按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
This trapdoor program was his crowning achievement。 He had once seen a written promise from the software designer that unrecorded access was an impossibility。 What a load！ It had been damn tough…he would give them that…but he had figured out a way in the end。 There's always a way if you know enough。 That contractor； he really sold the brass a sow's ear when he told that fib。 Ah well； the contractor had gotten his and now Terry Franklin was making his own score。
He had loaded the trapdoor program in the main puter one day while fifteen technicians loafed and sipped coffee and watched him work on a sticky tape drive。 Not a one of them saw what he was doing。 Nor； he told himself with glee； would they have understood what he was doing even if they had noticed。 Most of them were as ignorant as they were trusting。
Tonight the 3…W file looked clean as a virgin's conscience。 Franklin exited the program and turned off his terminal。 He stood and stretched。 He felt good。 Very； very good。 The adrenal excitement was almost like a cocaine high； but better since there was no edown。 He was living on the edge and it felt terrific。
After straightening up the office； he turned off the coffeepot and put on his coat。 With a last glance around； he snapped off the tights and locked the door behind him。
Getting past the guards at the building exits carrying the disks was a risk； though a small one。 The civilian guards occasionally selected people for a spot search and sooner or later he would be chosen。 He knew several of the guards on sight and made it a habit to speak to them； but inevitably； sooner or later。。。 It didn't happen this evening； but he was clean just now anyway。 The disks were still back in the office； carefully hidden。 He would bring them out some evening next week at the height of the rush…hour exodus when the probability of being searched was the smallest。 Minimize the risk； maximize the gain。
As he rode the escalator up to the bus stop for Virginia suburban buses； Terry Franklin buttoned his coat tightly and turned the collar up behind his neck。 From a pocket he extracted his white Bailor's cap and placed it carefully on his head； exactly one finger width above his eyebrows。
The cold； wet wind at the top of the mechanical stairs nude him cringe。 He quickly climbed aboard the Annandale bus and made his way to an empty window seat。 He stared through the gathering dusk at the looming building。 People in uniform and civilian clothes kept pouring from the escalator exit； trying to hide their faces from the wind； scurrying for buses。 These poor snooks。 What they didn't know！
Vastly content； Terry Franklin pursed his lips and began to whistle silently。
As the bus bearing Terry Franklin pulled away from the loading area； a senior naval officer； a captain； leaned into the wind as he crossed the lighted parking lot。 He paid no attention to the buses queued for the freeway entrance and it was probable no one of that buses paid any attention to him。 Terry Franklin was opening the sports section of a newspaper he had purchased during his lunch break。 Franklin wouldn't have recognized the captain out there in the rapidly emptying parking lot anyway； not even if they had passed in a corridor。 They had never met。 But Franklin would have recognized the officer's puter security access password； for he had just finished using it。
Tonight the captain grimaced as the wind tore at his unprotected face and took the time to open the hatchback of his Toyota Corolla and toss his attaché case in。 Then he fumbled with the key to the driver's door。 Snuggled in with the engine running and waiting for the heater to warm up； Captain Harold Strong tried to relax。 It had been another long week； as each and every one of them were in this gargantuan paper factory by the Potomac。 He cast a bleak eye on the cars creeping toward the exit。 Not too many now； well after quitting time。 And he had wanted to get an early start this evening！ God； he was tired。
He put the car in gear and threaded it toward the exit。 He checked his watch。 It was twenty…two minutes past six。 At least the timing was right。 He would reach the interstate just as the car pool restrictions ended。
On the freeway he headed north along the river； past the Arlington Memorial Bridge； under the ramps of the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and out into the traffic snarl on 1…66 westbound。 Here at the tail end of rush hour the traffic moved along fairly well at about forty miles per hour； only occasionally ing to a plete stop。 Captain Strong listened carefully to an airborne traffic reporter tally the evening's casualties。 1…66 westbound wasn't mentioned。
