Sea of Terror by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Coonts
with a prison record.
Somehow, though, somehow he'd managed to fight his way back. A friend with another firm, one of Bollinger's old competitors, in fact, had gotten him back on the trading floor at 11 Wall Street. He was damned good at what he did . . . and this time he was determined not to let the adrenaline or the stress get to him.
One day at a time. He'd been clean and sober for almost ten years, now.
At the bottom of the gangway, he stopped and turned Tabby to face him. "Happy us," he told her. "Not happy birthday, not merry Christmas. Happy us"
"You're the best there is, Adrian," she said. "Happy us!"
She sounded as though she meant it completely. Sincerity, Bollinger realized, was a damned rare commodity these days.
He'd met Tabitha at a party in New York City just a year ago, and she'd become an incredibly important part of his life ... a constant reminder that there was more out there than Wall Street, more than stock quotes, more than work. She'd agreed to move in with him two weeks ago, and as a kind of celebration he'd surprised her with tickets for a flight to England followed by a cruise on board the Atlantis Queen. Tabby was something of an armchair historian, and a two-week cruise through the Mediterranean, stopping in at ports rich with history from Marseilles to Alexandria, was just what the stockbroker had ordered.
And why not? He could afford it. He'd gone from well-off to impoverished and fought his way back to wealthy. Money, he'd learned, definitely was not everything.
And now that Tabby was in his life, he could use his money to celebrate that fact.
"Good afternoon, folks," the officer at the top of the gangway said. He gave them his spiel and handed them their keys. "Stateroom Five-oh-eight-seven," he said. "That's four decks up, starboard side and aft. Enjoy your cruise!"
"Thanks," Adrian Bollinger said, grinning as he gave Tabby a squeeze. "We certainly intend to!"
Rubens' office NSA Headquarters Fort Meade, Maryland Thursday, 0825 hours EDT
"Shit" Rubens exploded. He stared at the bright blue screen on his computer monitor for a long couple of seconds. "Not again!"
Of the sixteen agencies operating within the U. S. government, the National Security Agency arguably was the most technically advanced. From the mammoth machines of the Tordella Supercomputer Center, to the secure internal server networks within the agency itself, to the various shared networks and databases theoretically connecting all of the various government and law enforcement agencies and departments both in the United States and abroad, the NSA had long prided itself as having the very best IT systems, personnel, and equipment of them all.
So why the hell did they have to put up with these system crashes that were becoming more and more routine?
He touched an intercom button. "Pam? NCTC is offline again. Get me Lowell on the phone."
"Yes, sir."
Charles Lowell was the closest thing the National Counterterrorism Center had to an IT head; he was in charge of the complex tangle of databases, some classified, some not, that were intended as a resource to be shared among all government agencies taking part in the War on Terror.
And the project had been a nightmare from the start.
It wasn't Lowell's fault, of course. The problem was that the database project itself was simply so big, so complex, and involved so many different programmers and design tracks that it was almost impossible for any one person to see all the parts and how they had to work together at once.
The NCTC had spent half a billion dollars to upgrade the foundering system through a project called Railhead, and things rapidly had gone from bad to disastrous. At the moment, the system was nearly useless, and a lot of data collected through enormous cost and effort had gone missing.
The Counterterrorism Center had been trying to address the issues for several years, but things looked little better than they had when a Congressional oversight
Somehow, though, somehow he'd managed to fight his way back. A friend with another firm, one of Bollinger's old competitors, in fact, had gotten him back on the trading floor at 11 Wall Street. He was damned good at what he did . . . and this time he was determined not to let the adrenaline or the stress get to him.
One day at a time. He'd been clean and sober for almost ten years, now.
At the bottom of the gangway, he stopped and turned Tabby to face him. "Happy us," he told her. "Not happy birthday, not merry Christmas. Happy us"
"You're the best there is, Adrian," she said. "Happy us!"
She sounded as though she meant it completely. Sincerity, Bollinger realized, was a damned rare commodity these days.
He'd met Tabitha at a party in New York City just a year ago, and she'd become an incredibly important part of his life ... a constant reminder that there was more out there than Wall Street, more than stock quotes, more than work. She'd agreed to move in with him two weeks ago, and as a kind of celebration he'd surprised her with tickets for a flight to England followed by a cruise on board the Atlantis Queen. Tabby was something of an armchair historian, and a two-week cruise through the Mediterranean, stopping in at ports rich with history from Marseilles to Alexandria, was just what the stockbroker had ordered.
And why not? He could afford it. He'd gone from well-off to impoverished and fought his way back to wealthy. Money, he'd learned, definitely was not everything.
And now that Tabby was in his life, he could use his money to celebrate that fact.
"Good afternoon, folks," the officer at the top of the gangway said. He gave them his spiel and handed them their keys. "Stateroom Five-oh-eight-seven," he said. "That's four decks up, starboard side and aft. Enjoy your cruise!"
"Thanks," Adrian Bollinger said, grinning as he gave Tabby a squeeze. "We certainly intend to!"
Rubens' office NSA Headquarters Fort Meade, Maryland Thursday, 0825 hours EDT
"Shit" Rubens exploded. He stared at the bright blue screen on his computer monitor for a long couple of seconds. "Not again!"
Of the sixteen agencies operating within the U. S. government, the National Security Agency arguably was the most technically advanced. From the mammoth machines of the Tordella Supercomputer Center, to the secure internal server networks within the agency itself, to the various shared networks and databases theoretically connecting all of the various government and law enforcement agencies and departments both in the United States and abroad, the NSA had long prided itself as having the very best IT systems, personnel, and equipment of them all.
So why the hell did they have to put up with these system crashes that were becoming more and more routine?
He touched an intercom button. "Pam? NCTC is offline again. Get me Lowell on the phone."
"Yes, sir."
Charles Lowell was the closest thing the National Counterterrorism Center had to an IT head; he was in charge of the complex tangle of databases, some classified, some not, that were intended as a resource to be shared among all government agencies taking part in the War on Terror.
And the project had been a nightmare from the start.
It wasn't Lowell's fault, of course. The problem was that the database project itself was simply so big, so complex, and involved so many different programmers and design tracks that it was almost impossible for any one person to see all the parts and how they had to work together at once.
The NCTC had spent half a billion dollars to upgrade the foundering system through a project called Railhead, and things rapidly had gone from bad to disastrous. At the moment, the system was nearly useless, and a lot of data collected through enormous cost and effort had gone missing.
The Counterterrorism Center had been trying to address the issues for several years, but things looked little better than they had when a Congressional oversight
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