Chapter 1

Friday, January 12

It was a blizzard. A desert blizzard. Only one other person knew a computer model had predicted it six weeks ago. Steve Stone remembered talking with him that day. A storm like this only hit the California high desert an average of once every 25 years. It was then he started referring to the project as Polar Cap Five, but there were only four teams with four sealed sets of plans. Why did The Commander call them Polar Cap Five?

Stone was getting used to the identity enshrouding white neoprene suit and mask he was donning. He welcomed the suit for the freak weather. The white color allowed him to move about unseen at the Twenty-nine Palms Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center. How could his plans have been so accurate?

The Commander’s orders had been exceptionally detailed. This was a distinguishing characteristic of his former classmate. The other, of course, was in his sobriquet. Stone was ordered to steal a Commando Ranger III counterterrorism vehicle from the base as part of his plan. Stone had walked through one of the low washes marked on the USGS map that The Commander had furnished on his handheld mobile GPS locator. It led directly into the vehicle storage area. It took about 15 minutes to time the movement of the guard’s high mobility multipurpose wheeled Humvee vehicles to synchronize the expropriation of the vehicle.

The targeted vehicle was the substantially modernized Cadillac Gage Armored Vehicle (CGAV). It had not been that long since he had driven one while in the United States Army. Stone could feel the power of leadership surging in his veins. The Commander had selected the vehicle over the USMC version of the updated Humvees and Bradley Armored Fighting Vehicles because of its manpower capacity. It had specialized features designed following the wave of terrorist attacks on the United States, at home and abroad.

As soon as the first of the alternating guard Humvees went by, Stone entered the garage that housed the CGAV from the door away from the wind. The building was one of those tall, creaky metal structures that entrapped the wind through loose fitting doors, and over limber metal roof covering materials. It was hard to tell that the door had been opened and closed. He wanted to make his entrance as quietly as possible. He froze as he saw a staff sergeant and two mechanics working inside.

"You guys may go home," Master Sergeant Imrie said, ducking quickly outside his warm office to issue an order.

Stone smiled. He would be alone. There was only one person standing in his way. The carefully laid plan was developing even more smoothly than he had envisioned in his mind’s eye. Even so, it would be a long night ahead. It was like pranks he and The Commander had executed in high school. Only this time, life hung in the balance for several people in the military as well as civilians.

"Thank you, Sir," Corporals White and Odom said in unison. The garage was closed tightly, but the roll-up doors were no match for the fiercely cold blowing wind. The overhead gas heaters made the work area seem cold, but not unbearable. The married E-4 base housing was no more modern than the garage, however, it had more efficient heating.

Master Sergeant Imrie sent everyone home. Stone assumed the dismissal was not so much out of kindness, but out of a desire for uninterrupted quiet. If they had continued working, the mechanics would have found excuses to come into the warmer office with questions every few minutes. The cold demanded it. He had a mound of paperwork, and it would be easier to concentrate in solitude. He had been on the base as far back as President Carter’s military budget days when the black smoke billowed from every military tailpipe. Therefore, he knew a myriad of tricks to keep an old vehicle running.

Master Sergeant Imrie was soon paying attention only to his paperwork, and the radio that was coming in a little clearer due to the radio bouncing effect of the low cloud cover over the entire Los Angeles Basin during the storm. The office was in the middle of the shop and had windows on all four sides. The door was to his back left-hand side. The conspicuous print shop steel sign outside clearly read, ‘Knock before Entering’. To all, but officers, this invisibly meant ‘and await orders to enter’. Since the master sergeant had been a fixture for so long, Stone surmised officers often were hesitant to enter without following established procedure.

Stone slipped furtively and noiselessly around the building toward the entrance of the office. He crept along the half high wall of the office below its thermal pane windows. He surveyed the reflection of Master Sergeant Imrie on the polished side of the water cooler inside the office. Stone required exact knowledge of the master sergeant’s position to make his moves. The design had anticipated at least one assault against the guarding staff to occur. Stone readied himself quickly, both physically and mentally. He had rehearsed the maneuver in his mind a thousand times.

