Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 9

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 9

By Phil Miller

CHAPTER 9

Kayse Matrix had been an oddball her entire life: A gifted child they called her, from a broken home, excelling in all aspects of academia, specifically technology and mathematics.

At fourteen years of age, after developing extreme Kyphosis, her spine became misaligned giving her the appearance of a hunchback, which afforded her peers the opportunity for ridicule and abuse throughout the rest of her miserable school life, impacting her on all levels. The endless medical appointments and brace adjustments compounded her misery. She felt Isolated and ugly; a misfit; last to be picked for the team; utterly friendless.

She feigned illness on multiple occasions during the last years of her schooling, deciding to opt-out of the so called education system altogether; she had other plans. At the age of fifteen, she headed for the bright lights of London. Surviving on the streets had proved difficult, but she was sure that, as she grew into a woman, things would work out, one way or another.

She would do anything to get by, and she did. It was while living rough round the slums of Shoreditch that she crossed paths with a high flying financial executive, that her technical genius, problem solving and analytical skills came to the fore, with one event being the catalyst for change: his need to be ahead of the game during the worst financial crisis of the century; her genius as a hacker, to get inside the minds of his rivals.  

KC’s hacking skills were second to none and, along with her extensive contacts in high places, was a formidable foe.

She sat, gorging on chocolate and packet jelly, analysing the field of the partially de-encrypted data on her screens. Something was niggling away at her, but she could not quite put her finger on it. She would have to dig deeper.

KC thought about the young officer who had once saved her life. Craig had done well. Problem was, what to do with him now? If he went to Russia, then the entire world would be thrown into a third world war.

She stopped tapping away at her keyboard for a moment, transfixed to her monitor, and the capital letters that had magically formed from the results of an algorithm she had punched in some hours earlier. “HADES,” she said, in a low grumble.

Major Singa was feeling rather anxious. His IT engineers were having difficulty accessing some of their systems.

“How long is this going to take?” asked the Major.

“I’m not sure, Sir!” said the systems engineer, sheepishly.

“What do you mean you’re not sure. What’s the problem?”

As the Major was talking, another engineer arrived and whispered into his superior’s ear, before stepping back to stand to attention.

The top tech turned to the Major with a look of stupefaction on his face.

“It seems that we have been hacked Sir,” he said, as he drew a damp handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

Major Navin Singa began to visibly shake with anger. His head lit up like a belisha beacon before vehemently berating the quaking subordinate.

“We have spent too long and too much money for something like this to happen. You get your arse in gear and get this sorted, and you might just live to see the dawning of another day. Do you understand me?” he yelled, “sort it, get out.”

The Major sat quietly contemplating his next move as he slowly poured himself a dram of his favourite thirty year old Balmenach. Moreau and Donyevsky arrived shortly after, having been summoned prior to the news that they had been hacked.

Moreau sat down and the Major offered him a small shot. Donyevsky stood by Moreau.

“No thank you. What is going on? What’s happened?” said Moreau

“We have a technical issue”

“A serious issue?”

“You could say that. My technicians are working on it as we speak.”

“Enlighten us,” said Donyevsky.

“We have been hacked.” Major Navin Singa arched his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to contain his anger.

“Impossible. This command centre is impenetrable. Nothing can get through. We have our own satellite for God's sake!” said Moreau.

“I know that,” shouted the Major as he jumped out of his chair, “I know everything about this place. I know every security detail inside out. I know virtually every member of staff by there first names and I know there is absolutely no way this place could be hacked,” he turned to his whisky and poured a large glass, loosening his tie as he did so.

“How do you know one of your men hasn’t been compromised. Maybe an insider,” said Donyevsky.

Tom took a deep breath. “Listen to me. Every member of my staff has been vetted, thoroughly. They are all allied military personnel with top security clearance. No hardware is allowed in and none is taken out. No personal mobile phones. Everybody is scanned in and out. Nothing gets by security. Nothing.”

“We were not scanned though Major,” said Moreau.

“Of course not.”

Donyevsky turned to Moreau and then to the Major.

“Craig gave me the USB that he said he found in his flat. The one with the files on the Okhrana.”

Both men stared at him. “Yes,” they replied, in unison.

“Well, I…”

“Yes! you what?” barked the Major, staring intently at the powerful Russian.

“I checked the files last night.”

“Oh! My God! Where is it now? Where is the USB?”

“I have it here,” he produced it from his pocket. “I used it in the war room when the meeting was over. I didn’t think, I… I ….,” he shook his head in disgust.

“Give it to the tech guy’s, it might not even be the source,” said the Major.

“Wait,” said Moreau, “why would the Russian Secret Service put a virus on a USB stick with just a few files and information on it anyway. That does not make sense. They had the list of names and info about Okhrana’s plans. They could have just copied it.  They know nothing of the command centre.”

“We hope not,” said Donyevsky, as he made his way to the Major’s desk to pick up the light coloured whisky bottle before uttering, “they will know about Flamingo.”

“You don’t drink,” said Moreau.

“You are right,” he carefully placed the bottle back on the desk.

“Hold on, when we tracked Craig, he was at the Archway,” Moreau stood up. “He had been there for 4 days.” All three stood together in silence for a moment then the Major issued the order. “Get over there,” he nodded to the Russian, “find out if anyone else knows about this. Do what it takes. We don’t have much time. Take the chopper, move.”

Mika was waiting patiently in a disused yard near Victoria Docks, London. The state of the art communications complex, that was Telehouse West, was a mere 10 minute drive. Her patience was about to pay off as a black transit van pulled in behind her, then out stepped Credi O’rourke. Mika wound down her window.

“Get in.”

“Nice to see you too darlin’.”

“Where is it?”

