The Blue Nowhere

electronic handshake. This was the moment when the firewall protecting ISLEnet would have rejected any outsider’s attempt to get inside but, because Phate’s computer appeared to be CCU’s, ISLEnet recognized it as a super-access “trusted system” and Phate was instantly welcomed inside. The system then asked:
    Username?
    Phate typed: RobertSShelton
    Passcode?
    He typed: BlueFord
    Then the screen went blank and some very boring graphics appeared, followed by:
    California Integrated State Law Enforcement Network
    MAIN MENU
    Department of Motor Vehicles
    State Police
    Department of Vital Statistics
    Forensic Services
    Local Law Enforcement Agencies
    Los Angeles
    Sacramento
    San Francisco
    San Diego
    Oakland
    Fresno
    Bakersfield
    Monterey County
    Orange County
    Santa Barbara County
    Other
    Office of the State Attorney General
    Federal Agencies
    FBI
    ATF
    Treasury
    U.S. Marshals
    IRS
    Postal Service
    Other
    Mexican Federal Police, Tijuana
    Legislative Liaison
    Systems Administration
    Like a lion grabbing a gazelle’s neck, Phate went straight into the systems administration file. He cracked the passcode and seized root, which gave him unrestricted access to ISLEnet and to all of the systems ISLEnet was in turn connected to.
    He then returned to the main menu and clicked on another entry.
    State Police
    Highway Patrol Division
    Human Resources
    Accounting
    Computer Crimes
    Violent Felonies
    Juvenile
    Criminal Activity Archive
    Data Processing
    Administrative Services
    Tactical Operations
    Major Crimes
    Legal Department
    Facilities Management
    Felony Warrants Outstanding
    Phate didn’t need to waste any time making up his mind. He already knew exactly where he wanted to go.
    T he bomb squad had taken the gray box out of the Bay View Motel and dismantled it, only to find that it was filled with sand.
    “What the hell was the point of that? ” Shelton snapped. “Is this part of his fucking games? Messing with our minds?”
    Bishop shrugged.
    The squad had also examined Phate’s computer with nitrogen-sensing probes and declared it explosives-free. Gillette now scrolled through it quickly. The machine contained hundreds of files—he opened some at random.
    “They’re gibberish.”
    “Encrypted?” Bishop asked.
    “No—look, just snatches of books, Web sites, graphics. It’s all filler.” Gillette looked up, squinting, staring at the ceiling, his fingers typing in the air. “What’s it all mean, the fake bomb, the gibberish files?”
    Tony Mott, who’d discarded his armor and helmet, said, “All right. Phate set this whole thing up to get us out of the office, to keep us busy. . . . Why?”
    “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Gillette snapped. “I know why!”
    Frank Bishop did too. He looked quickly at Gillette and said, “He’s trying to crack ISLEnet!”
    “Right!” Gillette confirmed. He grabbed the phone and called CCU.
    “Computer Crimes. Sergeant Miller here.”
    “It’s Wyatt. Listen—”
    “Did you find him?”
    “No. Listen to me. Call the sysadmin at ISLEnet and have him suspend the entire network. Right now.”
    A pause. “They won’t do that,” Miller said. “It’s—”
    “They have to. Now! Phate’s trying to crack it. He’s probably inside already. Don’t shut it down—make sure it’s suspended. That’ll give me a chance to assess the damage.”
    “But the whole state relies on—”
    “You have to do it now!”
    Bishop grabbed the phone. “That’s an order, Miller. Now!”
    “Okay, okay, I’ll call. They aren’t going to like it. But I’ll call.”
    Gillette sighed. “We got out-thought. This whole thing was a setup—posting the picture of Lara Gibson to get our address, going through CCU’s computer, sending us here. Man, I thought we were one step ahead of him. ”
    Linda Sanchez logged all the evidence, attached chain of custody cards and loaded the disks and computer into the folding cardboard boxes she’d brought with her like a Mayflower mover. They packed up their tools and left the room.
    As Frank Bishop walked with Wyatt Gillette back to the car, they noticed a slim man with a mustache watching them from the far end of the parking lot.
    There was something familiar about him and after a moment Gillette recalled: Charles Pittman, the Santa Clara County detective.
    Bishop said, “I can’t have him poking around our operations. Half those county boys handle surveillance like it was a frat party.” He started toward Pittman but the officer had already