Invasion of Privacy (32 page)

Gordon May walked around his airplane, the
Battleax
, stopping here and there and standing on his tiptoes to polish its fire-engine-red fuselage. Three days remained until the last race of the season. Despite his vehement protests, the race stewards had denied his objection. He was baffled how they were unable to recognize that Ian Prince had cut to the inside and forced him out of his pattern, endangering his life. The ruling left the series between them tied at two wins apiece.

Come Sunday, it would be all or nothing.

May climbed into the cockpit and fired up the engine. The propeller stuttered, then caught, the eight-piston engine coming to life, roaring like a bull with its balls caught in the ringer. He taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway. It was another cloudless day in the high desert of northern Nevada.

He planned on a short flight. A run to put the engine through its paces and see if it was capable of holding a speed of 550 knots for prolonged periods.

He gazed at the instrument panel. He’d kitted out
Battleax
with the same state-of-the-art avionics that powered an F-16. Glass displays. Touch-screen monitors.

Additionally he strapped a tablet to his leg that linked wirelessly to the engine. In this manner he could adjust fuel flow, oxygen mix, and oil pressure, fine-tuning the motor’s torque while in the air.

“Tower, this is Golf Bravo 415 requesting permission to take off.”

“Roger that, Golf Bravo 415. You are number one for takeoff. Runway is yours.”

“Roger, Tower.”

Gordon May continued to the end of the runway, then made a 180-degree turn. He stopped to make a final check of his gauges, then began his rollout. At 90 knots he rotated the front wheel. The nose kicked into the sky and he shot upward like a screaming banshee.

He flew northeast, in the direction of Pyramid Lake. The air was calm. The updrafts and chop that often rolled off the Sierra Nevada to
the west were nowhere to be found. At 15,000 feet he leveled off and took a few moments to enjoy the view toward Lake Tahoe to the west and the Oregon border to the north.

May tightened his harness and settled into his seat. Today was about speed. It was about pushing
Battleax
to her limits.

He made another check of his gauges. Oil pressure was normal, engine temp squarely in the black. Satisfied that his baby was ready to rumble, he laid his hand on the throttle and eased it forward, increasing his airspeed to 400 knots. He smiled. The engine had never sounded better. He felt as if he were strapped to a rocket. Ian Prince didn’t stand a chance.

May increased the airspeed to 500 knots, then 520. The plane kept its nose, the frame as solid as a rock. He pushed the throttle further and the airspeed rose to 550. It was these last few knots he’d lacked during the last race, which had allowed Prince to pass him. He checked the tablet and enriched the fuel mix, adding high-grade test fuel and siphoning out some of the oxygen. The result was an increase of torque, the blast of acceleration an aircraft required to overtake a competitor.

The plane responded as he’d hoped.

Sunday couldn’t come soon enough.

It was then that the nose dove. One moment he was flying level to the horizon, the next he was heading for the surface of Pyramid Lake.

Stunned, May hauled back on the stick, leveling the plane out. He looked at the tablet, but the screen was dark. He tapped on the glass, to no avail. The engine coughed and the plane jerked, as if something had hit it from below.

May took a breath, calming himself. Everything had been working marvelously ten seconds ago. His ground crew had signed off on all their modifications. It was a glitch. Nothing more.

He began an easy turn back to the south. It was time to go home and get
Battleax
back on the ground. He double-checked that his tablet was indeed dead. When he returned his attention to his controls, the avionics screen had gone dark. In fact, the entire display was black. Simultaneously the stick slammed forward and the plane went into a dive. May threw both hands around the stick and pulled back with all his might. The stick did not budge. The nose dipped further, and further still, until he was flying directly at the ground.

He cut the gas, but the engine didn’t slow. In fact, he was certain that the rpm’s were increasing. He played with the pedals, with the
flaps, trying everything to pull out of the dive. Nothing worked. The plane was no longer his.

“Tower, this is Golf Bravo 415 declaring an emergency. Am in uncontrolled descent.”

The tower didn’t answer.

May felt his consciousness slipping away. The g’s were mounting. He felt the pressure on his eyeballs and in his chest. It was difficult to breathe. For the first time he took his eyes entirely off his instruments and gazed out the windscreen. The water was approaching fast. He was below one thousand feet.

With a last effort he pulled back on the stick.

“Please,” he shouted.

The stick gave. The nose rose. “Thank god,” he said.

And then the stick dived forward and Gordon knew that all was lost.

As the water approached and his windscreen filled with blue, he realized that this was not an accident, that his avionics had not failed, but that somehow someone had taken control of his aircraft. He could think of only one person. And as the plane struck the water and disintegrated into a thousand pieces, he screamed his name.

“Prince!”

