about. I mean, man, so we’re supposed to ice this guy, right? No big deal, they say. Just an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, right? Yeah, no big deal. Well, man, if it’s no big deal, then why the hell won’t they tell us what
it’s all about? Christ, it ain’t like we don’t all have clearances or something. But, uh-uh, no questions, Robin says. No answers, Robin says. Well, bullshit is what I says. You know what I think? I think this guy, the subject, has got something on somebody. I mean he knows some bad shit about one of the big boys. And whoever that big boy is …”
“Belay that!” Dave knew the voice. It belonged to Partridge.
“No, man, listen …”
“At ease, Warbler. And don’t call me ‘man.’ ”
Hmm. Sounds like Partridge is as much of a hard case as Ransome
.
Warbler’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Well, excuse me.
Sir.”
“Warbler, if you’ve got a problem with the chain of command, I am the man to resolve it for you. And if any of you men have a problem with your duty, I’ll be pleased to discuss it with you one on one. Otherwise, you know what your job is, and that’s all you need to know. Am I understood, gentlemen?”
Second-in-command. Partridge is Ransome’s second-in-command
.
Someone mumbled, “Yessir.”
“I didn’t quite hear that, soldier.”
“Sorry, sir. I said yes, sir.”
“Clear the channel.” It was Ransome’s voice, cool enough, but not quite as cool as it had been. “This is Robin. Our friend has got another radio.”
“Son of a …”
“I said clear the channel. In case you have forgotten, that translates as zip your lip.”
Sounds a mite touchy, doesn’t he
.
“Point number one: Momentarily, I will be issuing a code change. On my mark we will go to Xylophone Delta Niner. Point number two: I want everyone back to their assigned stations immediately. Point number three: I require a medical kit for personal use. Point number four: We need a cleanup team on the second floor, in the restaurant. A body bag will be required.”
“You tagged him, Robin?”
“Negative. The bag is for Oriole.”
“Aww, man …”
“Zip it!” Dave heard a snap. Ransome inhaled deeply and blew out. He’d just lit a cigarette.
Well, we all have our little weaknesses
.
“Mr. Elliot, I trust you are listening to this. I am immediately declaring a unilateral cease-fire.”
To quote Mark Twain, I suspect our friend is somewhat economical with the truth
.
“I repeat, it’s truce time, Mr. Elliot. We all will return to our posts and take a little breather. As I promised, I will communicate the current status to my superiors and urge them to authorize a negotiated settlement. In the interim, my people will stay on watch where they are. You, I presume, will do much the same. Given the coverage I have on the exits, that is your sole rational course of action.”
Ransome stopped, waiting for an answer. “A confirmation would be useful, Mr. Elliot.”
Dave pushed the send button on his radio and whispered, “I copy, Robin.”
“Thank you. I have one more thing for you. We will direct the management of this restaurant to take an inventory of their supplies. If some quantity of pepper is missing, I will revise my earlier orders accordingly.”
Three bags of pepper rested near Dave’s feet. He had always been skeptical when waiters politely asked, “Some fresh ground pepper, sir?” New York being the sort of place it is, he didn’t really believe that those oversized wooden pepper mills really had fresh peppercorns in them. They were, he conjectured, merely elaborate reservoirs designed to make the customers believe they were getting what they paid for. In the kitchen of the Prime Minister’s Club Dave had found a row of open quote pepper mills unquote, a funnel, and three bags of pre-ground pepper. Welcome to New York.
“Which means, Mr. Elliot, that you won’t have to waste your time spreading it around for the dogs.”
Too bad. If you use enough pepper, the dogs go berserk and turn on their masters
.
“All right, men, reset to Xylophone Delta Niner. Do it now.”
Dave expected the radio to go silent as Ransome and his men activated a code change. But, after a moment, Ransome’s voice continued. “I have one other thing to say, Mr. Elliot. Now that the troops are off the air, I can say it in confidence. You’re a former officer. You know what a commander can and cannot say in front of his men.”
“I copy, Robin.”
Ransome inhaled, then exhaled a long slow hiss. Dave was willing to bet he’d taken an extra heavy drag off his cigarette. “Okay. Here goes. I lost it down here, Mr. Elliot, and therefore owe you an apology. I don’t lose my cool easily. But, when I saw the blood between my legs, I thought you’d gotten my equipment. That’s why I behaved as I did. Now let me confess that I’m sorry. I know I was out of line, and I know you did what was only right. You were one of Colonel Kreuter’s people. He taught you the rules, the same as he taught me. No one-man bands and no solo pilots. Even the Lone Ranger has got a faithful Indian companion. You knew that. You knew I’d have a backup man with me. And you handled it just the way you were supposed to. I respect that. I hope you’ll forgive my behavior and my remarks. I mean that sincerely. You have my word the episode won’t be repeated.”
Not bad. Right out of the psych-warfare books. Credible, sincere, level-headed—you know, for an absolute psycho, Ransome almost sounds like a nice guy
.
“Mr. Elliot? Are you reading this, Mr. Elliot?”
“I copy, Robin.”
“Over and out.” The radio went dead. Ransome had changed codes.
Dave pushed his head back into the wire, making himself comfortable. He burped. The food he’d taken from the Prime Minister’s Club had tasted as good as any meal he’d ever eaten. But that was not surprising.
After all, the first law of soldiery is: stolen food tastes best.
“Always take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don’t want him yourself you can easy find someone that does, and a good deed ain’t ever forgot.” Huck Finn said that
.
And the second law of soldiery is this: once the shooting has stopped it’s time to take a nap.
Shortly, David Elliot was asleep.
The instructor’s tweed jacket gives him an appropriately professorial appearance. He is of average stature, but seems taller. The way he holds his head, nose lifted slightly, adds to the illusion of height. His hair is a little on the long side, but well-trimmed and fashionable for the late sixties. Nonetheless, it seems slightly out of place in a room full of military-issue brushcuts.
He speaks with a pronounced New England accent—not the lace curtain Irish burr of the Kennedys, but something more aristocratic. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Lieutenant Elliot and his fellow students—there are only a dozen of them—have spent the morning touring the facilities. They are a big improvement over Fort Bragg. “My name is Robert. You can call me Rob if you so desire. I, like everyone whom you will meet here, prefer to be addressed by my first name. As for our family names, well, I fear we all have developed a slight amnesia.”