Digital Fortress

Midge pulled apart the blinds. She stared out at the hills. Sighing ruefully, she let her eyes fall toward the spot where Crypto stood. Midge had always felt comforted by the sight of the Crypto dome-a glowing beacon regardless of the hour. But tonight, as she gazed out, there was no comfort. Instead she found herself staring into a void. As she pressed her face to the glass, she was gripped by a wild, girlish panic. Below her there was nothing but blackness. Crypto had disappeared!

Chapter 57

The Crypto bathrooms had no windows, and the darkness surrounding Susan Fletcher was absolute. She stood dead still for a moment trying to get her bearings, acutely aware of the growing sense of panic gripping her body. The horrible cry from the ventilation shaft seemed to hang all around her. Despite her effort to fight off a rising sense of dread, fear swept across her flesh and took control.

In a flurry of involuntary motion, Susan found herself groping wildly across stall doors and sinks. Disoriented, she spun through the blackness with her hands out in front of her and tried to picture the room. She knocked over a garbage can and found herself against a tiled wall. Following the wall with her hand, she scrambled toward the exit and fumbled for the door handle. She pulled it open and stumbled out onto the Crypto floor.

There she froze for a second time.

The Crypto floor looked nothing like it had just moments ago. TRANSLTR was a gray silhouette against the faint twilight coming in through the dome. All of the overhead lighting was dead. Not even the electronic keypads on the doors were glowing.

As Susan’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, she saw that the only light in Crypto was coming through the open trapdoor-a faint red glow from the utility lighting below. She moved toward it. There was the faint smell of ozone in the air.

When she made it to the trapdoor, she peered into the hole. The freon vents were still belching swirling mist through the redness, and from the higher-pitched drone of the generators, Susan knew Crypto was running on backup power. Through the mist she could make out Strathmore standing on the platform below. He was leaning over the railing and staring into the depths of TRANSLTR’s rumbling shaft.

"Commander!"

There was no response.

Susan eased onto the ladder. The hot air from below rushed in under her skirt. The rungs were slippery with condensation. She set herself down on the grated landing.

"Commander?"

Strathmore did not turn. He continued staring down with a blank look of shock, as if in a trance. Susan followed his gaze over the banister. For a moment she could see nothing except wisps of steam. Then suddenly she saw it. A figure. Six stories below. It appeared briefly in the billows of steam. There it was again. A tangled mass of twisted limbs. Lying ninety feet below them, Phil Chartrukian was sprawled across the sharp iron fins of the main generator. His body was darkened and burned. His fall had shorted out Crypto’s main power supply.

But the most chilling image of all was not of Chartrukian but of someone else, another body, halfway down the long staircase, crouched, hiding in the shadows. The muscular frame was unmistakable. It was Greg Hale.

Chapter 58

The punk screamed at Becker, "Megan belongs to my friend Eduardo! You stay away from her!"

"Where is she?" Becker’s heart was racing out of control.

"Fuck you!"

"It’s an emergency!" Becker snapped. He grabbed the kid’s sleeve. "She’s got a ring that belongs tome. I’ll pay her for it! A lot!"

Two-Tone stopped dead and burst into hysterics. "You mean that ugly, gold piece of shit is yours?"

Becker’s eyes widened. "You’ve seen it?"

Two-Tone nodded coyly.

"Where is it?" Becker demanded.

"No clue." Two-Tone chuckled. "Megan was up here trying to hock it."

"She was trying to sell it?"

"Don’t worry, man, she didn’t have any luck. You’ve got shitty taste in jewelry."

"Are you sure nobody bought it?"

"Are you shitting me? For four hundred bucks? I told her I’d give her fifty, but she wanted more. She was trying to buy a plane ticket-standby."

Becker felt the blood drain from his face. "Whereto?"

"Fuckin’ Connecticut," Two-tone snapped. "Eddie’s bummin’."

"Connecticut?"

"Shit, yeah. Going back to Mommy and Daddy’s mansion in the burbs. Hated her Spanish homestay family. Three Spic brothers always hitting on her. No fucking hot water."

Becker felt a knot rise in his throat. "When is she leaving?"

Two-Tone looked up. "When?" He laughed. "She’s long gone by now. Went to the airport hours ago. Best spot to hock the ring-rich tourists and shit. Once she got the cash, she was flying out."

A dull nausea swept through Becker’s gut. This is some kind of sick joke, isn’t it? He stood a long moment. "What’s her last name?"

Two-Tone pondered the question and shrugged.

"What flight was she taking?"

"She said something about the Roach Coach."

"Roach Coach?"

"Yeah. Weekend red-eye-Seville, Madrid, La Guardia. That’s what they call it. College kids take it ’cause it’s cheap. Guess they sit in back and smoke roaches."

Great. Becker groaned, running a hand through his hair. "What time did it leave?"

"Two a.m. sharp, every Saturday night. She’s somewhere over the Atlantic by now."

Becker checked his watch. It read 1:45 p.m. He turned to Two-Tone, confused. "You said it’s a two a.m. flight?"

The punk nodded, laughing. "Looks like you’re fucked, ol’ man."

Becker pointed angrily to his watch. "But it’s only quarter to two!"

Two-Tone eyed the watch, apparently puzzled. "Well, I’ll be damned." he laughed. "I’m usually not this buzzed till four a.m.!"

"What’s the fastest way to the airport?" Becker snapped.

"Taxi stand out front."

Becker grabbed a 1,000-peseta note from his pocket and stuff edit in Two-Tone’s hand.

"Hey, man, thanks!" the punk called after him. "If you see Megan, tell her I said hi!" But Becker was already gone.

Two-Tone sighed and staggered back toward the dance floor. He was too drunk to notice the man in wire-rim glasses following him.

Outside, Becker scanned the parking lot for a taxi. There was none. He ran over to a stocky bouncer. "Taxi!"

The bouncer shook his head. "Demasiado temprano. Too early."

Too early? Becker swore. It’s two o’clock in the morning!

"Pidame uno! Call me one!"

The man pulled out a walkie-talkie. He said a few words and then signed off. "Veinte minutos," he offered.

"Twenty minutes?!" Becker demanded. "Y elautobus?"

The bouncer shrugged. "Forty-five minutos."

Becker threw up his hands. Perfect!

The sound of a small engine turned Becker’s head. It sounded like a chainsaw. A big kid and his chain-clad date pulled into the parking lot on an old Vespa 250 motorcycle. The girl’s skirt had blown high on her thighs. She didn’t seem to notice. Becker dashed over. I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought. I hate motorcycles. He yelled to the driver. "I’ll pay you ten thousand pesetas to take me to the airport!"

The kid ignored him and killed the engine.

"Twenty thousand!" Becker blurted. "I need to get to the airport!"

The kid looked up. "Scusi?" He was Italian.

"Aeroporto! Per favore. Sulla Vespa! Venti mille pesete!"

The Italian eyed his crummy, little bike and laughed. "Venti mille pesete? La Vespa?"