44 Fried Drive With Video Card Sauce (1/2)
Two floors above Odongo and Weinberger, Carlton Brock was in conference with captain Dick Brody of the NYPD, in charge of security at the UN building.
”So you're absolutely sure none of the emails that went out were any good? Not a single one in nearly two weeks?”
”Pretty sure, yes, ”said Brody. ”All the emails we've received were completely garbled. I've grilled the electronics guy. He said they busted their asses trying to make those e-mails make sense. He said all the computers around the world located near ground level or above are fucked up.”
”But they worked! People's phones worked, too!”
”Not quite, sir. Most could be switched on, and had basic functions. But very few people could start applications, and no one could make a call. The whole network is kaput, all over the world. My electronics expert assured me all the satellites orbiting Earth are so much junk. So are all radio transmission masts and cellphone towers. The only electronic equipment that has survived is equipment buried deep underground, and insulated by both lead and concrete.”
”Well, now no one can say all that money spent on anti-nuclear defenses was wasted,” Brock said smugly. ”You know, chief, many people have called me many bad names for consistently supporting increases in military funding. And now they've been proved a bunch of stupid assholes. But listen, other guys have anti-nuclear underground bunkers and communication networks too. You're sure the guys we have here can't communicate with their guys over there?”
”That's what I was told, sir. Security networks immune to nuclear attack are closed networks, for obvious reasons. Local area only. They are not connected to the web.”
”So those guys can communicate internally like we do, but not internationally?”
”Correct.”
”Jesus, chief,” said Carlton Brock. ”You don't know what a relief it is to talk to you. Every time I ask one of my staff a question, they push a fucking file at me. You're the guy to go to for direct answers. I'll remember that.”
”Thank you, sir.”
”But what about the computers here? They worked! I saw that with my own eyes.”
”They just appeared to work, sir. And not all of them, either. But every single computer in the world that's not deep underground and protected by a strong electromagnetic shield has been damaged.”
Carlton Brock was so happy it seemed to him he had begun to float on air - no mean achievement, given his weight. Dumping all the messengers, the couriers aboard the Great Western, deep in rural Ireland was turning out to be a brilliant move. What was the name of that place? Galway? Fuck that. The important thing was, it was located on the western shore of Ireland. In Europe, but as far from the rest of Europe as you could get.
Carlton Brock thought: those fucking freeloaders are fucked now. I've won America a three-month head start in the New World. That made it what, thirty months in the New World? Two and a half years! That's how much the good old US of A was in front.
Okay, so maybe there were no more independent nations. But clout was what counted. He would make USA the premier colonizer of the New World. And he would put that asshole Penny through the hoops in the process. What was business without a bit of pleasure?
Brock looked at Brody, and beamed.
”Chief,” he said, ”You've made my day. What's the situation in the city, by the way? Do you know?”
”I had a report at nine this morning, sir. The situation's pretty much normalized. I mean we're getting slightly more than the usual number of felonies, but that's about all.”
”Good, good,” said Brock. ”But everyone needs to brace themselves. There's a vote this afternoon that could start some serious shit flying.”
”I see, sir.”
”Do you? Listen, I really shouldn't do this, but I'm a guy who returns favors. How many dollars have you got in your wallet?”
”I, I don't know exactly sir. If you let me count - ”
”No need, no need. This was a rhetorical question. You know what a rhetorical question is, right, chief?”
”Yes, sir. I always get a bunch of these at press conferences.”
”Okay. My advice is, spend every last dollar you have by the end of the month.”
”I already pretty much have, mister President. I've been running on the cash I had for the past month. I have maybe ten bucks left. My wife has maybe twenty.”
”Tell her to spend it all,” said Carlton Brock.
Three floors below Odongo and Weinberger and five floors below Brock and Brody, Jean Caron was vainly trying to negotiate concessions from Olaf Troll.