He silently turned the door handle with his left hand, and stepped inside with two short steps. Stone knew he would be heard, but that was part of the scheme. As the master sergeant turned to face the door, Stone pressed the chemically soaked cloth against his nose and mouth, using his right hand. The left hand stopped any motion with a hammer lock. The ether acted rapidly. The sergeant suddenly stopped fighting. In less than thirty seconds, he was unconscious. As Stone allowed him to slip to the floor, he took the vehicle keys from his desk drawer.

Stone commanded the master sergeant’s tacit acquiescence in his goals, and knew he would not get it unassisted. Using the nylon single-use handcuff straps crammed in his back pocket, he disabled the master sergeant’s wrists. A second set at the ankles removed easy mobility of his legs. Employing a third cuff at the knees, he made sure the sergeant would not leave the proximity of his desk. While placing a final hogtying cuff, he rolled the sergeant on his side. Stone tied his arms and ankles together around the leg of the heavy metal military desk. He was perfectly hobbled. Stone thought the man, who was normally a man of action, would make a super prisoner. Stone knew this would not prevent the sergeant from ultimately escaping his bonds, but he would be safely off the base before the marine could sound an alarm.

As Stone glanced at his watch, he realized he had to be in position instantly since the next guard pass was less than a half minute away. He positioned himself inside the east roll-up door and listened. It was time, but there was no distinctive roar of a Humvee.

Was that the sound? Stone wanted to hear the second patrol vehicle come through. Had he mistimed the security patrols? Had the Jeep already made a pass? He watched as it was first fifteen seconds, then thirty seconds late. The Commander’s plan was in its infancy. It must not fail now. It was too much money, and a multitude of people were at stake. He looked at his watch a final time. If it were too late, he ran the risk of getting out too close to the schedule that the patrols maintained.

Yes, it was the second security patrol’s Humvee. He waited, then pressed the auto button for the door to open all the way. Stone made a zippy, but smooth, motion of entering the CGAV, starting its turbulent diesel engine, and exiting the protection of the garage. He hoped the extra time it took to close the garage door would keep the next Jeep patrol from following his tracks.

He knew he had to avoid detection. He entered the coordinates for his escape route into the onboard computer - 34 ,15', 50"N, 116 , 1', 44"W; 34 ,18', 7"N, 115 , 55', 46W; 34 , 22', 26"N 115, 56', 46"W; and 34 , 26', 0"N 115 ,52', 6"W. The Mapserver on the backlit video screen quickly located the snow covered dirt roads that would be deserted in the storm. He was set to receive automated computer verbal guidance through ‘Cleighorn Pass’ summit of 2,560 feet. The map flashed on the screen. He only had a city block to travel before he would be off the routes of the base’s sentry vehicles.

–*–

"Approach control has notified us that Los Angeles International Airport is likely to remain under a heavy blanket of fog for several hours," the Captain articulated from the cockpit in a voice that bade a valiant effort at sounding Mountain West Airlines chipper. "We will be landing shortly at our alternate airport, Ontario International Airport."

Eric Blue knew the scenario well. Damn the marine layer! He had been traveling by air for visits to his hometown of Laguna Beach since his college days. He was well aware that frequently weather conditions during December and January brought heavy fog around LAX Airport. The national weather reports which he noticed on television, before he left Washington, had predicted bad weather across the country. The report ignored a mention of vast banks of fog in the L.A. Basin. Typical, he thought.

"Free ground transportation will be available for all passengers for the approximate one hour trip to Los Angeles International. It will be necessary for all passengers to show identification and find their baggage so the drivers can place them on the correct buses. We will be outside the security control. If you are boarding another flight in LAX, you’ll need to once more go through security." Eric felt the small knot that developed in all fliers’ stomachs since the 911 disaster. He would have to face the customary waiting lines and security restrictions the world now faced. The routine was familiar. He had been searched on his previous flight to California.

