DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter 11

Martin Spencer arrived in Bishop, California shortly before 8PM. Normally one could make the drive from Los Angeles in a fraction of the time it had taken him, but he had purposefully made a circuitous and slow go of it.

Just before reaching Highway 395 earlier in the day, he stopped at a Costco and traded a crisp $100 bill for two cases of bottled water and two boxes of granola bars. That gave him not only some basic sustenance, but also smaller bills that wouldn't attract as much attention at gas stations and restaurants. Even when avoiding credit card transactions to avoid detection, one had to be careful with what cash to flash.

Along Highway 395 he took several turnoffs onto small towns or side roads, some of them dirt paths. He stopped and circled often to ensure no one was following. As towns became less frequent and high desert terrain more expansive, he would turn off onto dirt roads, drive a ways, stop, get out of the car and listen. He would listen for a few minutes and scan the sky to convince himself that he had no aerial surveillance.

All this made his drive both long and mentally exhausting. Martin loved nothing more than hitting the open road and getting lost in his thoughts. He could enjoy none of that now.

He arrived in Bishop hungry, tired, and with aches on his shoulders and neck he couldn't shake. The brief conversation with Odehl, carried out at his last off-road stop before Bishop, had left him with a headache.

He first stopped to refuel his Toyota FJ and the two spare gasoline cans that hung from the back of the vehicle. After paying with $20 bills, he headed for a local diner to get a real meal.

Martin found the diner nearly empty. The few souls there seemed to notice him a bit more that he cared for, but he told himself that his unkept look, dingy cap and pony tail, now well rounded by a couple of days of facial stubble were the main culprit. He reminded himself he'd found no evidence of an APB on him, and even if one was out, the blond  ponytail guy that had just walked into the diner looked nothing like clean-cut, brown-haired, always in a tie Martin Spencer.

His earthy meatloaf and mash potatoes dinner went uneventfully, though he wondered how his digestive system, used to a much lighter diet, would react in a couple of hours. For good measure, he decided to add evidence that this meal was nothing Martin Spencer would eat by capping it with peach pie a la mode.

Somewhere between his third and fourth bite, he noticed the waitress and three patrons gathering by the counter around a small flat panel television set.

“Would you look at that,” the waitress was saying.

“They've turned L.A. into a light show.”

Martin went over to the counter to take a look. The bottom of the screen read, “L.A. FLICKERING ON & OFF”

Though he toyed with the idea of renting a motel room, and tempting as it was to watch TV news about the L.A. power outages, Martin stuck with his original plan. He drove 40 minutes north of Bishop, found a turnoff and slowly drove off-road for another 20 minutes into an empty patch of desert.

By then his stomach was churning violently. He wanted to blame the rich meal he'd just eaten, but he knew that had little to with it.

Martin brought out his satellite phone, and mounted it and one of the laptops on the Toyota's front hood. When everything was up and running, he ran two scans of the Los Angeles area power grid. Each returned the familiar bit pattern, the one Julian had inserted as “filler dead code” into his payloads as a joke only he found funny: a string of 32 32-bit words, each spelling “DEAD BEEF” in hexadecimal code, except for the 32nd and last word in the sequence which spelled “1D0A BABE.” Martin knew this was no coincidence, but checked the binary bit stream, straining, his nearly inbred ability to convert ones and zeroes to hexadecimal returning to him as if he were climbing back on a bicycle for the first time in ten years.

> 1101 1110 1010 1101 1011 1110 1110 1111 = DEAD BEEF

> 0001 1101 0000 1010 1011 1010 1011 1110 = 1D0A BABE

Martin felt blood drain from his face. Turning away from the Toyota and bending over, he wretched the entirety of his meal. Lit by the glow of the laptop's screen, he could see the steam of his vomit rising up from the cold desert floor.

Martin drank water, spitting some out to dilute and wash out the bile. After turning off and repacking all equipment, he detached the ultralight sleeping bag from the camping backpack and unrolled it onto the front passenger seat.

He got in, leaned back the seat as far as it would go and tried his best to fall asleep.

After a few minutes, he turned on the XM radio, already tuned to the CNN station he'd been monitoring all day. An expert panel was discussing the possible reasons for the “cycling power outages.” Was it a terrorist attack? Was this a repeat of the numerous outages that took place during the 2000 to 2001 California energy crisis? Were weaknesses in the California power grid causing problems again? Did software intended to load-balance electricity demand during peak periods misbehave unexpectedly?

“All of the above,” Martin whispered into the dark, cold air.

He listened to the speculative banter for a few minutes and turned off the radio. Only then did Martin notice he was shivering.

Julian slept little that night, and he woke up with a start to the beeping of his watch alarm. It was 4:30AM.

He climbed part way out of the cabin and froze, listening. After a minute or so he convinced himself that there was no propeller sound. Then he tried to build on that to argue with himself that some kid flying a remote control toy had scared the crap out of him last night. That logic didn't totally satisfy.

He had contemplated running off last night, as soon as that thing disappeared. But that's what they would expect him to do. So he did the unexpected thing. He stayed put. Besides, he didn't like sailing in the dark.

What about now? Should he sail now, or should he wait until sunrise, another hour or so? He'd go at sunrise, he decided.

