Breakpoint (20 page)

“Interesting choice of cuisine. Hi, call me Soxster.”

“It's not the best place to dine in Vegas, but if we stayed at the Mandalay, I'd get hounded by the people at Infocon Alpha,” Gaudium said. “Besides, I want you to take the ride here, if you haven't already. You get chased by the Borg.”

That figures, Susan thought. The Borg was a
Star Trek
creation: creatures that used to be human but had machine implants and were now part of a greater computer consciousness called The Collective. Gaudium was riding his hobbyhorse again.

“Do they catch any tourists?” Soxster asked. Susan scowled at him.

“It's not fiction anymore,” Gaudium insisted to Soxster. “Did you hear my speech? Combine the Human Brain Reverse-Engineering Project with this Living Software monster, and then tell me how that's different.”

Soxster looked at Susan. “May I?”

“Have at it,” Susan said, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back in the chair to watch.

“Look, Mr. Gaudium, I have enormous respect for what you did at Jupiter Systems, but I think you're really overreacting. We've had human-machine interface for a while now. Cochlear implants that connect to the auditory nerve that connects to the brain—those are twenty years old. Artificial-vision devices connected to the optical nerve have been around for five years. Brain stimulating electrical systems for depression and other diseases for a decade or more.”

“But they weren't connected to the internet,” Gaudium countered. “They weren't memory boards to increase retention or processing, like with the nanotech they are fooling around with now…”

Soxster shook his head, disagreeing. “The human brain's access to memory and knowledge made a quantum leap when we got the internet and then Google's search engine. What difference does it make if I have to use my hands and fingers to access that ‘collective' or if I just have to will the access with my brain? People who can't move their arms were able to move a mouse around on a computer in 2004. If I wear a visor that lets me see the internet projected holographically in front of me, that's fine, but if I see it in my mind's eye, that's not?” Soxster was on a roll. “And as far as Living Software being a monster, would you rather have the wild cybercrime and hacker penetrations we have now? Punctuated periodically by cyber disasters like in 2009? Living Software is nothing but a program that knows how to spot errors in computer language and then rewrite the language to fix them. And like Linux and the Open Source Movement, which you used to support, Living Software kernels communicate with each other about what they have seen and done so that they don't have to reinvent the wheel every time. It's cool shit. Awesome. Something like the young Will Gaudium would have come up with.”

“I can refute everything you just said, but say you're right—which you're not, by the way.” Gaudium turned to look at Susan. “There is still the problem of nano and—let me finish, I listened to you—of genetic engineering. It's one thing to write out the defects in human biological code, but another to add new capabilities and new chromosomes! How the hell does anyone know what they will do?”

“Okay,” Soxster said, “nanotech has to be regulated so we don't all inhale tiny computers into our lungs every time we take a breath, I agree. But I'm no expert on DNA and genetics—are you saying that human evolution is over?” Soxster pointed his finger at Gaudium. “Please don't tell me that you don't believe in evolution, like your pal, Senator Bloviater. If he gets elected president, this country will become a theocracy, and then we can all act out Heinlein's
Revolt in 2300.”

“Of course, I believe in evolution, and no, I don't think it's over,” Gaudium agreed. “I'm a scientist. Senator George is just the only person willing to make the regulation of scientific and engineering advances a big issue, to promise that he will stop this unthinking leap into a posthuman future.”

“He can slow it, but he can't stop it—no one can,” Soxster insisted. “Come on, you know that. Science and technology advance, that's what they do. Your pinot noir grapes are highly cultivated hybrid clones that wouldn't occur in nature. How do you know that humans altering their genetics isn't the next step in evolution—a life-form becoming sentient and deciding how to adapt itself? That's what Teilhard de Chardin thought: Technology leads to the ultimate evolution. And
he
was a Jesuit. Not your Breakpoint, but his Omega Point. If Neanderthals could talk, they might have sat around their caves jerking off worrying about the post-Neanderthal future. You talk about the Borg and space travel. How the hell do you think this sentient life-form is going to do deep-space travel without downloading brain function or doing significant genetic alteration? Maybe this is the beginning of the evolutionary step that permits deep-space travel? Maybe orthogenics is right and this is where evolution has been pointed all along.”

Sensing a pause in the oral combat, Susan jumped in. “Will, you said something in your speech about a lab that was already generating people with extra chromosomes. Is that really true?”

“Of course. Why would I make it up? I pay people to go out and track down these things. There's a lab in the Bahamas where at least several hundred children have already been born with the additional chromosomes. The parents pay one hundred thousand dollars for it. The additional chromosomes are what their inventor called a ‘universal delivery vehicle for gene modules.' Once the structure is in place, the parents can pick any number of attributes and input them into the embryo like options on a car. Don't want to pass on your hairline? They have a modification for that. Mother die of breast cancer? They can help. Don't like the weight you put on after college? They have a metabolic enhancement. ADD, dyslexia, almost anything predetermined by genetics, they can fix now or will be able to later. Do you think democracy will last long once we have a wealthy elite like that?”

