While awaiting Weaver’s arrival, Kilmer began searching the office for anything unusual. He noted with passing interest that the owner was an avid Forty-Niners fan. There was an array of memorabilia and several autographed footballs in protective Plexiglas display cases. One large photograph prominently displayed Coach Bill Walsh, Joe Montana, and Jerry Rice with an unidentified, gaunt-looking man that Kilmer figured was the scientist occupying the office.
“Yer slow as a wet weekend. What’s the deal?” Kilmer inquired when Weaver hadn’t turned up within a few moments.
“Right above you, enjoying the peep show,” Weaver replied. “Geez…this guy’s got a nice secretary, man.”
“Ya bludger! Git yer arse down here now, soldier!” Kilmer commanded, unmistakably angry. “Quit screwin’ the pooch.”
“Keep your shirt on, Boss,” replied Weaver. “I know the drill… you can shove that rank crap.”
Dallas Weaver was accustomed to Kilmer’s officious tirades whenever things got dicey; even with years of command experience, his disposition never improved. Weaver first met the Aussie commander in the Gulf War in 1991 while stationed with the SEALS covert ops unit alongside Captain Clarence Hartley. Hartley’s SEAL team had been paired with English forces led by Kilmer. Iraqi zealots were indiscriminatingly setting fire to the Kuwaiti oil fields in the wake of Saddam Hussein’s first loss to allied forces. Their joint mission was to eliminate as many of these subversives as possible before all the operating oil fields in Kuwait were set ablaze. They’d kicked ass together.
Subsequent to his honorable discharge, Weaver and others of his unit had been recruited by Kilmer to devote their extraordinary lethal skills to lucrative mercenary endeavors. Each had been trained as highly proficient killers-their professional training bought with taxpayers’ dollars. But following this distinguished patriotic service, they were unceremoniously discarded and left to find work in a society for which they were ill-suited. Richard Kilmer had assembled his covert band of tactical warriors by constituting a rigorous examination process, which included a personal reference from an existing member. In this fashion, Kilmer knew intimately the strengths and weaknesses of each of his commandos.
Weaver was thankful he measured up to Kilmer’s meticulous background investigation, and was especially grateful that Kilmer recognized his unique skill for breaching seemingly impregnable computer programs. This had earned him a spot in Kilmer’s elite mercenary squad.
But Kilmer’s unquestioned authority didn’t excuse his obnoxious behavior, either. Weaver didn’t appreciate that he sometimes barked orders like there was still a military command structure. That, he couldn’t tolerate.
Weaver re-inverted, taking care to guide his rope into the directional device, and within seconds he rappelled to the sill of the office. He squatted to draw some slack in the rope, deftly unclipped his friction device, and leaned down to dive headlong through the window five stories above the parking lot. His entrance was not as graceful as Kilmer’s. He did not immediately spring to his feet, but simply rolled over onto his stomach before standing up.
“Good on ya, mate,” Kilmer groused, looking down at Weaver. “I thought I might order up one of yer Yanks’ pizzas,” he added sarcastically.
Weaver straightened up, unbuckling his harness and staring impudently back at Kilmer. “Sweet,” he said. “I like New York-style thin crust… with anchovies…since we’ve got the time. You place the order; I’ll start hacking the mainframe.”
“Can it,” Kilmer blustered. “Git yer arse to the terminal. Just like we planned-the Feds can’t figure anyone but Marshall. If they think the hacker used the backdoor, it’ll change everythin’. Holloway’ll go berko.”
“You got it,” Weaver said, taking a seat behind the console as the monitor lit up. He could see Kilmer’s face in normal light for the first time, both having taken off the night-vision goggles.
“Mind ya…use the password. That fingers Marshall from the git go,” Kilmer said.
Weaver could see the concern etched on Kilmer’s face. “How’s our time? It’ll take me five minutes to hack into the server and retrieve the data; another minute or so to compress the formulas and download; probably a couple more to cover our tracks and establish the misdirection clues. I need at least ten minutes to be thorough.”
