Digital Fortress

It was no secret Midge Milken didn't like Trevor Strathmore. Strathmore had attempted a cu

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 sca

"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 fu

"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 ru

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 go

"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 pla

Brinkerhoff looked uneasy. "You really think you should bother him?"

"I'm not bothering him," Midge said, tossing him the receiver. "You are."

Chapter 48

"What?" Midge sputtered in disbelief. "Strathmore claims our data is wrong?"

Brinkerhoff nodded and hung up the phone.

"Strathmore denied that TRANSLTR's been stuck on one file for eighteen hours?"

"He was quite pleasant about the whole thing." Brinkerhoff beamed, pleased with himself for surviving the phone call. "He assured me TRANSLTR was working fine. Said it was breaking codes every six minutes even as we speak. Thanked me for checking up on him."

"He's lying," Midge snapped. "I've been ru

"First time for everything," he said casually.

She shot him a disapproving look. "I run all data twice."

"Well… you know what they say about computers. When they screw up, at least they're consistent about it."

Midge spun and faced him. "This isn't fu

Brinkerhoff suddenly wished he hadn't called her back in. Strathmore's phone call had set her off. Ever since Skipjack, whenever Midge had a sense that something suspicious was going on, she made an eerie transition from flirt to fiend. There was no stopping her until she sorted it out.

"Midge, it is possible our data is off," Brinkerhoff said firmly. "I mean, think about it-a file that ties up TRANSLTR for eighteen hours? It's unheard of. Go home. It's late."

She gave him a haughty look and tossed the report on the counter. "I trust the data. Instinct says it's right."

Brinkerhoff frowned. Not even the director questioned Midge Milken's instincts anymore-she had an unca

"Something's up," she declared. "And I intend to find out what it is."