“Can you prove it?” Susan asked.

“Want to see for yourself? I'll have my pilot fly you there, Marsh Harbor. One of my men will meet you there and take you over to Man-O-War Cay, that's the island where the lab is. You asked me to help you find underground technology that the Chinese might want to eliminate. Well, that's certainly a candidate, don't you think? They'll want to eliminate an American super race. And maybe we should let them!”

“It's a deal,” Susan replied quickly, “I'll go.”

“I'll set it up,” Gaudium said, getting up from the table. “I'll call you with the details, but now I have to run to a press conference. Don't leave here, however, without taking the ride.”

Susan and Soxster sat quietly until Gaudium had left the restaurant. Soxster took a drink of the blue ale and spat it back into the glass. He looked up at Susan. “How are your Memzax pills doing?”

“I remember. Will just said Man-O-War. Packetman knew about it, too. Something to do with penetrating their network. Stopping something.” Susan closed her eyes and repeated.

Soxster was quiet for a moment. Susan kept her eyes shut. “While I'm testing the strength of your biochemical memory enhancement,” Soxster said, looking at his watch, “Tell me this. What's today's date?”

She opened her eyes. “Friday the thirteenth. Why? Are you superstitious?”

Soxster shook his head no and smiled smugly. “Do you know
why
Friday the thirteenth is supposed to be bad luck? It's the day in 1307 that the King of France lured the head of the Knights Templar, Jacques DeMolay, to his palace in Paris to capture him while simultaneously rounding up hundreds of Knights throughout Europe. Didn't you read all that DaVinci crap a few years ago?”

“I had better things to do,” Susan said, and sipped the ale. With a pained look on her face as she swallowed, she asked, “So is there some moral to that story?”

“Yeah. Don't do like DeMolay and get lured someplace where the other side has all the weapons.” Soxster put his hand on Susan's. “Don't go.”

“Are you kidding? I have to. If Will's right about the place, it's a prime candidate for whoever's taking down our technology. The President thinks it's China, and Sol and Rusty think he's going to decide on retaliation in a matter of days. If we can uncover an attack before it happens, maybe we can find out who's doing the attacks.”

“Then take Jimmy, or me—don't go alone,” Soxster urged.

“Jimmy is convalescing with his wife in Manhattan. You need to get back to the Dugout and see what you can find in cyberspace about all this. I'll be fine.”

Soxster looked unconvinced, but said nothing more. As they stood up to leave, a group of tourists came running into the restaurant, the kids screaming, being chased by actors dressed up like a cross between men and machines.

Soxster looked at Susan. “Let's skip the ride.”

1130 EST
Brighton Beach
Brooklyn, New York

“I'm coming in with you,” Jessica Foley said as she parked the car at a meter under the old metal of the elevated train tracks.

“The hell you are,” Jimmy Foley told his wife. “I don't want them to know who you are, that you even exist.”

“My existence is not really a state secret, Jimmy. This is not negotiable. Dr. Rathstein said you shouldn't even leave the apartment this weekend. Remember, hotshot, you were in a hospital in California when you woke up yesterday. I don't want you passing out by yourself in the middle of some Russian mafia lair in Little Odessa,” she said, grabbing and squeezing his hand.

“I knew I shoulda taken a cab,” he said, and then laughed and leaned over and kissed her. Despite the residual anesthetics in his system, he had had no difficulty doing that and a lot more during the night before. “All right. Take your ring off. Your name is Susan Connor and you are my partner at the Intelligence Analysis Center and you will let me do all the talking.”

“I thought you said Susan was African-American?” Jessica asked.

“It will confuse them, if they even know that much,” Jimmy said, getting out of the car. He had woken up early and waited until 0730 before calling his old NYPD partner. Detective Vin DeCarlo was up, making pancakes for his three kids and letting his wife sleep in, as he did every Saturday. Unfortunately, he was also going to take the kids to the Rangers game and could not join Jimmy on his outing to Brighton Beach. His information about what was going on in the Ismailovskaya, the Russian mob, was priceless. He had stayed on the Russian crime beat when Jimmy had left for his year in Washington.

With the bandages over his left eye, Detective Jimmy Foley knew he did not look as formidable as he wanted to. He had, however, worn his best suit. He just hoped that Jessica did not look too much like his wife. They crossed the busy street, dodging cars, to the Pushkin restaurant, where Gregori Belov had agreed to meet for an early lunch. The Russian sat alone on the banquette in the semicircular corner booth, among the overstuffed pillows. He had a thick head of silver-white hair, broad shoulders, and a florid face. He wore a black suit and white shirt with no tie. Jessica guessed he was in his early fifties. “For a mobster's lair, it has a lot of lace and tassels, and red,” Jessica said
sotto voce
as they moved through the nearly empty room.