Blue’s mind turned off the promulgation. He knew the federal motor pool car would wait until he got there. It was not considered a perk of the job that he was furnished a car wherever he traveled. As the chief troubleshooter for the Department of Homeland Security, he was on call 24 hours a day, and working vacations were no exceptions.

He had only been able to justify the working vacation by his demand for some undisturbed filing time for the critical reports on the third group of Washington, D.C. area serial killings cases. Everything these days that involved Homeland Security was a priority. He had worked on them with his laptop on the plane. Most of the information was ‘need to know’ and could not be disclosed in such a public place. He knew he was only days away from the start of closed-door hearings about the case on the Hill, and court appearances on the sniper shootings.

He noticed that after the flight crew served what passed for a snack, one attractive blond female flight attendant found several reasons to frequent the aisle near him. It was one of the facts of his profession; there was never time for a social life. There were always attractions and opportunities. Attractions were often mutual, but there was no time.

Blue’s muscular body filled out his short sleeved dress shirt belying his dégagé spirit. His hot nature made the abbreviated sleeves much more comfortable than the long sleeved versions of the shirts issued by the FBI. This was one good reason to accept the job when they asked him to serve at the Department of Homeland Security’s White House liaison office. The Department of Homeland Security had originally been created by Executive Order to be in the White House. As the needs developed over time, Congress created a Secretary level post and department that consolidated more than twenty agencies. Under the current administration, a DHS liaison office within the White House was still necessary. Here, there were no dress codes that had not been broken previously. Short sleeves were politically correct for the new young Tennessee reared Republican President.

Blue wore his medium brown hair combed back without a part or wave. The effect of his hair treatment gave him a tall, wide forehead that allowed his sideburns to closely measure his deep-set brown eyes. His strong nose was openly framed by gentle wrinkles caused by his studied, but infectious smile, and too much sun as a teenager. The early gray temples, that had distinguished most in this family, had not yet affected his thick hair.

The plane’s latest delay, he knew, would alter his evening. It was almost a three-hour drive to the family beach house he had inherited from his parents in the Sleepy Hollow section of Laguna Beach. The bus trip to LAX from Ontario, California, would add another hour or more. He had already added the three-hour time difference between the East and West Coasts when he made his reservations, but he had been forced to take a later plane due to the White House staff meeting, arranged by Pike Kingston.

"Please put up your tray tables. The Captain has announced our final approach into Ontario," the pretty blue-eyed blond flight attendant prodded. The weather forecast had been acceptable for the L.A. Basin when he left Washington a few hours earlier. Now, this irritation!

--*--

"Don’t you ever go home?" Pepi Haas asked, which was his normal way of saying good-bye for the evening.

"Oh, yeah. I won’t be long. Just checking my projects," was the answer as he brushed a speck of dust off his ever present tie-less blue dress shirt.

"As if you don’t get checked often enough already," Pepi said as the security door closed leaving him alone in the computer room.

It was time for the worm, he thought. It would be his deus ex machina. He was alone at last. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved one of the small portable data RW-DVXRAM discs which the company had standardized for productivity reasons when the new management took control. The algorithmic seed of Polar Cap Five had come from that administration takeover. Each of the board members that had voted against him would pay. The disc contained the computer code for the master blueprint. It had all come down to this.

He had been working on the project for six months. To be exact, six months, eleven days, three hours, and forty-seven minutes. It took almost no time at all for the disc to come up to speed in the drive. They would pay. Like a swarm of bees in the hive, the worm was ready to be released to certain computers in the network. It was not like the standard computer virus or worm. Its harm was not directed at the integrity of the data processing world. The worm, nonetheless, would move in and out of computer memories and storage media with a target in its programming.

