The Midas Code Page 4

  “My bomb-disposal instructor had a motto,” Tyler said. “‘Don’t just do something, stand there.’ Doing nothing doesn’t mean you’re doing nothing.”

  “Just checking. What about dumping the whole thing over the side of the ship?”

  “Can’t,” Tyler said. “We’re being watched.”

  She swung around. “I don’t see a camera.”

  “I haven’t had time to search for it, but it’s here. He said he had his eye on us.”

  “Who is this guy?” Stacy asked.

  “His name’s Jordan Orr.”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s the one who had me build the geolabe,” Tyler said, glancing at the timer as it clicked below seven minutes. “I’ll tell you all about it if we live through this.”

  “So you built this geolabe but you don’t know how to use it?”

  “Think of it like the Rubik’s Cube. Just because someone can assemble it doesn’t mean they can solve it. That must be Orr’s problem. He knows that the dials should all point at the noon position, but he can’t figure out how to get them there. But Orr does know that Archimedes encoded the Stomachion with instructions for how to get the dials aligned, so he built the bomb as a test. We need to solve the puzzle in order to operate the geolabe, and that will deactivate the bomb.”

  Stacy nodded. “Makes sense that Archimedes would hide the instructions in a puzzle. The Greeks did invent steganography.”

  Tyler had heard of steganography, the technique of hiding messages in plain sight, like the microdots hidden behind stamps on postcards during World War II, or the way terrorists cloaked messages in pictures and video posted on public forums like Facebook and YouTube. Not only do you have to know that the message exists; you have to know how to read it.

  “Do you remember any specific methods of steganography that Archimedes might have used?”

  “The Greeks developed the technique twenty-five hundred years ago,” Stacy said. “Sometimes a message was tattooed onto the shaved head of a courier, who would grow out his hair and then travel with the secret message safely concealed. Secret communications could also be hidden in wax tablets.”

  “How?”

  “In normal use you would write on the wax itself using a metal stylus. If you wanted to erase it, you’d warm it up and use a tool like a spatula to smooth it over. To send a secret message, you’d write on the wood underneath and then apply the wax and write an innocuous note in the wax. To read the hidden message, you’d just scrape off the wax.”

  “So the message wasn’t encoded. You just had to know what to look for?”

  “Yes.”

  Six minutes left.

  Tyler ran his fingers through his hair as he thought through the problem. “When I was building the geolabe, the text of the manual for constructing it said, ‘The puzzle will be solved only by the geolabe’s builder.’ I wondered about that for a long time, but I couldn’t figure out what it meant. Now that we have the Stomachion, I see something that’s too strange to be coincidental. It must have been in the codex all along, but Orr never shared those pages with me.”

  Stacy bent down to look at the pieces. “What?”

  “There are forty-seven gears in the mechanism. I know, because I spent a few months with them.”

  “So?”

  “Look at the pieces in the Stomachion. There are eleven triangles, one tetragon, and two pentagons. If you add up the number of all the points, the total comes to forty-seven.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Stacy said. “I never would have noticed that.”

  “Only the builder of the geolabe would. Tell me some of the numbers etched on the points. They’ve got to mean something.”

  “Uh, twenty-four, fifty-seven, four, thirty-two, seventeen—”

  “Wait. You said twenty-four, fifty-seven, and thirty-two?”

  “And four and seventeen. What do they mean?”

  The puzzle will be solved only by the geolabe’s builder.

  “The gears!” Tyler shouted before he even realized that it had come out.

  “What?”

  “Quick! Is there a point with the number thirty-seven?”

  Stacy scanned the pieces while Tyler held his breath. If this didn’t work, they were dead.

  After an agonizing few seconds, she scooped up a piece. “Got it! Thirty-seven.”

  “Okay, give me the piece with twenty-four on it.”

  She gave it to him. When he put the pieces together, the numbers aligned perfectly.

  “What happened?” she said. “Did you figure it out?”