“Dobriy den!
James, James, back from Washington so soon, and with a new partner? Much nicer,” Belov bellowed as they approached his throne.
“Rada tebya videt.
They don't have good Palmeni or Sacivi in Washington?” He took Jessica's hand and kissed it delicately. “Gregori Belov.
Ochinprivatna.”

“Delighted,” Jessica said, blushing. “Susan Connor, Foley's partner.” It was only half a lie, she thought.

“Foley and Connor—sounds like the NYPD union,” Belov said as they both settled in on his left.

“Mr. Belov, thank you for meeting on such short notice.
Spasiba,”
Jimmy started.

“Mr. Belov. Mr.?” the Russian said, opening the bottle of vodka on the table.
“Pyatizvyozdnaya,
my favorite—it means ‘with five stars.' The honey in it is good for my throat.
Pazhaltsa!”
He poured them each a four-finger shot.

“Choot-choot,”
Jimmy said, trying in vain to get less in his glass.

“Na zdarOv'ye,”
Belov toasted, and then, looking at Jessica,
“Za vas.”

“It means ‘to you,'” Jimmy explained.

“You do not speak Russian, lovely lady? Oh, please forgive my rudeness,” Belov said, bowing his head. “English only from now on.” He downed the vodka. Jessica sipped some, but Jimmy emptied his painted shot glass. “Miss Connor, do you know that Jimmy learned his Russian in the Marines? He was supposed to learn Arabic, but the class was full and they had all of these Russian instructors left over. Monterey, yes, James?”

“Monterey, yes, Gregori. Defense Language Institute. Again, thank you for the meeting,” Jimmy tried again.

“Vinny DeCarlo calls me at eight-thirty in the morning and says you must see me or the world will end. Of course, I see you. The understanding that you helped to broker here in Brooklyn is holding. Street crime is down. The Bratva, if there were a Bratva, is not selling drugs here and has provided useful leads on others who do, the Mexicans, Colombians.” A waiter had been standing quietly, holding menus and a wine list. “Jimmy, if I recall, wants the borscht and then the Palmeni. So do I,” Belov told the waiter. “And caviar, of course.”

“Well, then, make it three,” Jessica added quickly.

“And the
mukuzani,”
he said, rejecting the wine list and turning again to Jessica. “Georgian wine, but dry, velvety, almost smoky.” He looked back at Jimmy and his bandages. “So I know you want to get right down to business, but I have been good and have not asked—so first, who poked you in the eye?”

“That's what I'm here to find out, Gregori.”

“Ah, so this is personal. Well, then, I will be even more helpful.” Belov smiled at Jessica, then at Jimmy. “How can I help? Who can I kill? Just kidding, of course.”

“The word is that with Dimitri Yellin missing, you have, shall we say, adopted the Ukrainian chapter?” Jimmy asked.

“They came to me. They knew I am not responsible for Dimitri's disappearance. My daughter married his son, Sergei. We do not compete. We had different sales districts, different product lines. We watch each other's backs. Sergei asked me for help keeping his group from splitting up. The Georgian, Karinshasvili, tried to recruit some of them.” Belov spoke quickly, in bursts, like a Kalashnikov on full automatic.

“I know it wasn't you, Gregori, but what did happen to Dimitri?” Jimmy asked.

“I have tried to find out from Sergei, of course,” Belov said, spreading the caviar on a pancake. “Dimitri had a contract with someone, a
shishka.
He never knew who it was, but the man paid handsomely and in gold and cash. To do the job, Dimitri had to buy things and get some people from back home. Sergei says the money left over has disappeared. The gold transferred out of their account. The vehicle carrying the cash vanished.” Belov consumed the pancake in one piece and washed it down with a vodka. “Jimmy, you said this is personal. Whatever Dimitri did for this man…Sergei is now my son, under my protection. Tell me you are not here investigating Sergei or his men.”

Jimmy Foley reached his hand across the table to Gregori Belov. “I am not here investigating Sergei or his men.” The two men shook on it. “I want the man who contracted with Dimitri Yellin, and I need him very soon, this weekend.”

The borscht arrived. “I understand what you want now, Jimmy, and how much you want it, but this weekend?”

“It is not only personal, Gregori,” Jimmy added. “A great deal depends upon it.”

Families had been drifting in, filling up the Pushkin, but none had interrupted Belov's lunch to wish him well or pay tribute. They respected his space. Looking around at the Saturday luncheon crowd, Jessica wondered where Belov's security was. She had lost the thread of the conversation and knew that Jimmy would never explain it to her afterward. At times it almost sounded like one of her midtown lunches trying to convince a client to do an initial public offering.

