The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [81]
She touched two spots on her screen to call up Mark Cummings, the night staff editor, and Marcia Gomez from security to share in the call before reaching over to the obsolete handset on its fourth ring.
“News desk, Brenda Neff.”
After a brief pause, punctuated by a soft click, a distinguished voice said, “I will not repeat or add to any part of this statement, otherwise academic since you’re recording the call and can transcribe its contents at leisure. Your government’s continuous meddling in the affairs of the Christian Republic of Uzbekistan has fostered untold strife and hardship among our citizens, stretching our patience to its limit.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Brenda spotted Mark’s lanky figure barreling toward her, a wireless terminal to his ear, chased by Marcia and other people she couldn’t name.
“I, the Scourge of God, will no longer watch idly while your corporations plunder our nation with nihilistic tactics and bribes to corrupt officers. You need to be taught a lesson. In thirty minutes, my children will unleash an attack on your nuclear power station and raze it to the ground. Beware, this is only the beginning. Unless your government stops all activity in Uzbekistan, I will reduce your country to a radioactive wasteland.”
Silence and a hiss of static.
Mark’s hand circled in midair, urging her to keep the caller talking.
Brenda leaned forward. “Sir? Could you—”
There was a click, and the tiny red light on the secure phone faded. The call had been severed.
“Got the number and location!” someone yelled from across the room.
Brenda replaced the handset and peered at the expectant faces of the people crowding around her desk. “A prank?”
“That’s a secure phone,” Marcia said. “It needs a complex code besides the number. I don’t know who has access, but the last time I logged a call was in 2042, from the White House after the Taiwan invasion.”
Mark flicked his cell phone and dropped it in his top pocket. “Nicely done, Brenda. We’ll take it from here.”
“Where to?”
“I mean we’ll handle it.” He turned to Marcia. “Get me the police and the DHS.”
As everybody scampered back to their posts, Mark reached for Brenda’s box of licorice lozenges and popped one in his mouth. “You’re right. This is probably a prank; a hacker must have cracked the code. I don’t think the heat will take this seriously, but you never know.”
Nikola had pushed his slippers away with one bare foot and was about to reach for a mug of coffee he’d just carted from the kitchen when Dennis pushed his swivel chair away from his desk. “Developments. I think you’re going to like this one.”
Nikola blinked to arrest Laurel Cole’s file scrolling down his center screen and rubbed his eyes.
“I will not repeat or add to any part of this statement, otherwise academic since you’re recording the …” He listened to the full recording, his mind racing. Children of Uzbekistan? “What’s the DHS doing?”
Dennis fiddled with his keyboard, his screens flashing messages, flags, and other traffic between different police and paramilitary departments. “They triangulated a call to a location between Ellsmere Avenue and Forest Drive, at Lundy, Units are on their way.”
“A prank?”
Dennis didn’t answer at once but continued to work with his computer. “If so, it was a complex one, involving access to a restricted system and a hard code.”
“How restricted?”
“Obviously not enough. White House, Congress, Pentagon, and DHS. Hundreds of people could have access.” He flicked through screens. “They change the code weekly. Yesterday was the last time.”
“Get me a list,” Nikola said. Lundy was north, a new residential district, and Villiard power station was due south of it. The whole thing was absurd. Like every other nuclear power station, Villiard was in the center of concentric security rings, each more strict than the last. Even a tank couldn’t get to within a half mile