Credi unzipped a rucksack and reached in but stopped short and sighed, “Bob told me about Beeson. Thanks for taking care of him for me, I was looking forward to dealing with him myself,” he eased the silver laptop and small black Kingston drive delicately out and sat it on his lap.

“The copy is in place and primed.”

Mika reached behind to the rear seat for a small case and handed it to Credi, who immediately popped it, to check the contents.

“Are you meeting your man tonight?” she shifted slightly, angling her body towards him.”

“Yeah! why’s that?” he slid the case under the dashboard.

“Where are you meeting the big man then?”

“Oh! sorry, I’m not meeting him. He’s meeting us,” he beamed, like a cat that got the cream.

“What do you mean?” totally caught by surprise, her door was wrenched open, she was dragged to the floor. The monster that was one-eyed Bob did not hold back. As she tried to get up he kicked her hard in the stomach, and then again; he couldn’t afford to give her the slightest chance.

She was still reeling from the kicks as he pulled her along the ground by her hair and threw her into the back of the van, closing the doors behind him. Credi checked the radio in the car and did a quick search of the stations before settling for XFM and Nirvana’s Teen Spirit; full volume was the only way to listen to it. The car was rocking and so was the van as Bob laid into the secret service agent. Five minutes later Credi decided he wanted in on the action. He turned the radio off and stepped out of the car; it was his turn to have some fun. He opened the rear van door and jumped back when he saw the carnage. Bob had been almost decapitated and Mika was gone. He was about to turn and run when he felt a chill down his spine. He didn’t know what to do or say next. It was of no consequence. It was so quick he didn’t even see it; the razor sharp cheese-wire drawn from her belt slid over his head and sliced through him like a hot knife through butter. He collapsed dead onto the oil stained, muddy ground. Mika’s face was a mess and her body was battered, but she still managed to drag his body to the van, heaving him into the back alongside his boss. The keys were still in the ignition, so she popped open the petrol tank and tore some fabric from her already ripped and bloodied dress. Two minutes later Mika was on her way with her hardware and 40k for her troubles. The orange flame in her rear-view mirror seemed almost poetic to her; like a beautiful sunset, she thought. Her body ached all over and she needed a few stitches to her left eye. She felt a tinge of emotion for a moment, but held it back, trapping it deep within one of the many corridors of her mind; emotions make you weak, and I can’t afford to be weak.

Donyevsky sat across from the Archway, observing the premises from a safe distance; didn’t seem to be a lot going on; the place looked almost deserted. He walked over and tried to get a view of the interior, but the opaque glass frontage put paid to that. He soon realised there was no way in except through the front door; no answer from the intercom. “Hmm!” Donyevsky scratched his head and stood looking around for a while, then looked up and down the old cobbled street, sussing foot traffic; dead quiet. “Fuck this,” he cursed, as he launched part of a broken paving slab at the window, shattering the glass, but unless he had some heavy cutting gear,  there was no way he was going to get through the heavy duty security shutters. He could see the floor was empty, barring a pile of assorted communications cable and a few busted monitors.

KC was gone. Just within an arm’s length was a table with an empty coke tin. A slim chance, but maybe some fingerprints. After reaching in and grabbing it he took out his phone to upload several pics to the command centre. UV light from his pen, coupled with intelligent latency processing on his BIPS (Biometric Intelligent Particle System) app should help hurry the procedure along. It was only a matter of minutes before he received a text; the wonders of technology, he grinned. “So, Kayse Matrix, I wonder where you are,” mumbling as he dialled into the command centre.

“Put me through to Moreau, please!” He was patched through in a nano second.

“We have the eyes of the city looking for her. She shouldn’t be too hard to nail. We need to interrogate her, thoroughly.”

Kayse Matrix sat in her sanctuary, beneath the Archway. Nobody knew she was there. She knew this day would come; the day of reckoning. The secret underground bunker was a relic from the last world war; now upgraded to a state of the art, apocalyptic stronghold; hi-tech, self-supporting with generator and UPS back-up for at least one month. If someone did manage to figure out how to get in, they certainly would not get out; sensory lasers would cut any adversary down in a split second; It had taken a few days to sort everything, get everything right; Now I can work properly, she thought. She worked away at the keyboard for hours; HADES was causing more problems than she imagined. The thought of a strong coffee beckoned, but before she had a chance to flick the switch, the feverish scrolling on all four monitors stopped. KC sat wide-eyed and waited. The cursor sat blinking on and off for a fleeting moment and then the conversion began.

The days of mind numbing de-coding had finished, the end result consisting of several short paragraphs. A dark cloud fell on KC as she realised the potential fall-out. Craig needed to get to a safe place. A place where no one could find him; not Russia; not London; another planet may just do it. She needed help but there was nobody she could rely on, apart from herself. She decided to send a message to the command centre.

Cody sat at her desk but had very little to occupy her mind as the system had crashed earlier in the day. After toying with a pet microbot for a while, she decided to go and see Tom. She could do nothing until her screen came back up. The red line was still there; very annoying, time was slipping. Cody had work to get on with so decided to head off and check on Craig but, just as the automatic doors slid apart, Tom dashed past her, making a B-line for the screen on her desk.

“Jesus Christ! Tom, you scared the shit out of me, get off that,” she grabbed at his left arm and tried to pull him away.

Tom said nothing. He booted the flat LCD with palm-print recognition and waited.

“Well!” shouted Cody.

The slim screen fired back up. They both read the bold, crimson text. The tension was palpable. Cody swallowed hard and wiped her mouth; the air con was playing up in her office, making her feel thirsty.

“We’ve got to get Craig out of here Tom, I thought we were doing this to secure world peace, not destroy it.”

Copyright Phillip Miller