Wormhole - 03 Read online

  Freddy choked, hiding his reaction behind a series of small coughs.

  “That’s why the president pardoned Dr. Donald Stephenson and sent him to Switzerland. Apparently, he’s the only physicist with a theory that correctly models the anomaly. They’re hoping he can come up with a way of stopping what’s happening.

  “If that had been all there was to it, I wouldn’t be here telling you this. But, God help me, I stumbled upon something, something far worse.”

  Dr. Jennings cleared her throat. “I’ve found evidence that Dr. Stephenson’s Rho Project may have caused the November Anomaly. Don’t look at me! I’m not going to prove it. I’m not going to give you a shred of evidence as to why I believe it. Do what you will with the information. I’ve already said far more than I should.”

  She closed her book and pushed back her chair.

  “One last thing. Ask yourself what Dr. Stephenson might be up to that would cause him to jeopardize the whole planet. I hope you discover something different, because the answers I come up with don’t lead to a good night’s sleep.”

  Suddenly the air in the grand old library seemed to grow colder, a winter witch’s icy nails tracing their way down his spine.

  Denise Jennings rose from her chair with one final whispered warning.

  “Don’t try to contact me...ever!”

  Then she was gone, her stern, slender figure strolling from the Main Reading Room as casually as if she’d just finished perusing Cannery Row.

  One thing about not needing sleep, Mark had realized; you could get a hell of a lot done. It wasn’t that the three of them never slept. Sometimes, after a particularly stressful event or injury, sleep went a long way toward boosting their bodies’ spectacular recuperative mechanisms. But none of them slept often. And with their Jack-driven schedule, that was a good thing.

  Both Jack and Janet insisted on cross-training, that every member of the team be good enough at each other’s tasks that if one was taken out, the team could continue to perform all its functions. That didn’t just apply to military training such as combat medic skills, but to their own special talents. They’d spent weeks learning to work computers like Jennifer, to analyze situational outcomes like Heather, and to develop their language skills like Mark. And while the others would never be as good as the team’s expert, that didn’t mean they weren’t very, very good.

  Tonight was computer night, each of them assigned a different target. Mark let his eyes wander over the LCD monitor. Tonight he was hopping, hacking one system that led to another. The concept was simple and didn’t require the subspace receiver-transmitter, or SRT as they called it. He could hack in through any network using a wireless hot spot. However, for security purposes, they used the SRTs to provide them with a virtual network connection that appeared to originate wherever they chose. Mark had chosen the Baltimore Washington International Airport’s computer systems.

  Hopping consisted of taking a series of steps in rapid sequence, the goal being to complete all the steps and then hop to another network, completing as many hops as possible within the allotted time.

  Step one: gain access. Step two: identify network assets and capabilities. Step three: take control of key assets for a brief period. Step four: hop.

  Mark was currently on hop number five, having just activated a network sniffer on BWI’s security network. The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Homeland Security wasn’t going to be happy about this.

  Most of the network traffic was TCP, the most common Internet protocol in use throughout the world, one that Mark had grown so familiar with he could form a mental list of the internet protocol addresses as he rapidly scanned through the TCP headers. It took just a couple of minutes to build a pretty good list of the IP addresses of the machines on the subnet he was watching.

  Satisfied that he had all the most active addresses, Mark started a special program on his laptop that began sending data to every address in his list, working through a sequence of known operating system and software defects until it found a hole past the firewall. No matter how good the system administrator, computers were filled with complex software, and complex software always had security weaknesses that could be exploited. Many of those weaknesses were publicized through hacker communities on the Internet, but Mark, Heather, and Jen had discovered a broad range of previously unknown exploits for all the common operating systems, even those on the newest cell phones and tablets.

  Mark selected a computer from the list, bypassed the firewall, and installed a minor modification to one of the operating system libraries, ensuring that the file date, size, checksums, and information assurance codes remained valid. After that it was a simple matter to pull up a list of the installed hardware and drivers, running services, installed programs, and user accounts, and everything else about the system.

  The system turned out to be a newer-model laptop with a built-in microphone, speaker, and camera. The microphone and camera were currently disabled. Mark turned them on, routing the data feed to a small media server window on the upper left of his computer display.

  A rather frumpy-looking blonde woman in her mid-forties seemed to be staring directly at him as she pecked away at her keyboard. Mark checked the active user account and identified her as user APeterson. Quickly cross-referencing against her open e-mail folder, he refined the information.

  Annette Peterson

  43 Walker Place

  Baltimore, MD 21240

  410-691-1353 (Home)

  410-691-2764 (Work)

  410-324-8763 (Cell)

  Rapidly losing interest in Annette, Mark moved rapidly through four more computers before finding what he was really looking for, the system that controlled the airport security cameras. Tiling four media windows along the left half of his display, Mark began cycling through each camera in the airport. Apparently Monday was a busy travel day in Baltimore.

  Satisfied with his understanding of the current network, Mark hopped again, then again. Two hours later he pushed back from the workstation, walked across the room to the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water.

  “Oh my God!” Jennifer’s exclamation spun Mark’s head around.