"Enter code to launch" the terminal screen displayed in an inelegant dialog box that did not match The Commander’s programming skills. The code had been carefully selected. Although it would become part of the series of messages that would dart about the internet as a result of his creation, nothing could be traced to him, or the satellite monitoring room terminal. And even if the facility could be held liable as the source, he would never pay the retribution part of every country’s laws. The code was carefully designed to move about without leaving fingerprints, much like a premeditated murderer wearing latex gloves from a notorious true crime character by the renown author, Ann Rule.

The Commander sat transfixed by the string of messages that streamed across the screen. In each case, the center’s computer was sending an address and password to access a computer in its ever growing list of clients. The codes were properly acknowledged, and the execution commands were passed. A checksum command was issued, and the distant computer answered with the correct answer. There was not a flaw, a fault, or even a data packet that had to be resent due to a communications glitch. Perfection.

More time would be nice. Not a lot of time, actually, because the eclectic plan was so precise and abstruse. He had made his detailed blueprint for escape, and knew there was no way any of the plot could touch him. It was sad in a sense. He wished they knew he did it and why. He had consistently been underestimated, and, were it not for him, the company would have failed. Now, he would get his reward. They would also lose him, and although they had never stated it, even in a whisper, he was their most prized asset.

He looked at the imaging screens. The satellite data confirmed what his long-term forecasting model had shown more than a month ago. He had correctly set part of the project in motion then. Now it was step two of an impeccable cabal. The disc popped out of the

RW-DVXRAM disc deck after it had disgorged its series of commands to computers throughout the U.S., Caribbean, and Europe. The computer commands would be executed by the designated computers connected to the network on time. His loyal friends would help him with the five targets. They would share in well deserved tax-free compensations.

--*--

Bruce Boxx had been in charge of the Los Angeles International Airport security since the Los Angeles World Airport Commission’s 2001 masterplan, and with the federally mandated security upgrade following Osama bin Laden’s attack on the World Trade Center. He was the Airport Security Agency’s (ASA) first hire in Los Angeles. He designed the system. He knew every technological detail about it since installation. When Congress created the Department of Homeland Security, he turned down a Washington position to oversee all ASA airport operations. He was familiar with the airport’s seasonal tendencies to shut down in the late fall when the coastal eddy created fog banks. The central computer was quite accurate in predicting events several days in advance.

He was born in California. He knew nothing else. Protecting the Los Angeles International Airport was the most important job he wished as a profession. He tried not to let the developing threats turn him against the job he hoped to make a lifetime career. The elevation of his position to that of a federal security czar wasn’t that significant to him. His central goal had never changed.

He had already made the appropriate staffing changes to deal with today’s fog. The concomitant changes in passenger arrivals and departures in all of the airports, such as the Ontario primary weather relief facility, managed by the Department of Airports, was well under control due to the security considerations. He was confident that technology had come to the aid of his operation.

The smartcards used by most states as a medium for their drivers’ licenses, and the sensing equipment that read them from a distance, were the most helpful technology in rapidly identifying passengers and staff within the airport’s security perimeter. The trend had started with the Immigration and Naturalization Services replacement of the older green cards with smartcards after the World Trade Center disaster in New York City. The airport’s most extreme perimeter entrances could read the cards, take video photos through its 11,450 fixed and targetable cameras, and attempt an electronic match. The mismatches were immediately transmitted to the roaming security force and passenger check-ins.

Although the cards varied in content from state-to-state within the United States, and from country-to-country for other country smartcards, an international standard had been established to identify the various bits of information found on different smartcards. Most cards included digitized versions of the holograph safeguarded pictures on the front of the cards. This digital information in the smartcard chip was easily read by the airport’s state of the art sensors. By the time a person entered the farthest perimeter, their data from the chip had usually identified them as a passenger bound for a particular flight, or simply an employee reporting to work.

Most cards carried complete criminal records, driving records, health information, fingerprints or thumbprints, cornea biometrics, and various identity numbers like social security cards or passports. As cards were passed through a checkpoint, new update information such as visas granted, or expired, were added to the cards for a more rapid update at initial physical contact. The smartcards had several maker identification numbers, card manufacturer batch numbers, and random numbers created when the card was last updated by its issuing authority to make counterfeiting nearly impossible.