As the main course was being cleared, Belov dabbed his lips almost daintily with the linen napkin. “For me to find out what you want, I may need to spend some money, and I will certainly be running some risk,” he suggested.

“The government will be very appreciative,” Jimmy replied.

“The government? The federal government?” Belov asked. “At a high level?”

“At a very high level,” Jimmy said confidently.

“Jimmy, there is a company upstate that has been trying to sell things, food and the like, to Fort Drum, the mountain troops there. They need a long-term contract with decent margins so they can give our troops the very best.”

“I'm sure the Pentagon can be persuaded to want the very best for Fort Drum, Gregori.”

Belov signaled that he was going to push back the table. The meal was over. Four men came out from behind the red curtains, two on either side of the table. They were not waiters. Standing, Belov again kissed Jessica's hand. “You are lucky to be with Jimmy—he will make a good father.” He then turned to the bandaged detective. “Also, Jimmy, I have a nephew in Massachusetts. He wants to resettle in Nevada. Not Novosibirsk.
Da?”

Jimmy looked at the Russian mobster. “I need the information fast, Gregori. Very fast.” The men shook hands, and as the Foleys left the restaurant, their host began circulating among the tables, like the mayor of Little Odessa.

0855 PST
Las Vegas, Nevada

“I wish we hadn't abandoned the ranch so quickly,” Packetman complained.

“We had a compromise of site security. We had no choice,” the General spit out. “Let's get on with it. You have everything here that you had there. Explain to me how it will work. How do we unplug the electrical system?”

Above them in the darkened room were three seventy-two-inch screens, one showing a map of the western United States and Canada, the other two with a maze of lines and color-coded boxes. “So, there are three electric power zones in the country—East, West, and Texas,” Packetman explained.

“I always knew Texas was different,” the General said, staring at the diagrams.

“The Western Interconnect includes everything west of the Mississippi in Canada and the U.S., plus Baja in Mexico. It's divided into five subzones. We are going to attack each of the five differently. Watch.” Packetman threw a Keynote briefing slide up on the middle screen. “In CBRC, California basically, we are going to cause the voltage levels to drop on the north-south bulk electrical system by giving instructions to their SCADA control system, but we will play ‘man in the middle' and catch the signals that are sent back up to the reliability coordinator command center in Riverside. The signals we send to the center will make it look like everything is fine. Then, when the voltage gets low enough, bang, a cascading failure of the grid.”

“How did you get into the control system, if that is not a trade secret?” the General asked.

“It is, but you pay me well. Hacked the firewall between their consumer billing system and the transmission reporting. Took a while, but I've been inside for over a year, programmed their intrusion-detection system not to notice me,” Packetman said, and beamed.

“So California goes out. That trips everything else?” the General queried.

“Might, but just to be sure, I got into the RMRC area—that's around here, Nevada—by putting a radio out in the desert. The power company broadcasts control instructions to some of their unmanned sites in the clear on radio frequencies, not by landline. Easy to get in by overpowering the real radio signal. And once you're in the network, you can go anywhere. No encryption, no access authorization, no internal firewalls. They have all their generators' turbines spinning synchronized at exactly the same speed all over the country, sixty cycles. If I change that by twenty percent, it knocks up the power fourfold. We applied a binary patch to the firmware of all the generators to override the governors that limit their speed.”

“I don't understand a word you just said,” the General complained, towering above the seated hacker.

“We're going to send so much power down the lines from the plants that it will fry the big transformers just outside the plants and the high-tension wires will get so hot they will droop and then melt. With one five hundred thousand–volt line disabled, two other five hundred thousand–volt lines will become overloaded and shut down. This, in turn, causes the main power artery between geographic regions to shut down. Safety systems will automatically shed load in an attempt to keep the system in balance. However, the increased demand on the generators at other electric utilities causes a ripple effect.

“Every generator on the entire grid has to be spinning at exactly the same rate, sixty hertz, before it can be connected to the grid. They have software that minimizes frequency error, and software turbine governors that prevent the spin rate from going too high. We hacked that software so some of the generators will spin so fast that they will jump right off their moorings and go crashing around the floor, damaging all their turbine blades. It will take months to repair some of them. And Siemens and GE don't have huge warehouses of extras sitting around. It's all Build When Bought.”

The General smiled. “That I understand. All of these little programs will start at the same moment?”

“All the executables are keyed to the power grid's atomic clock time. It all happens at nine o'clock, in ninety seconds.” Packetman hit a stroke on his keyboard. “And we can watch it all live on their reporting system. The Saturday shift guys, they'll freak. Let's hope our emergency generators here work so we can watch.”