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Va
JV (Jason Va
Stallion: Wait a minute while I get the logs… Okay, got it. Your man's IP=22.154.877.91. Logged on this morning at 7:21 EST. Gaming tonight? We're doing Stalingrad. You can be General von Paulus.
JV: Screw that. Krauts always lose in that one. Too busy, anyway. Who is the ISP?
Stallion: Not so fast, jack. Time to up the scratch. People watching over my shoulder. Five bills'll do the trick.
JV: You're a thief, but since I'm in a hurry, okay. Try it again and I'll brand thee "Highwayman."
Stallion: And thee "Rogue!" The ISP is BlueEarth.com in Palm Beach, Florida. Thanks and aloha, McGarrett!
JV: Aloha!
Since word had gotten out that Va
He looked down at the name of Private Eye-PO's ISP, or Internet service provider. BlueEarth.com. Every time the Private Eye-PO logged on, his modem was co
Child's play.
Va
Amazingly, the search failed to turn up any associates he might contact at BlueEarth.com, no Ralph "Stallion" Viola he could slip five hundred bucks in exchange for Private Eye-PO's IP and phone number. Va
Suddenly the screen stuttered, went blank, then colored a sizzling hot pink.
Reset. Fatal exception at F275A-II/7. 13:52:45.
Maybe it wouldn't be the easiest hundred thousand he'd ever made.
A long gulp cleaned out the Dew. He tossed the can in the trash and slid back his chair.
It was a lovely day outside: blue sky, a few clouds, temperature closing in on ninety. The Bullises had their Thoroughbreds roaming free in the pasture. He particularly liked the bay gelding and was certain it would have made an excellent charger. If he ever learned to ride, he might ask the Bullises to allow him to take the bay to the jousting tournament at the a
Cracking his knuckles, Va
Three hours later, he was still working.
The sun was setting and the small room had grown hot and stuffy, the air as rank and cloying as a high school weight room's. Va
A voice called from downstairs. "Jason, di
"Just a second."
Va
"Jason!!"
Va
"Coming, Mom," he called.
"And be sure to wash your hands and face."
Va
11
Ghosts in a frozen mist, they ran.
Twelve men. Bold apparitions clad in white, doggedly advancing to the same silent cadence, their breath erupting in violent, staccato bursts. Forward. Ever forward. Against the wind. Against the snow. Against themselves.
The cold seeped through their boots, clamping their toes and nipping at their heels with teeth as hungry as a bear trap's. The snow was deep here- two feet, at least- a soupy, devilish mixture of slush and dirt and the spores from the unyielding tundra. And this one week from midsummer's eve. A frantic wind howled around them, clawing at their eyes, scratching their cheeks, slyly slipping beneath the folds of their anoraks and burrowing through their sweaters, their fatigues, and their thermals, biting their skin like ice on fire.
The men's legs were strong, their muscles hard and conditioned, exquisitely calibered pistons willing to carry them over hill and dale hour after hour. Their arms swung by their sides, the dry, rhythmic chafing of the snowsuits sounding like sandpaper scraping velvet. Each man carried a pack, and in that pack a jumble of rocks and stones weighing twenty-five kilograms- fifty-five pounds. They leaned forward as one, their well-toned shoulders and tensed abdomens working in concert to distribute the load. Soon the packs would be filled with a different cargo- timers, fuses, detcord, and plastique, sophisticated devices as far evolved from stones as men were from apes.
The wind died. The icy curtain fell, and for a minute or two the men were permitted a view of the bleached panorama around them. It was a bleak vista, white hills rolling away to the east and west, an endless plain advancing before them. The sky hovered low and gray, a sweeping expanse of nothingness. It was a pale, barren land with no sign of animals, vegetation, or human habitation. Man did not belong here, so far north; his existence counted for nothing. As punishment for their intrusion, the wind picked up so abruptly as to slap the men across the face. They were not welcome here.