Nearing Falls Church he stopped beside the road for a moment and removed his bridge coat。 With the car back in motion and the radio tuned to a soft…rock FM station； Strong chewed over the week's frustrations and disasters again。 Oh crap； he thought； it's Friday night and you have the cabin all to yourself for an entire weekend； so forget it。 It'll all keep until Monday； God knows。
Since the divorce he had spent most of his weekends in the cabin。 His son was a junior in college this year； busy with school and girls。 The captain wasn't interested in female panionship； which was perhaps a good thing since he lacked both the finances and the time。
They want too much from that airframe； he told himself as he drove； reviewing the arguments of the week yet one more time。 You can't build a plane that will drop bombs； shoot missiles； hassle with MiGs； have a radar cross section so small it can't be detected…haul the President back and forth to Camp David on weekends when it isn't being used to save the free world…and still expect the goddamn thing to take a cat shot and make an arrested carrier landing。 With so many design promises it can't possibly do any mission well。
A fucking flying Edsel； assuming that one way or the other it can be made to fly。 He had used precisely those words this afternoon to that simple sonuvabitch from SECNAV and that slimy political hack looked tike his wallet was being snatched。 And what had he said to Vice Admiral Henry after the meeting？ 〃It's almost as if those idiots want to buy just one ultimate do…everything flying machine and park it in the Rose Garden of the White House to scare the shit out of the Russian ambassador when he es to call。〃 Henry wasn't happy with his blunt assessment。 Well； he was right； whether Henry liked it or not。 Those political clowns want to build something straight out of a Hollywood special…effects shop； a suborbital battlestar that will automatically zap anybody who isn't wearing olive…drab underwear。
Why is it； over eighty…five years after Orville and Wilbur showed the world how to build an airplane； that we have to keep explaining the basic laws of aerodynamics to these used…car salesmen in mufti？
Strong was still stewing when he reached the outskirts of Winchester。 Raindrops began to splatter on the windshield。 He turned on the wipers。 The road looked slick and the wet night seemed to soak up his headlights； so he slowed down。
He was hungry。 He turned into the drive…through lane of a McDonald's and was soon back on the road mechanically munching a burger as he headed west。 The coffee was hot and black。
Passing through Gore he noticed headlights behind him。 Not too dose； but glued there。 How long had that guy been back there？ A cop clocking him？ Well； he wasn't speeding； not on a night like this。
The road was a twisty two…lane and empty。 Almost no traffic。 That was one of the charms of coining up here。 The glare of his headlights illuminated the black trunks of wet； naked trees as he cranked the wheel back and forth around the switchbacks up the mountain。 The sign at the top said： 〃Wele to Wild； Wonderful West Virginia。〃 And the radio reception would go on the other side of the signal。 Sure enough； on the second curve down the music faded to static。 He switched off the radio。 The headlights were still in the rear…view mirror。
At the foot of the mountain he went through the village of Capon Bridge。 Almost there； just a few more miles。 He checked the mirror as they went by a sodium light on a pole by the little Texaco station； which was dark and deserted at this hour of the evening。 It was some kind of pickup with a huge steel bumper welded to the front。 Not too new。 Mid…seventies maybe。
Impossible to make out the color。 Then a camper passed him headed east and； curious； he glanced in the mirror again。 The guy behind…blue； I think。 Maybe blue。
Leaving the village the road began to climb and he was again in switchbacks at twenty…five miles per hour。 The glare of the headlights from the pickup behind him swept across the mirror going into and ing out of every curve； and he squinted。 He turned the mirror so the lights wouldn't blind him。 Should've got the day…night mirror； he told himself； but he had saved twenty bucks passing on that option。
Above the noise of his engine he could hear the rhythmic slap…slap of the wipers and the protests of his tires on the wet macadam。
He was almost at the top of this low mountain。 He would build a fire in the fireplace when he reached the cabin in a few minutes。 Maybe a shot of Irish whiskey while the fire was drivi