  Tyler nodded. “I hope so. One of the gears had thirty-seven teeth, and one of the gears it meshed into had twenty-four teeth. None of the gears had four or seventeen teeth, so those numbers must be included to throw off anyone looking for a code. Only someone who spent time crafting each gear would think to look for that connection. Now hurry. We’ve only got four minutes left.”

  He told her the numbers he needed. He remembered some of them because they were such odd numbers to use in the gearing. He’d have to hope he recalled enough of them so that the others wouldn’t be necessary.

  Within a minute, they had assembled the Stomachion into a square. They flipped it over so they could read the letters on the other side.

  “It still looks like gibberish,” Tyler said.

  “No!” Stacy yelled. “It makes perfect sense now. Notice that some of the letters seem to run in a crude spiral?”

  “What does it say?” Tyler’s eyes flicked to the timer on the bomb. Three minutes left.

  “Alpha Leo. Beta Libra. Alpha Pisces. Beta Scorpio … There’s twelve in all. They must refer to the signs of the zodiac written on the dials of the geolabe. But I don’t know what the alphas and betas refer to.”

  “I do. You couldn’t see it, but the upper knob on the side is labeled alpha, and the bottom is labeled beta. I’m supposed to turn the knobs in sequence to set the dials properly. Read them from the beginning.”

  “Alpha Leo,” Stacy said.

  “Which one is Leo?” It literally was all Greek to Tyler.

  Stacy pointed. “That one.”

  Tyler turned the top knob. The hands on both dials rotated simultaneously. Tyler didn’t stop until the top hand rested on Leo.

  “Now what?”

  “Beta Libra.” She pointed again, and Tyler followed her instruction. They got into a rhythm going through the next seven signs, but the process was still achingly slow.

  The timer ticked down to less than a minute.

  Stacy waved her hands, prodding him to go faster. “Beta Cancer, Hurry!”

  “How many left?” Tyler said as he twirled the knob frantically.

  “Two. Alpha Sagittarius.”

  Stacy pointed to the twelve o’clock symbol, but Tyler was already turning the dial toward it. “Got it!”

  Before Stacy could even say “Beta Aquarius,” his fingers were twisting the bottom knob. Aquarius had to be the zodiac sign at the noon position.

  “Fifteen seconds!”

  Despite Tyler’s frenzied twisting, the hand on the dial seemed to move in slow motion, like a nightmare where you were running as hard as you could but moved as if you were mired in tar. He raced the timer as it counted down below ten seconds.

  “Oh, God!” Stacy screamed. “Go, go, go!”

  As all three dials reached the noon position, Tyler felt the knob click.

  A piercing series of beeps blared from behind the geolabe. Stacy grabbed Tyler’s arm, digging her fingers into his biceps, but the timer stopped. It read four seconds left.

  They both collapsed to their knees, completely drained. There was nothing like the relief of surviving certain death.

  Stacy had her head buried in her arms. Tyler put a hand on her shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She looked up and blinked several times before answering. “Peachy.”

  Tyler’s phone rang.

  “It’s him,” Stacy gu
essed.

  Tyler nodded and answered the call, putting it on speaker so that she could hear.

  “Okay, we did what you wanted,” Tyler said. “Are we finished here?”

  “Finished?” The gravelly voice was gone, replaced by the smooth tone that he now recognized as Orr’s. “Locke, we are just getting started.”

  EIGHT

  Sherman Locke laughed so hard that everyone at the eight-person table turned to look at him. He ignored them and cut another piece of his steak, still chuckling and shaking his head at Miles Benson’s offer.

  The Capital Club had been reserved for senior military officers, key speakers, and sponsors of the Unconventional Weapons Summit to meet and mingle over lunch. Gordian Engineering was a major sponsor, so it made sense that Miles, the company’s president, got his choice of the best table in the restaurant. Sherman had agreed to join him to discuss some business, but this proposal was too ridiculous.

