Chapter 47
“A billion-dollar code?” Midge snickered, accompanying Brinkerhoff back up the hallway.
“That’s a good
one.”
“I swear it,” he said.
She eyed him askance. “This better not
be some ploy to get me out
of this dress.” “Midge, I would never–” he
said self-righteously.
“I know,
Chad. Don’t remind me.”
Thirty seconds later,
Midge was sitting in Brinkerhoff’s
chair and studying the Crypto report. “See?”
he said, leaning over her and pointing
to the figure in question.
“This MCD? A billion
dollars!”
Midge chuckled. “It does
appear to be a touch on
the high side, doesn’t it?” “Yeah.” He groaned. “Just a
touch.”
“Looks like a divide-by-zero.” “A who?”
“A divide-by-zero,” she said, scanning the rest of the data. “The MCD’s calculated as a fraction–total expense divided by number
of decryptions.”
“Of course.” Brinkerhoff nodded
blankly and tried not to peer
down the front of her dress. “When the denominator’s zero,” Midge explained, “the quotient goes to infinity.
Computers
hate infinity, so they type all nines.”
She pointed to a different column. “See this?” “Yeah.”
Brinkerhoff refocused on the paper.
“It’s today’s
raw production data. Take a look
at the number of decryptions.” Brinkerhoff
dutifully followed her finger
down the column.
NUMBER
OF DECRYPTIONS = 0
Midge tapped on the figure. “It’s just as I suspected.
Divide-by-zero.” Brinkerhoff
arched his eyebrows. “So everything’s okay?”
She shrugged. “Just means we haven’t
broken any codes today. TRANSLTR
must be taking a break.”
“A break?” Brinkerhoff looked doubtful. He’d been with the director long enough to know that “breaks”
were not part of his preferred
modus operandi–particularly with respect
to TRANSLTR. Fontaine
had paid $2 billion for the code-breaking behemoth, and he wanted his money’s worth. Every second TRANSLTR sat idle
was money down the
toilet.
“Ah… Midge?” Brinkerhoff said. “TRANSLTR doesn’t take any breaks.
It runs day and night. You
know that.”
She shrugged. “Maybe Strathmore didn’t feel like hanging out last night to prepare
the weekend run. He
probably knew Fontaine was away and ducked out early to
go fishing.”
“Come on, Midge.” Brinkerhoff gave her
disgusted look. “Give the guy a break.”
It was no secret Midge Milken didn’t like Trevor
Strathmore. Strathmore had attempted a cunning maneuver rewriting Skipjack, but he’d been caught. Despite
Strathmore’s bold intentions, the NSA had paid dearly. The EFF had gained strength,
Fontaine had lost credibility with Congress, and worst of all, the agency had lost a lot of its anonymity. There were suddenly
housewives in Minnesota
complaining to America Online and Prodigy
that the NSA might be reading
their E-mail–like the NSA gave a
damn about a
secret recipe for candied
yams.
Strathmore’s blunder had cost the NSA, and Midge felt responsible–not that she could have anticipated the commander’s stunt, but the bottom line was that an unauthorized action had taken place behind Director Fontaine’s back, a back Midge was paid to cover. Fontaine’s hands-off attitude made him susceptible; and it made Midge nervous.
But the director
had learned long ago to stand
back and let smart people do their jobs; that’s
exactly how he handled Trevor
Strathmore.
“Midge, you know damn well Strathmore’s not slacking,” Brinkerhoff argued. “He runs TRANSLTR like a fiend.”
Midge nodded. Deep down, she knew that accusing Strathmore of shirking
was absurd. The commander
was as dedicated as they came–dedicated to a fault. He bore the evils of the world as his own personal
cross. The NSA’s Skipjack plan had been Strathmore’s brainchild–a bold attempt
to change the world. Unfortunately,
like so many divine quests, this crusade ended in crucifixion.
“Okay,” she admitted, “so I’m being
a little harsh.”
“A little?”
Brinkerhoff eyes narrowed. “Strathmore’s got a backlog of files a mile long. He’s not about
to let TRANSLTR sit idle for a whole weekend.”
“Okay, okay.” Midge sighed.
