Terminal Compromise Part 59

"Doug, I am not a pimple faced cub reporter. I never was, that's why you hired me. You've always been straight with me . . ."

Scott trailed behind Doug as they walked down the hallway to Higgins' office. He was still calling Doug every name in the book as they entered the room. Higgins sat behind his desk, no tie, totally un-Higgins-like. Scott shot out another nasty remark.

"Hey, you look like s.h.i.+t."

"Thanks to you," the bedraggled Higgins replied.

"What? You too? I need this today." Scott's anger displayed concern as well.

"Sit down. We got troubles." Higgins could be forceful when necessary. Apparently he felt this was an appropriate time to use his drill sergeant voice. It startled Scott so he sat - on the edge of his seat. He wasn't through dis.h.i.+ng out what he thought about having a story pulled this way.

Higgins waited for nearly half a minute. Let some calm, normalcy return before he started.

"Scott, I pulled the story, Doug didn't. And, if it makes you feel any better, we've both been here all night. And we've had outside counsel lose sleep, too. Congratulations."

Scott was confused. Congratulations? "What are you . . .?"

"Hear me out. In my 14 years at this paper, this is the first time I've ever had a call from the Attorney General's office telling me, ordering me, that I, we had better not run a story.

I am as confused as you." Higgins' sincerity was real; tired, but real.

Scott suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to remove the anger he still felt. "What ever happened to the first amend- ment?" Irate confusion was written all over his face.

"Here me out before you pull the switch," Higgins sounded very tired. "About 10:30 last night I got a call from the Print Chief. He said that the NYPD was at the plant with a restraining order that we not print a story you had written. What should they do, he asked. Needless to say I had to come down, so I told him, hold the presses, for a half hour. I called Ms. Manchester and she met me here just after eleven. The officer had court orders, from Was.h.i.+ngton, signed by the Attorney General personal- ly, informing us that if we published certain information, alleg- edly written by you, the paper could be found in violation of some bulls.h.i.+t national security laws they made up on the spot.

"I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can a.s.sure you, and he agreed. Pull it. Whatever was going on, the story was so strong, that we can always print it in a few days once we sorted it out. We had no choice. But now, we need to know, what is going on?" Higgins was clearly exhausted.

Scott was at a loss for words. "I . . .uh . . . dunno. What did the court order say?"

"That the paper will, will is their word, refrain from printing anything with regards to CMR. And CMR was all over your article.

n.o.body here knew much about it, other than what was in the arti- cle, and we couldn't reach you, so we figured that we might save ourselves a bushel of trouble by waiting. Just a day or two," he quickly added.

"How the h.e.l.l did they find out ?" Scott's mind immediately blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. G.o.dd.a.m.n it. He knew better than to trust a Fed. s.h.i.+t. Tyrone must have gone upstairs and told his cronies that I was onto a story and . . .well one thing led to another. But Jeez . . .the Attor- ney General's office.

"Scott, what is going on here?" Higgins asked but Doug wanted to know as well. "It looks like you've got a tiger by the tail.

And the tiger is in Was.h.i.+ngton. Seems like you've p.i.s.sed off some important people. We need to know, the whole bit. What are you onto?"

"It's all in the story," Scott said, emotionally drained before 9:00 AM. "Whatever I know is there. It's all been confirmed, Doug saw the notes." Doug nodded, yes, the reporting was as accurate as is expected in such cases.

"Well," Higgins continued, "it seems that our friends in Wash- ington don't want any of this printed, for their own reasons.

Is any of this cla.s.sified, Scott?"

"If it is, I don't know it," Scott lamely explained. He felt up against an invisible wall. "I got my confirmations from a couple of engineers and a hacker type who is up on computer security stuff. This stuff is chicken feed compared to SDI and the Stealth Bomber."

"So why do they care?"

"I have an idea, but I can't prove it yet," offered Scott.

"Lay it on us, kid," said Doug approvingly. He loved controver- sial reporting, and this had the makings of . . .

"What if between this and the Exchange we fell into a secret weapons program," Scott began.

"Too simple. Been done before without this kind of backlash,"

Higgins said dismissing the idea.

"Except, these weapons can be built by any high school kid with an electronics lab and a PC," Scott retorted undaunted. "Maybe not as good, or as powerful, but nonetheless, effective. If you were the government, would you want every Tom, d.i.c.k and s.h.i.+thead to build home versions of cruise missiles?"

"I think you're exaggerating a little, Scott." Higgins pinched his nose by the corners of his eyes. "Doug? What do you think?"

Doug was amazingly collected. "I think," he said slowly, "that Scott is onto a once in a lifetime story. My gut tells me this is real. And still, we only have a small piece of the puzzle."

"Scott? Get right back on it," Doug ordered. "I want to know what the big stink is. Higgins will use outside counsel to see if they dig anything up, but I believe you'll have better luck.

It seems that you've stumbled on something that the Government wants kept secret. Keep up the good work."

Scott was being congratulated on having a story pulled, which aroused mixed emotions within him. His boss thought it wonderful that it was pulled. It all depends what side of the fence you're on, I guess.

"I have a couple of calls to make." Scott excused himself from Higgins' domain to get back to his desk. He dialed Duncan's private number.

"4543," Duncan answered gruffly.

"f.u.c.k you very much." Scott enjoyed slamming down the phone as hard as he could.

Scott's second call wouldn't be for hours. He wished it could be sooner, so the day pa.s.sed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He was going to rob a bank.

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

"I will call you in 5 minutes."

Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was h.o.m.osoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better to speak to h.o.m.osoto over the computer than in person. He didn't have to hear the condescension. He turned his Compaq 486 back on and initiated the auto-answer mode on the modem through the ProTalk software package.

Miles was alone. He had sent Perky home a few minutes before.

He heard his modem ring, and saw the computer answer. The com- puter automatically set the communications parameters and matched the crypt key as chosen by the caller, undoubtedly h.o.m.osoto.

Miles set his PRG code to prove to the computer that it was really him and he waited for the first message.

WE NEED TO TALK.

That was obvious, why state the obvious, thought Miles.

I am listening.

ONE OF THE READERS IS DEAD. HIS EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN CAPTURED.

By whom?

THE NEW YORK POLICE. THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT. THEN THE FBI GOT THE READER. THEN THE NSA, STEPPED IN AND TOOK OVER. THEY EVEN HAVE INTERFERED WITH THE PRESS. SCOTT MASON WROTE A STORY ON THE READERS AND THE GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM.

How? We don't do that sort of stuff.