Since many of the smartcards can also be used as credit or bank debit cards in at least the owner’s home country, the chip has a separately decodeable ecash component. In the United States, after the Bush Administrations Executive Orders of 2002 and 2004, a warrant was no longer required if the local FBI Special Agent approved. For those on the FBI terrorist list, maintained under the Homeland Security laws, even this type administrative finding was not a requirement. The airport had this list automatically updated in real time from the FBI’s computer in Washington. With the security system in place at LAX, it was computerized to detect any person on the FBI wanted list of suspects on sight, and bring them to the attention of the guards monitoring the cameras.

The technology allowed the airport security system’s central computer to monitor the movements of anyone with or without a smartcard. Passengers with cards were checked to affirm they had authorization for the area they were accessing. Those without cards were watched by special cameras with feeds sent to the manned watch center. Boxx was glad to see that the numbers of unmatched smartcard identified targets within the airport were down. The counter over the video monitoring station showed only 12 under observation. Of course, that meant 12 too many for the perfectionist.

Boxx had been a personal rights advocate in his college years. The realities of the post 911 era had changed his perspective, along with most Americans. Personal rights had to be tempered with the rights of society. He felt his job as Security Chief at the Los Angeles Airport system was a national priority. While he had never told anyone of his feelings, he felt inwardly

proud of the nearly perfect security record of his organization.

"Do we show any targets on the computer tomography (CT) scanners or medium x-ray systems?" Boxx asked Jim Cowin, his manager for cargo, packages, and checked baggage.

"Nothing, and the IED explosives system is up and clear."

"Bob," Boxx said, turning to Bob Tyson, his manager for the passenger restricted zone of the airport, "any problems or system outages?"

"No. There are no uncleared personnel in the red zone. All of our checking points and new hidden gateway systems are working up to spec."

"How about the blue zone?" Boxx inquired, turning to the perimeter control desk personnel.

"All clear here, too, boss," Fred Tower, the manager of perimeter security responded with his usual annoying effervescence.

Boxx was particularly proud of the new highly technical equipment. It included more than 300 hidden x-ray gateways that passengers passed through without awareness of the equipment’s presence. It allowed the system to search passengers’ bodies, carry-on luggage, and smartcard information for additional checks of previously cleared patrons and staff personnel as they approached the actual red zone boarding gates. Passengers were checked and rechecked. The system’s tie to the security’s master computer assured accurate coordination and control.

--*--

As Stone became familiar with driving the CBAV off base, he realized he still had a long way to go over rough terrain to reach his central project launch destination. The G.P.S. (Global Positioning Satellite) Mapserver was easily set to his target destination. He was behind schedule, and, subconsciously, lit a Marlboro, the last one in the red pack to settle his nerves. The track would take the CGAV across the Air Ground Combat Center’s Desert Warfare Restricted area, through the Bullion Mountains east of Deadman Lake, North of Ben Butler Mine, and past Valley Mountain. At last, it went through the Claighorn Summit and the edges of the Amboy Crater Lava fields, then past War Eagle Mine. He had only to trust the computer’s instructions. He trusted his orders which stated that all aircraft would be grounded. Therefore, this suggested no danger in crossing the active target bombing range ahead.

The instructions implied that the complete job would require eleven men. Notwithstanding Stone’s premonitions, the individual team list had not been furnished; only the job instruction packages. He had prepared the equipment as ordered. He accepted the sealed orders for each team leader from The Commander whom had included the team’s tasks and their echelon of members. Stone knew better than to open these orders prior to his arrival at the launch point. He wondered if all this security were really necessary.