“My mistake.” She furrowed
her brow and puzzled why TRANSLTR hadn’t
broken any codes all day. “Let me double-check something,” she said, and began flipping
through the report.
She located what she was looking
for and scanned the figures.
After a moment
she nodded. “You’re right, Chad. TRANSLTR’s been running
full force. Raw consumables are even a little
on the high side; we’re at over half a million kilowatt-hours since midnight
last night.”
“So where
does that leave us?”
Midge was puzzled. “I’m not sure. It’s
odd.” “You want to rerun the
data?”
She gave him a disapproving stare. There were two things one never questioned about Midge Milken.
One of them was her
data. Brinkerhoff waited while
Midge studied the figures.
“Huh.” She finally
grunted. “Yesterday’s stats look fine: 237 codes broken.
MCD, $874. Average
time per code, a little over six minutes.
Raw consumables, average. Last code entering
TRANSLTR–” She stopped.
“What is it?”
“That’s funny,” she said. “Last
file on yesterday’s queue log ran at
11:37 p.m.” “So?”
“So, TRANSLTR
breaks codes every six minutes or so. The last file of the day usually runs closer to midnight. It sure
doesn’t look like–” Midge suddenly stopped
short and gasped.
Brinkerhoff jumped. “What!”
Midge was staring
at the readout
in disbelief. “This file? The one that entered
TRANSLTR last
night?”
“Yeah?”
“It hasn’t broken yet. It’s queue time was 23:37:08–but it lists no decrypt time.” Midge fumbled with
the sheets. “Yesterday or today!”
Brinkerhoff shrugged. “Maybe those guys are running
a tough diagnostic.”
Midge shook her head. “Eighteen hours tough?” She paused. “Not likely. Besides, the queue data
says it’s an outside file. We should call Strathmore.”
“At home?” Brinkerhoff swallowed. “On a Saturday
night?”
“No,” Midge said. “If I know Strathmore, he’s on top of this. I’ll bet good money he’s here. Just a hunch.”
Midge’s hunches were the other thing one never questioned. “Come on,” she said, standing
up. “Let’s see if I’m
right.”
* * *
Brinkerhoff followed Midge to
her office, where she sat
down and began to work Big Brother’s
keypads like a virtuoso pipe organist.
Brinkerhoff gazed up at the array of closed-caption video monitors on her wall, their screens
all freeze frames of the NSA seal. “You’re gonna snoop
Crypto?” he asked nervously.
“Nope,”
Midge replied. “Wish I could, but Crypto’s
a sealed deal. It’s got no video. No sound.
No nothing. Strathmore’s orders. All I’ve got is approach
stats and basic TRANSLTR stuff. We’re lucky we’ve even got that. Strathmore wanted total isolation, but Fontaine
insisted on the basics.”
Brinkerhoff looked puzzled. “Crypto hasn’t got
video?”
“Why?” she asked, without turning from her monitor. “You and Carmen looking
for a little more
privacy?”
Brinkerhoff grumbled something inaudible.
Midge typed some more keys. “I’m pulling Strathmore’s elevator
log.” She studied
her
monitor a moment and then rapped her knuckle
on the desk. “He’s here,” she said matter-of-factly. “He’s in Crypto
right now. Look at this.
Talk about long hours–he
went in yesterday morning bright and early, and his elevator hasn’t budged since. I’m showing
no magno-card use for him on the main
door. So he’s definitely in there.”
Brinkerhoff breathed a slight sigh of relief. “So, if Strathmore’s in there,
everything’s okay, right?”
Midge thought a moment. “Maybe,” she finally
decided. “Maybe?”
“We should call
him and double-check.”
Brinkerhoff groaned. “Midge, he’s the deputy
director. I’m sure he has everything under control.
Let’s not second-guess–”
“Oh, come on, Chad–don’t be such a child. We’re just doing our job. We’ve got a snag in the stats, and we’re following up. Besides,”
she added, “I’d like to remind Strathmore that Big Brother’s watching. Make him think twice before
planning any more of his hare-brained stunts to save the
world.” Midge picked up the phone and began dialing.
Brinkerhoff looked uneasy. “You really think you should
bother him?” “I’m not bothering him,” Midge said, tossing him the receiver. “You are.”
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