Kilmer watched carefully over Weaver’s shoulder. He looked at his watch. “Listen up; ya need to be squared away in ten ticks. We’re cool so far…but we could run up a gumtree once we leave. Some wanker’ll patrol up here between 23:00 to 23:15 hours. Ya have a fair go till then…but let’s be on El Camino Real by that time,” he answered in a calm, composed manner.
Dallas Weaver’s fingers flew rapidly over the keyboard while images and numbers briefly flashed on the computer monitor. Kilmer was fascinated by the expertise of his prized computer genius as he smoothly orchestrated what appeared to be unbelievably complex commands. He had no clue what Weaver was doing, nor did he really care. His singular interest was to extract the data Holloway sought and make the Feds suspect Ryan Marshall. Simply knowing that the password was Amerigodevina was enough to put the Feds on Marshall’s trail. But Holloway demanded that they unmistakably implicate this unsuspecting pawn in the master plan.
Kilmer marveled at the thoroughness of Alastair Holloway. How he had conceived a plan as ingenious as the one they were undertaking was a total mystery. Not only was the plan brazen, but it was calculated to the finest detail, including supplying an obscure password that could take hours to unravel under normal computer-hacking methods. There was no mistaking the man’s resourcefulness. He was a brilliant, extremely wealthy, and forceful human being, and woe to anyone that crossed him.
Weaver completed downloading the closely guarded proprietary information from the main server. He then integrated telltale clues in the retrieval system of the computer’s hard drive. This would provide a veritable thumbprint for who had most likely hacked the files belonging to the Quantum Corporation.
Quantum was an affiliate of the Stanford Research Institute, which meant this theft, would be considered industrial espionage. That would draw in the FBI, which would first look to see if the backdoor was breached. The Feds would recognize that there was no infiltration from beyond the firewall established to protect the system. When they eventually discovered that the password was used, they would follow a path leading unmistakably to Ryan Marshall.
Incredible, Kilmer thought. While the Feds are all over Marshall and his cousin, we’ll be making history in Kentucky. This’ll be the most outlandish heist in the annals of criminology.
“Good oh, mate. Time’s up,” Kilmer said, looking up from a steady gaze at his watch. “Hustle up…we’re out o’ here.”
Weaver never hesitated, but kept punching the keys. “I’m about there…just a couple more keystrokes to seal off the server and we’ll be ready to rock and roll.”
He shut down access to the mainframe and removed the memory sticks that now contained all the formulas on the antigravity device they were extracting. A few more moves and the screen went blank.
“Done,” he said, standing up abruptly while carefully tucking the memory sticks into a protective case. “We’re gone.”
Kilmer was careful to remove all the equipment they had brought into the office, and just as careful to drop some evidence that would further implicate Marshall. He placed a couple of strands of Marshall’s hair near the computer terminal then tossed a crumpled-up piece of scrap paper under the desk. The paper was from a notepad with Marshall’s company name, Levitation Solutions, across the top. It contained a note and phone number in Marshall’s handwriting. He paused, giving one last glance to assure they had not missed anything, and, convinced they were ready, nodded for Weaver to open the door.
Weaver slowly opened the outer office door that emptied into the hallway of the Quantum Building. Immediately to his left was the elevator, but they turned in the opposite direction to access the stairwell only fifty feet to the right.
Both men moved smoothly into the stairwell and began ascending the steps. Their footsteps upon the steel treads were silenced by their rubberized boots. Suddenly Kilmer stopped and held his hand up. They both froze. It took only a second to realize they were not alone. Trudging slowly down the stairway from the floor above was someone else. A researcher. The man was lost in thought and appeared to be reading a lab report as he walked.
Realizing the man wasn’t a security guard, Kilmer motioned to Weaver to follow his lead. He knew the scientist would have no time to react if they approached him in as normal a fashion as possible.