The Commando Ranger III had a 275hp diesel engine to power the rubber-tracked articulated suspension propulsion system. It was rated to handle vertical snowy terrain to a 60 percent grade, although the heavy armor of this particular vehicle kept the maximum side slope to about 40 percent. The range Stone was traversing had slopes in excess of the vehicle specs. Careful. The vehicles were used by the Navy and Air Force, in addition to the Marine Corps. Each service, of course, had its own version. Almost half of the ten thousand vehicles Cadillac Gage had sold were in Middle Eastern countries. Most were located in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Kuwait, and Israel. The vehicle would overcome any difficult conditions to reach its goal.

Although he had not graduated, Stone and his boss on this job were both from the same Atlanta area high school graduating class. He had lost track of the alma mater since the school district had renamed it for a martyred fact-finding right wing Cobb County Congressman, killed by terrorists in the latest outbreak in Jammu and Kashmir. The dozen or so guys, that had made up his group of unparalleled friends, had kept in touch through the years. There were more on the list of group leaders. This would be an interesting reunion. The target site for today would mark only the first unique element of the joint effort.

Stone pointed his angular jaw forward to peer through the small windshield using the extra long-range forward looking infrared (ELRFLIR) goggles. Although he had always combed his thick brown hair straight back without a part, the tight mask seemed to yank the strands from their roots. He adjusted the ELRFLIR temple slide switch to shut out the cold snow that reduced his visibility. His dimpled smile did not show under the neoprene visage, but his sharp pointed nose stretched the mask to give it an individualized look. He was quietly glad he had given up his moustache and beard with his last prison stay. That would have been painful in the rubber facial camouflage.

When he met with the boss, he was told that each man on the job would get a plane ticket out of the U.S., and $50 million for one or two weeks of work. The Commander told him the gross take before expenses would be a billion dollars, which represented the amount of money that had been stolen from him in business. The only condition placed on their participation would be that they were not permitted back into the United States until all the statues of limitations had run out on the crimes. There would be both plenty of untraceable cash and funds in numbered European accounts. That surpassed the biggest job he could ever fathom. There would soon be enough manpower to proceed. He looked forward to that money being transferred to his secret account the following Friday. They would have to be careful not to break any laws with long statues of limitation.

–*–

Jeff Tanders had finished entering his latest notes on a palmtop computer when the flight attendant announced the plane’s final approach into Dulles International. He was not happy. The trip, like so many before, had not been productive. He had been given the Edgemont Group diplomatic assignment for more than twelve years, and it was hard to see that the protagonists had changed their positions since the beginning. It was true that the cooperation had been there when terrorists’ funds were ordered to be tracked and frozen. He had won a Presidential Commendation for his speedy negotiation of the Hawala Control and Monitoring Treaty, but there was no cooperation with other types of secret currency transfers. Even his wife, he thought, had been proud of him at this time.

He was particularly unhappy with the government meetings of the Cook Islands, Dominica, Egypt, Guatemala, Hungary, Indonesia, Israel, Lebanon, the Marshall Islands, Myanmar, Nauru, Nigeria, Niue, the Philippines, Russia, St. Vincent, the Grenadines, St. Kitts and Nevis. When the administrative rules for the reporting provisions of nested accounts in the International Money Laundering Abatement and Anti-Terrorist Financing Act of 2002 had been ruled unconstitutional, all reform momentum had been lost. Less than fifteen percent of the

al-Qaeda funds had ever been traced. There were raids on the sale of cigarettes for terrorists, like the episode in Detroit, but overall that had not been an effective track record.

He knew the assignment was not as important as most of the other prime missions of Foggy Bottom, but the State Department did expect progress on all of its initiatives. Tanders’ job was to negotiate an end to all of the secret banking accounts that kept the world’s law enforcement from stopping money laundering, tracing terrorists’ funds, and intercepting such important wealth flows as drug and arms crime proceeds. It was his lot, he knew, to be a small cog in a very big wheel.

There had been progress on the sharing of information with some of the European countries during the past century, but with increased business in Caribbean banking, the channels had narrowed. It appeared that competition for these funds was more important than policing the crime trades that flourished from safe and secretive money movement outlets. His current trip also included the Caribbean, Central America, India, Pakistan, West Africa, and Europe. The covert accounts in several countries often had nested within them bank deposits that merely existed as names on the computer server’s memory of barren rocky Pacific or Atlantic atolls.