  Sherman took a swig of his iced tea and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Just hear me out, General,” Miles said.

  “Tyler will never go for it.”

  “He doesn’t make the hiring decisions at Gordian. I do.”

  “Come on, Miles. What makes you think we’d last two weeks in the same company?”

  “You wouldn’t even be working in the same city. We would love to have someone of your stature in DC as a liaison for our military contracts.”

  “Not everyone would love it.”

  With his five years of service as a two-star general in the Air Force complete, Sherman had had no choice but to retire. The total number of generals was capped, so it was either up or out, and no three-star opportunities had come his way. So for the first time in thirty-five years, Major General Locke was looking for a job.

  “Has the DTRA made an offer yet?” Miles asked.

  Sherman’s last command was as deputy director of the Strategic Command Center for Combating Weapons of Mass Destruction. In coordination with the civilian adjunct Defense Threat Reduction Agency, his responsibility had been to develop strategies and tactics for defeating WMDs.

  “Not yet,” Sherman said while chewing on his final bite of sirloin.

  “Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”

  “I’m considering a lot of positions right now. How do you know you can afford me?”

  “General, whatever your price is, you’re worth it. You’ve been involved in some of the biggest weapons-development programs of the last ten years. You know everyone, and they listen to you. Gordian is the largest private engineering firm in the world. We can help with virtually any project the military contracts out to civilian defense contractors. That sounds like a buttload of synergy to me.”

  “Does Tyler know you’re asking me?”

  “He’d crap a show pony if he knew I was talking to you.” Miles looked him straight in the eye when he said this. Direct. No dancing around. Sherman liked that. He wouldn’t have expected any less from a former Army officer like Miles.

  Sherman and his son had a testy relationship at best. Lately, they’d begun to patch things up, but working in the same company might be pushing it, especially in a company that Tyler had co-founded. No doubt he’d see Sherman’s hiring as an intrusion into his space. On the other hand, spending more time together might help them mend some fences, something Sherman wanted to do even more as he got older.

  “Okay,” Sherman said. “Just for grins, what would the job be?”

  “You would interact with the Pentagon’s senior officers on appropriations that might provide business for Gordian. Part of your duties would be reviewing upcoming weapons-development programs and analyses to determine where Gordian’s expertise would best fit. Of course, you would have a staff, and we would offer you full partnership after two years with the firm.”

  “So I’d be a salesman?”

  “No. We have guys for that, but I need someone who knows how Pentagon proposals are evaluated and doled out.”

  Sherman leaned back and studied the ceiling. He’d commanded fighter wings, the entire First Air Force, and a department of thousands of people tasked with protecting the nation from the most hideous weapons imaginable. The thought of being some kind of glorified paper jockey didn’t sit well with him.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  “Just promise me you’ll think about it. And I know it’s not all about money for you, but the year-end partner bonuses have been spectacular the last few years.”

  “So that’s how Tyler affords that cliff-side house.”

  “He’s worth every penny,” Miles said. “Takes on the toughest assignments and doesn’t bat an eye. You know, I met him when I was still teaching at MIT. Student of mine. Tyler had a combination of brains, creativity, and guts that was rare. Unique, I’d say.”

  “You forgot to mention that he’s also pigheaded and thinks he’s always right.”

  “He usually is.”

  “And he never listens to his dad.”

  “How many sons do? Listen, I know he’s got his faults— he’s a pain in the butt whenever I want him to do some paperwork—but you should be proud of him.”

  “I am. He just can’t get it through his thick skull sometimes.”

  Sherman felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a waiter.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the waiter said. “A gentleman has asked to see you. He says that it’s urgent.” The waiter pointed at an Army officer standing in the doorway of the restaurant.

  “Will you excuse me, Miles?”

  “Of course.”

  Sherman stood and walked over to the officer. “Yes, Captain?” he said. The name tag said Wilson. Sherman didn’t know him.