  “What?” Mark saw Heather lean over to peer at Jen’s display.

  “Mom’s laptop. I’m in.”

  Heather’s face shifted through a series of emotions, with dismay predominating. Mark found himself standing behind his sister without realizing he had moved.

  “Jen,” he breathed, conflicting emotions almost robbing him of his voice. “Remember what Jack said.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. But we’ve been hopping through all sorts of systems, certainly attracting attention from a variety of systems security analysts. If they can’t trace us from those, they can’t trace us here either.”

  Heather placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You know how bad I want to do the same thing. It just doesn’t feel safe.”

  Jennifer spun her chair to face them, first Heather and then Mark.

  “Goddamn it! To hell with safe! I know this is all my fault. I’m the one who ran away. I’m the one who made you guys follow me. But I’m damn sure not gonna be the one who lets Mom and Dad rot from worry, never knowing we’re still alive. They deserve better than that.”

  Mark felt as if he’d been kicked in the groin. In his mind’s eye, his dad’s strong arms hugged his mother close as she rested her head on his chest, tears streaming down her cheeks, soaking Fred Smythe’s T-shirt, her agony melding with his. Inconsolable. He’d seen it in his dreams. Now, as he glanced over at Heather, he saw from her white eyes that she saw it too.

  As Heather’s eyes returned to normal, she staggered so that only Mark’s hand catching her arm prevented her from falling. Heather righted herself, looked up into Mark’s eyes, and nodded. He wondered if she felt the same spark he did.

  “OK, Jen,” Heather said. “It’s time.”

  Linda Smythe sat at her keyboard, rereading the endless sup
portive postings on her Facebook page from all her close friends, from Anna, from Fred. Over the last few weeks she’d found a certain relief in baring the darkest parts of her soul on this website, had even taken some comfort from the many people who struggled so desperately to throw her a lifeline.

  Certainly the people closest to her had spent so much time with her physically that their own lives had been disrupted. But no amount of hand-holding and hugs could cure the depression into which she’d descended. Somehow Anna and then Fred had recognized that her Facebook postings provided a modest amount of relief. Somehow neither of these people she loved showed the slightest resentment that this illogical diversion gave her a measure of help that their love couldn’t.

  Now, as she stared at that Facebook page, Linda came face-to-face with the realization that even that had stopped working. She scanned all the latest postings, feeling only the dull ache building in her diaphragm, leaving no room for air in her chest. Just that slow, desperate need burning a hole in her chest remained to tell her she was still alive. How long could she go on like this, a living zombie, unfit for the company of man or dog, dragging her friends and family down with her?

  She reached for the mouse, moving it down toward the Windows Start button, ready to navigate directly to Shutdown mode, when a new window popped up on her desktop. It displayed a short, simple message.

  “Hi, Momma! It’s me, Jennifer. Mark and Heather are here too. I love you. I miss you. So does Mark. Ow! Heather says she loves you too.”

  Linda froze, staring at the cruel joke on her screen, so shocked she found herself unable to respond to the little blinking cursor that invited her to type a reply into the chat window.

  “Momma, it’s really us. Although it’s been difficult to contact you, we couldn’t bear the separation any longer. So we made this happen. I’m so sorry it’s taken us so long to break through to you!”

  The cursor blinked at her, then began to type again.

  “Mom, this is Mark. I love you. We’ve all been going crazy wanting to contact you, Dad, and the McFarlands. Things are complicated, more than you can know, but now we’ve found you again. I even miss your cooking.”

  Suddenly Linda found herself shaking. Sobs bubbled up out of her throat, making her nose run.

  Her fingers moved to the keyboard. “Damn you, whoever you are! How could you be so cruel?”

  The cursor blinked. Blinked again. Then it blitzed across the screen.

  “I’m so sorry, Momma. We’re so sorry. But this is real and we can prove it. You can ask us anything. Remember the Lab picnic last year? How I tripped and fell toward the grill? How Mark tossed me away from it? How Heather accidentally stabbed that damned Stephenson? Remember what Dad said after he left? ‘It’s all right. You didn’t hurt the mean old bastard. The fork missed him.’ Remember?”

  The blood drained from Linda’s face, leaving behind a coolness that left her wondering if she would pass out. Her fingers moved of their own volition.

  “Jen? Is that really you?”

  “It’s me, Momma.”

  “And Mark?”

  “I’m here too, Mom. I love you too.”

  Desperately scraping together the scraps of her composure, Linda Smythe pulled herself together, joy hammering at the door of her consciousness, only her caution keeping it from barging through. Still, despite her fear of disappointment, it was the best she had felt since Jennifer had run away.

  “My God! How can this be real? I’ve been so desperate.”

  “We know, Mom. We know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Momma, you’re going to have to trust us. We can’t tell you that. Some bad things have happened.”

  “Has anyone hurt you? Because if they have, I swear to God I’ll find them and hurt them even worse. And what your father and Gil would do to them...They just better not have hurt you!”

  “Mom. It’s OK.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Smythe, it is.”

  “Heather?”

  “Hi. I’m here. Just wish my folks were on the line too.”