He had not received any promises of mutual aid. He was curious about what the Hawala monitoring governments were doing after their involvement in the destruction of the World Trade Center, U.S. bases, and embassies. He had found new countries strongly considering hidden accounts as a means of attracting critically needed foreign capital. The ancient trading of debt obligations, that formed the basis of the Hawala system, remained a principal form to transfer international funds for a major part of the world.

The computer age had made it so simple to transfer international funds. Transfers by account numbers were like a national lottery to the governments of small resource poor countries. The only positive note to his report would be the new list of important contacts in the world of underground accounts. His report would simply serve to update some functionary bureaucrat’s database. Fortunately, the Hawala database had hardly grown, and only the principals changed as generations passed the business to their eldest sons. Actually, there was not much to accent in a report to the Secretary. A deputy level person would surely summarize his efforts as unproductive and hackneyed in creating positive policy change.

--*--

The beeper’s shrill tone cut through the soft lavender and pink velvet decorated bedroom of Sonya Kate. The insertion of technology into her distinctively female embellished Gemütlichkeit apartment was an intrusion made obligatory by her chosen career. She didn’t even think about how incongruent it all was. She had always wanted to be one of the first females in her chosen profession; however, the vocation she ultimately selected had several females in its ranks. She progressed up the chain of command after the government’s affirmative action regulations had been struck down by the conservative ideology of the new millennium.

Kate had the kind of body one saw in French perfume ads on television overlooking pools with magnificent mansions serving as backdrops. Her dark brown hair showed a graceful dip to its brow line that highlighted her full eyebrows and up-slanting eyes. Her smoothly shaped nose was long, but close to her face. The natural gloss of her lips suggested no lip color be applied. Her shapely body was easy and enjoyable to discern under her red strapless lace and silk haute couture negligee.

She turned on the light to read the faint digital display on the beeper, then shifted the electronic receiver in her hand, trying to aim the light at an angle to see a recognizable number. There was none. She took a double take on the dim digits. It read 000-000-0000. Was it a real emergency, or a hiccup of the cataclysm of technology the Department had undertaken in the name of increased Homeland Security? This had happened previously. She knew to check with central dispatch, anyway. It was aberrant behavior.

First, she entered the pre-programmed speed-dial number for the toll free call to the District of Columbia dispatcher. Busy. She knew that was uncommon. Maybe she had dialed a wrong number. She looked carefully at the phone’s LED screen. Correct number dialed. She wiped her eyes and pressed redial.

"Flannigan," was the monotone on the other end of the line, she abhorred.

"This is Sonya Kate," she said, pushing a somniferous sound from the corners of her mouth. "My beeper went off, again. Do you have a message for me?"

"Top of the morning my lass, I’ll check the computer," he answered with an indifference which she surmised was spurious.

This was the third time in the last two hours that she had received a page when she was off-duty. Each time it was a strange gremlin in the system. She could not come up with a suspect for the prank calls, but was sure they had to be within the branch.

"The computer reports a page was placed, but there are no messages in your message queue."

"This is the third time . . . " she abjured.

"I know, but . . ." The a cappella serenade of agency excuses was launched.

"Somebody has to be paging me; the pager and the satellite are all Agency owned. A person is triggering the process," she interrupted the litany of exculpations.

"Look, why don’t you go back to bed, and I’ll look into it. If there is someone trying to reach you, I’ll ring. Are you at home?"

"You know I am. You can read the number off your caller-ID box."

"Okay. Okay."

"And get the instrument fixed! You know it’s against Bureau policy for me to turn off the pager. I’m tired, and need my beauty sleep," she signed off uncharacteristically."You’re a fine looking lass already," he muttered.

Sonya hung up without acknowledging the creep’s ardent pass.