Julian paused to listen again. No propeller sound. No mechanical bee.

Julian dropped back into the cabin and considered what to do until sunrise. He was wired, so sleep would be no use.

He didn't want to turn on his satellite phone or his computer. To pass the time, he plugged headphones into his XM radio, to keep things quiet, and tuned to CNN.

They were talking about the previous night's power outages in L.A., which appeared to be a glitch. “A curious glitch,” the anchorman noted, “given the circular pattern.”

Julian listened to the description of the outages, using his index finger to trace a circle on the cabin's bed.

When it came to him, he grinned. “A message.” Then he stopped to consider who would have issued the message.

It was time to sail, he decided as he scampered out of the cabin. The only question was in which direction.

That thing came out of the north so they'd expect him to go south. West it was, then, maybe turning northwest toward Santa Rosa or even San Miguel Island. It was the random thing to do.

Chapter 12

Beloski woke up to Ochoa saying, “We're here, Captain.”

Beloski straightened up. His stiff body seemed to tell him it had been just a few minutes since the Gulfstream took off from Dulles International Airport. The fact that it was dark outside didn't help dissuade this faulty impression.

“Time flies when you fly asleep,” Ochoa said through his smile.

Beloski rubbed his eyes, recalling how shortly before takeoff, he'd confessed that he had a terrible time sleeping in planes. That somehow had led to Beloski sharing how he'd served in the Air Force before reductions drove him out with the rank of Captain. In turn, Ochoa let him know he'd served as a medic in the Navy, making it into a Seals team before a concussion suffered in training cut short his Navy Seals career. Both had been actively recruited by the ITAA, “and here we are,” Beloski had said, wrapping up the let-me-know-what-you've-done session.

“Transportation is waiting,” Ochoa said, “And we have a change of clothes for you, plus hot showers where we're going.”

Transportation consisted of an olive green Land Rover escorted by two military Humvees.

“I didn't realize Land Rovers were standard issue for Uncle Sam,” Beloski said as they drove out of the airport.

“They're not,” Ochoa replied. “But sometimes our friends will loan them when their interests are in play.”

Beloski knew not to push the line of questioning lest the conversation stumble into classified territory. All he had to know was that Spencer's disappearance and the power outages in Los Angeles mattered to a larger international audience. That should surprise him least of all, he told himself.

They arrived at InfoStream in Milpitas, California shortly after 5:30 AM. Company security personnel were awaiting their arrivals. They ushered the team in, showed them to the bathroom and shower rooms, and once everyone had showered and dressed, they received temporary no-escort badges for access to the vault.

Once inside the vault, a guard ushered Ochoa and Beloski to a small conference room where they could conduct business.

“Those other folks that came with us,” Ochoa said. “They're here to work on the investigation?”

“Yeah,” Beloski said. “They're here to oversee the technical investigation and analysis the contractor team is performing. We can do a lot from D.C., but the brain trust is here.”

“Even without Martin?”

Beloski shrugged. “Time will tell.”

Ochoa sat down, and Beloski did likewise across the table.

“I bet you're dying to be in there with them,” Ochoa said.

“Yeah, but I don't think that's why I'm here.”

“Listen, Stan. The technology side of this thing is very interesting, but I'm not here for that. I'm here to find and recover my asset. If I touch the techno stuff, it's with the goal of getting my man. You get my point?”

“Sure,” Beloski said. “And I'm here to help you with the technology, if you need to touch it. And with Martin and Julian since I know them personally.”

“Yeah, especially with that second part.” Ochoa said. “Which brings me to what we're trying to accomplish today.”

“All ears.”

“How well would you say you know Mrs. Spencer?”

Beloski felt himself tense up. “Cynthia?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we do go back. When she was more active in InfoStream, she and I would interface on business matters. We would socialize at company parties.”

“OK,” Ochoa said. “And your interface with her, did it involve anything beyond the business or social acquaintance aspect?”

“I suspect you already think you know the answer to that question. Just lay it on the table.”

“Look, this is not about you. I'm not here to get you.” Ochoa leaned in. “I just want us to be on the same page, make sure we trust each other so we can work together effectively.”

Beloski considered his options then said, “She and I had a brief affair. We both agreed it was a mistake and broke it off.”

“On good terms?”

“We're still friends. Just friends.”

“You never reported this,” Ochoa noted.

Beloski didn't reply. He knew he should have reported the affair as part of his bi-yearly security self-assessment. He never had been able to bring himself to put it on paper. Now he felt like a bigger fool. Everyone in security back at the ITAA and probably here at InfoStream had known all along.

“I'm guessing Cynthia reported it for both of us,” Beloski said, wondering how that would be the case since Cynthia had left InfoStream by the time the affair occurred.

“That's not important. But you reported it to me just now, so we're cool.”

“Why does any of this matter now?” Beloski asked.

Ochoa leaned back in his chair and checked his watch. “Because in about one hour, Mrs. Spencer will be joining us for an interview. You will be here, and I need your help in securing her cooperation.”

“Hasn't she told us everything?” Beloski asked. “What kind of cooperation do you have in mind?”

Ochoa crossed his arms. “That's what you and I need to talk about.”