  Linda gulped. The anguish in that simple line of text washed away the last shred of doubt that lingered at the corners of her mind.

  “Mom. I know you’ve got doubts. But we’ve hacked your laptop. We can see you through the webcam. We’re going to activate your speaker now so you can hear our voices.”

  Suddenly the laptop speaker crackled to life.

  “Hi, Momma.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Mrs. McFarland.”

  “Oh God!” Linda Smythe gasped.

  “We hear you, Mom,” Mark’s clear voice sounded deeper than last she’d heard it, but it was surely Mark’s voice coming from her laptop’s speaker. And Jen’s. And Heather’s. Impossible to stifle, her sobs broke from her chest, gurgling from her mouth in loud, shuddering gasps. The dike she’d kept her fingers in burst into a million fragments, loosing her emotions in a torrent that left her bent over her keyboard, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

  After several moments of no response from her children, Linda wiped her eyes, her mind filled with the sudden fear that the connection had been lost while she wept. As she raised her head, she saw another window appear at the upper right corner of her computer display. Centered in that window, a tearful Jennifer smiled and waved at her, flanked left and right by Mark and Heather, all of them leaning in close so they could be captured by their computer cam.

  Linda took a breath, reasserting a degree of composure. Her conversation lasted exactly twenty-three minutes, a session filled with loving assurances.

  Yes, they were fine.

  Their situation was complicated, some trouble with the law, but it had been handled.

  No, not in a way that would let them come home. At least not anytime soon.

  No, they couldn’t tell her where they were right now, but nobody had hurt or abused them. Couldn’t she tell?

  Linda mixed her probing questions with answers to theirs. When it became clear that they would have to break the connection, she begged them to stay on until she could walk next door and get Anna. At this point, Heather looked particularly distressed and asked Linda to give her mom and dad all her love. After extracting Linda’s vow not to contact any authorities and to keep this entirely within the immediate family, Mark, Jennifer, and Heather agreed to make contact again, at the same time the next night. Then, with one last smiley-sad group wave, they were gone.

  The morning sun slanted through the sliding glass doors with a golden clarity that felt like something out of myth. That’s how Anna felt as she glanced out at her back deck before serving the pancakes, bacon, and freshly warmed maple syrup. As she looked at Fred, Linda, and Gil, arrayed around the breakfast table like knights and a lady at King Arthur’s court, an excitement bordering on jubilation hammered within her breast. And Linda was smiling.

  With all her worry about Heather, somehow Anna had known her daughter was OK, a deep well of knowledge that came from her connection with her only child. But the loss of Jennifer and then Mark had wilted Linda like a two-week-old rose. Anna had looked into her friend’s eyes and seen suicide growing behind those empty green orbs. Fred had seen it too. Both of them had fought against it, but it was like Pickett’s Charge, more than a century-and-a-half after that bloody day at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and every bit as futile.

  Linda’s late-night online chat with their kids had changed all of that. She’d been too frightened of losing the communications link to run to get Anna, and both Fred and Gil had worked all night at the lab. After Heather, Mark, and Jennifer had signed off, Linda had come running, banging on Anna’s door until she’d stumbled down the stairs in her purple nightgown and slippers.

  They’d sat on the couch, talking, crying, laughing, and holding each other until dawn brought their husbands home. Then, after a quick synopsis of last night’s excitement, Anna had insisted on making a hearty breakfast to clear their minds and to give them all the inner warmth and strength
she felt they’d need for the decisions that lay ahead. After all, their babies were out there, young adults, but their babies still, and they were in some sort of trouble.

  There was no way in hell Anna, Gil, Fred, or Linda was going to let those lovely young people fend for themselves. Not in this lifetime or the next. They were much too young and inexperienced in the ways of the world for that.

  “Looks great, sweetheart,” Gil said, motioning her to sit down.

  “Wonderful,” said Fred, scooping a stack of steaming pancakes onto his plate.

  “Yes it does,” said Linda. “I guess I’m just a little too excited to eat, though.”

  “Nonsense.” Anna speared a golden pancake with her fork, placed it on Linda’s plate, added butter, and scooped a ladle of syrup in a lazy S pattern over the top. “No more talk of the kids until after breakfast. The sooner we all get to it, the sooner we can get down to business.”

  Gil’s chortling laugh brought their heads around. “No use arguing. I’ve been through this before. Best enjoy a good meal and good company. Anna’s hard to redirect once she gets the bit in her teeth.”

  Despite everyone’s desire to talk about what they were going to do about their children, they began to eat, and as they ate, the warm glow of the delicious breakfast amplified the happy knowledge that their kids were still alive and well.

  After the dishes were rinsed and put in the dishwasher, all four adults retreated to the living room, settling onto the L-shaped couch, sinking into the soft tan leather as their minds worked on the problem at hand.

  “OK, Anna. It’s time.”

  Gil’s voice broke through her practiced comfort zone like a hammer hitting glass. He placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his body, her forehead brushing the brim of his One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish hat. Anna felt the world spin out of her control, something it never did. Not now. Not ever.