Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖

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 Washington, 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 bullshit national security laws they made up on the spot.

“I called Doug, who was pleased to hear from me at midnight I can

assure 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.

Nobody 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 hell did they find out ?” Scott’s mind immediately

blamed Tyrone. He had been betrayed. Used. Goddamn it. He

knew better than to trust a Fed. Shit. 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 Washington. Seems like you’ve pissed 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 classified, 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, Dick and Shithead

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.

“Fuck 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 passed excruciatingly slowly. But, it had to

wait. Safety was a concern, not getting caught was paramount. He

was going to rob a bank.

Washington, D.C.

“I will call you in 5 minutes.”

Miles Foster heard the click of the phone in his ear. It was

Homosoto. At midnight no less. He had no choice. It was better

to speak to Homosoto 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 Homosoto.

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.

OBVIOUSLY YOU DO, MR. FOSTER. I HAVE MY SOURCES AS YOU DO.

They don’t screw with the press, though. That’s frowned upon.

MAYBE SO, BUT TRUE. WE NEED TO GET THIS MASON BACK ON THE TRACK.

HE IS WHAT WE NEED.

Why him?

SIMPLE. WE HAVE SENT READER INFORMATION TO SEVERAL NEWSPAPERS.

THE ONLY ONE TO PRINT HAS BEEN YOUR NATIONAL EXPOSE. THAT PAPER,

I BELIEVE IS SOLD AT SUPERMARKETS AND READ BY WOMEN WHO WATCH

SOAP OPERAS. MR. MASON IS AN ENGINEER WHO UNDERSTANDS. WE NEED

HIM BACK. HE IS VALUABLE TO OUR PLAN. IN YOUR COUNTRY PEOPLE

LISTEN TO THE PRESS. BUT YOUR GOVERNMENT STOPPED HIM. WE CANNOT

LET HIM FAIL.

How much does he know?

AS MUCH AS WE WANT HIM TO. NO MORE. WE WANT TO FEED HIM A

LITTLE AT A TIME, AS WE PLANNED. I AM AFRAID HE WILL BE DISCOUR-

AGED AND ABANDON THE HUNT. YOU KNOW HOW CRITICAL THE PRESS IS.

THEY ARE OUR MOUTHPIECE.

Yes, I agree. I wish I knew how you find out these things.

MANY PEOPLE OWE ME FAVORS. WE MAY HAVE LOST AFTER PEARL HARBOR,

BUT WE WON WITH THE TRANSISTOR RADIO AND VCRS. THE WAR IS NOT

OVER.

What do you want me to do?

MAKE SURE THAN MR. MASON IS KEPT INFORMED. HE IS BRIGHT. HE

UNDERSTANDS. HIS VOICE WILL BE HEARD. HE MUST NOT BE STOPPED.

I WILL DO WHAT I CAN AS WELL. PUT HIM BACK ON THE TRACK.

I know how to do that. That will not be a problem. Do we still

have readers?

YES, WE LOST ONLY ONE, AND THAT IS NOT HURTING. WE HAVE MANY

MORE.

How many?

MR. FOSTER, YOU WROTE THE PLAN. DID YOU FORGET?

No, I know. Curiosity.

KILLED THE CAT AS YOU SAY.

It is my plan.

WHICH I BOUGHT. I WANT THE PUBLICITY, AS PLANNED. SEE THAT WE

GET IT.

Sure.

MR. FOSTER? ONE MORE THING.

Yes.

I DO NOT HAVE A SLOPED BROW NOR IS RICE MY PRIMARY MEANS OF

PROPULSION.

Just an expression.

KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

<<<<<>>>>> Midnight, Wednesday, December 2 Scarsdale, New York

Since he had met Kirk, Scott had developed a mild affection for

his long distance modem-pal, and pretended informer. Now, it was

time to take advantage of his new asset. Maybe