Jessie Grant sat in her assigned seat at the Ninjaneers post watching the clock tick down the seconds until Capture the Flag began. Her laptop was plugged in and fully charged. Her phone was charged, too, and ready for use should additional browsing be necessary.

“Two minutes,” said the announcer. “If you have to go to the bathroom, too late. You’ll just have to hold it.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. Computer geeks. She’d bought plenty of provisions to get her through the game. Mountain Dew, Skittles, and a dozen pieces of Bazooka bubblegum, the kind with the comic wrapped inside. Bazooka was her dad’s favorite.

The ballroom was packed to bursting. Grandstands erected against three walls were full. Two fixed television cameras were posted at opposite sides of the room. There was even a roving reporter going from one team to the next, interviewing players.

She gazed at the stands, looking for Garrett, but it was hard to see with the lights dimmed. Besides, Jessie was more interested in someone else. Her eyes sought out the solitary figure occupying the post farthest from the Ninjaneers. He wore a dark sweatshirt, its hood pulled far over his head. Even so he sat with his back to her and everyone else. While the other teams boasted a full complement of eight players, he sat alone. Even the sign bearing his team name was left intentionally blank. It didn’t matter. Everyone in the ballroom knew who he was.

Max came over, looking as nervous as she felt. “You ready to go, kid?”

“I guess so.”

“This can be our year. We’re counting on you!”

Jessie kept her eyes on the laptop’s screen, too embarrassed by the compliment to reply.

“All right,” Max went on, “let’s do it.” He put out a bony fist. Reluctantly, Jessie met it with her own. If they actually won this thing, he
might want to do a flying chest bump. Not going to happen, thought Jess.

“One minute.”

All teams were to receive the first problem via the dedicated competition net (CTF.net) the minute the game began, but for the moment the screen continued to glow blue with the Capture the Flag logo. She drew a breath.
The team was counting on her
.

An air horn sounded.

The first hack appeared on the screen. It was a root-the-box problem similar to the one she’d done in Linus’s class. Jess scoured the code, seeking out the vulns put there purposefully to act as the secret passageways into the heart of the code. Right away she spotted one.

“Got it,” said Research. Once he received the vuln, he’d search through his toolbox to discover a means to exploit it.

Jessie smiled inwardly. The first problem was easiest. There was no time to be cocky. But still…

Hacking had always come easily. In many respects it was just like playing the “find what’s hidden” game in those old
Highlights
magazines she used to read in the dentist’s office. She remembered how she’d loved poring over the illustration—of a barnyard or a circus or a carnival—determined to spot the hidden comb, coin, tennis racket, or sailboat. Later she’d loved the Where’s Waldo? books. No one could spot Waldo and his red knit cap faster. And not just Waldo—Jess was able to pinpoint Wenda; Woof, his dog; and all the other secret characters with a speed bordering on freakish. Among all the elaborate pictorial chaos, the hidden images seemed to pop out at her. There was really no explanation for her uncanny ability, other than that she was just programmed that way.

Hacking into a network was no different. It was a question of knowing what belonged and what didn’t and having that special connection between your eye and your brain that allowed you to be the first to spot it.

“Gotcha!” Jess called out another vuln. A second later Research solved the first and the Ninjaneers captured their first flag. A cheer erupted from the spectators. Jessie looked up for a second and found Garrett looking back at her. She smiled, but was surprised at his grave demeanor. Didn’t he see the scoreboard? The Ninjaneers had their first flag.

Garrett shook his head and pointed at the board. Rudeboy had three flags.

Jessie’s heart sank. And then it sank further as Defense called out, “Shit. The bastard nabbed it already.”

On the scoreboard, the Ninjaneers’ flag disappeared.

Rudeboy had stolen it.

Mary bolted from her seat the moment the plane arrived at the gate and pushed her way through the packed cabin, ducking and dodging and begging her pardon all the way to the forward door.

“In a hurry, are we?” asked the flight attendant.

Mary swept past without a word and charged up the ramp. The flight to Las Vegas had landed thirty minutes late. It was ten. She’d left the last message with Garrett nearly four hours earlier. She had no idea how long Jessie had been at the police station, or if she’d continue to wait.

Inside the concourse, Mary ducked into the first electronics store she spotted and selected a prepaid cell phone costing $29.95. She placed the box on the counter along with her credit card and tapped her foot impatiently as the clerk rang up her purchase.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but this card has been declined.”

“Run it again,” said Mary. “Please.”

The clerk zipped the card through the reader a second time. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The card’s been declined.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sorry.”

Of all times
…Mary put the card back into her wallet and selected another. It was the machine, not her card. She kept her balances memorized the way baseball fans memorized batting averages. “This one should work.”