  “General, I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I’ve been asked to drive you to a briefing at the DTRA. An issue has come up, and they’d like to consult you about it.”

  “Now?”

  “They said it was quite urgent.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know, sir. They just told me to come find you.”

  “They could have just called. Who’s running the meeting?”

  “General Horgan requested your presence.”

  “Wonder what Bob’s up to.”

  The phrase was rhetorical, but Wilson shrugged anyway. “No idea, sir.”

  “All right. I’ll be with you in a minute, Captain.”

  Sherman returned to the table to retrieve his briefcase. “Looks like I’m needed elsewhere,” he said to Miles.

  “Perhaps we could talk more about the offer over drinks later?”

  “If I can make it back, sure. You have my number. Call me when you’re at the bar.”

  They shook hands, and with his briefcase in hand, Sherman went back to the door.

  “Okay, Captain, lead the way.”

  They got on the elevator, and a hotel waiter joined them.

  “Parking level, please,” the captain said, and the hotel worker pressed the button.

  As they descended, something about the captain’s decorations caught Sherman’s eye. The ribbons on a soldier’s shirt indicated the medals and commendations he had been awarded. For a moment, Sherman couldn’t figure out why one ribbon looked out of place until he remembered what it signified.

  The elevator dinged, opening into the underground parking structure. Captain Wilson held the door open, but Sherman didn’t move.

  “All right, who are you?” he said. The hotel staff member fussed with his coat as he watched them.

  “What do you mean, sir?” the captain said innocently. “You need to come with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with an idiot who doesn’t know that he’s about forty years too young to be wearing that.” He pointed to the yellow, red, and green ribbon on the alleged captain’s chest. The man looked down in confusion.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir.”

  “That’s the ribbon for a Vietnam service medal, genius,” Sherman said. �
��Did you borrow Daddy’s uni?”

  Wilson grinned. “Well, you got me, General. And now I’ve got you.”

  Only then did Sherman realize his mistake. He had assumed he was safe with the hotel worker as a witness. But Wilson nodded at the man, who lunged at Sherman. Before he could parry the man’s arm, metal prongs jabbed into his side. Sherman dropped to the floor in agony as fifty thousand volts surged through his chest.

  NINE

  Grant Westfield tried not to make eye contact as he hustled onto the Bremerton ferry terminal gangway. Disembarking foot passengers were pushing past him before the vehicle ramp was lowered. Even though Tyler’s car was at the stern of the ferry and would offload last, he had only a few minutes to get there before the crew would be looking for the driver.

  Tyler had called Grant from the ferry and told him that he had an emergency. He needed Grant to drive his Viper off the ferry, then look for a truck that said SILVERLAKE TRANSPORT on the side. Tyler wouldn’t elaborate on the reason for the strange request, but he had made it clear that his life depended on Grant’s help. Grant agreed without hesitation, walking the short distance from the naval base to the ferry landing. He couldn’t wait to hear the explanation.

  Grant passed a crewman watching passengers go ashore. He thought the man hadn’t noticed him, but he got only ten feet before he heard a yell behind him.

  “Hey! Hey! We’re not boarding yet.”

  Well, that didn’t work, Grant thought as he stopped. Not that he was surprised. No matter how small he tried to make himself, he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Difficult to ignore a six-foot-tall, 260-pound bald black guy.

  Normally he liked the attention, but sometimes, like now, it didn’t pay off. Time for some charm. And lying.

  Grant turned and saw a skinny white guy in his thirties with long brown hair and a couple of tattoos peeking out over the collar of his shirt, tagged with the name Jervis. Grant gave Jervis a huge smile.

  “Oh, I’m not going to Seattle,” he said. “I just came from there. I left my bag on the seat.”

  “I didn’t see you get off.”

  “That’s funny. I’m usually hard to miss.”

  Jervis raised his eyebrows as if he agreed. “What color is your bag? I’ll have somebody bring it to you.”