She turned to survey the throngs walking in every direction. She’d never liked Las Vegas. The idea of the place ran against her Calvinist roots. It wasn’t the sin or the iniquity. It was the wastefulness. Nearly all the people she saw appeared to be in need of saving money, not handing it over to a one-armed bandit.

She yawned. She’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours, but no matter how she’d tried, she’d been unable to nod off on the flight. She was too worried about Jess. About Grace. About everything.

“Ma’am?”

Mary knew from the young woman’s tone that something was wrong. “Yes?”

“This card’s been refused as well.”

“Really? I never use it. It’s my emergency card.”

“I can only tell you what the machine says.”

Mary took back the card, more angry than mystified. “Can I give you another? Really, I’m sure it has to be your machine.”

“Ma’am, please.” The clerk looked past Mary to where a line was forming. “We accept cash.”

Mary paid for the phone with her last two twenties. A minute later she was heading down the escalator to the taxi stand, the phone pressed to her ear. The call to Garrett rang through to his voicemail. Kids, she thought crossly. They spend all day with their noses buried in their phones and refuse to answer when they actually receive a call. “This is Jessie’s mom again. I hope you passed along my message. I just landed and I’m on my way to the police station. Please call me at this number the moment you listen to this.”

She hurried past the baggage claim toward the exit. Through the windows she observed a monstrous line for cabs. She slowed, realizing that $9 and change was not enough to get her to the police station.

An ATM stood against a nearby wall.

Sliding her card into the machine, she felt a cold hand upon her shoulder, a dread voice whispering in her ear that it was no mistake that her cards were being declined. She dismissed it. Machines made mistakes all the time. There was nothing wrong with her credit.

She typed in her PIN and her screen came up without incident. Relieved, she selected a quick withdrawal of $60. The machine hummed for much too long. Finally it spit out her card and informed her that her request was denied due to insufficient funds.

This isn’t right, she told herself, refusing to believe the machine’s verdict or that the problem was in any way tied to her credit cards.

She slipped in her bank card again and navigated to her account balances. Her checking account stood at –$27.98.

Overdrawn
.

It was not a word to her. Mary had never bounced a check in her life. Two days earlier the balance had stood at nearly $3,000. She would remember if a significant check was outstanding.

It was a mistake…yet it was no mistake.

For the first time she felt panic nipping at her heels.

She returned to the main menu and selected her savings account, which had a balance of $14,000 and change. It was an abysmally low sum for a couple in their forties with two children. Even then, it didn’t take into account the stack of hospital bills yet to be paid.

The screen blinked.

0

Mary stared at the display transfixed, not entirely able to grasp the new reality the single empty digit conferred. Money was her responsibility. Joe earned it. She guarded it like a hawk.

No money. No credit cards. No savings.

Her eyes filled even as the admiral commanded her not to panic. The
Titanic
had not just hit an iceberg. There was not a giant gash in the Grant family vessel. Water was not pouring in at the rate of 50,000 gallons a minute.

Hand shaking, she checked recent transactions. The entire balance of $14,459 had been wired out to something called MJG Enterprises. No further information given.

MJG, for Mary, Jessie, and Grace.

A closer look at her checking account showed that all her money had been transferred to the same institution.

Mary ended her session and walked outside. It was controlled mayhem, the sidewalk jammed with tourists, taxis honking, cops blowing whistles. This wasn’t fair, she told herself. It was hitting below the belt. Demoralized, she sat down on the curb and cradled her head in her hands. She was aware of people staring, but no one inquired as to her well-being. Desperation was just the flip side of joy. Both were on constant display in Sin City.

No mountain gets smaller for…

She stopped quoting the admiral. It was time to rely on herself.

After a minute she opened her purse and took stock of her situation. First some good news. She’d been wrong about having $9 to her name. In fact she had $10.80. Not a huge improvement, but when you’re starting at zero, a buck’s a big deal. She dropped her wallet back into her purse and saw something shimmer in the corner. A blink of brass or gold. She rooted through the Altoids and Kleenexes and carefully folded receipts until her fingers touched something round and smooth and polished.

To H.S. Thanks, I
.

She closed the purse. The line for taxis had grown even longer during her pity party. She walked past the head of the line and crossed to the center island, where a dozen town cars sat parked, waiting for the big spenders.

“Morning, ma’am,” said a liveried chauffeur as he opened the door. “You look like you’re headed to the Strip. Let me guess…the Wynn.”

“No, I’m sorry—”

“The Bellagio. I knew it.”

“I’m not going to a hotel,” said Mary.

“Oh? Where can I take you?”

“The Pawn Stars shop,” said Mary as she slid into the air-conditioned back seat. “And step on it.”