Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

A. ALL LANGUAGES B. MATH C. ALL SCIENCES D. HISTORY E. ENGLISH F. OTHER

He pressed F. A third menu appeared, and the process continued until he finally got a menu on which the final selection was NEW WAVE. When he keyed in that choice, words began to march across the screen.

HELLO, STUDENT. YOU ARE NOW IN CONTACT WITH THE SUPERCOMPUTER AT NEW WAVE MICRO TECHNOLOGY. MY NAME IS SUN. I AM HERE TO SERVE YOU.

The school machines were wired directly to New Wave. Modems were unnecessary.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MENUS? OR WILL YOU SPECIFY INTEREST?

Considering the wealth of menus in the police department’s system alone, which he had reviewed last night in the patrol car, he figured he could sit here all evening just looking at menu after menu after submenu before he found what he wanted. He typed in: MOONLIGHT COVE POLICE DEPARTMENT.

THIS FILE RESTRICTED. PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PROCEED WITHOUT THE ASSISTANCE OF YOUR TEACHER.

He supposed that the teachers had individual code numbers that, depending on whether or not they were converted, would allow them to access otherwise restricted data. The only way to hit on one of their codes was to begin trying random combinations of digits, but since he didn’t even know how many numbers were in a code, there were millions if not billions of possibilities. He could sit there until his hair turned white and his teeth fell out, and not luck into a good number.

Last night he had used Officer Reese Dorn’s personal computer-access code, and he wondered whether it worked only on a designated police-department VDT or whether any computer tied to Sun would accept it. Nothing lost for trying. He typed in 262699.

The screen cleared. Then: HELLO, OFFICER DORN.

Again he requested the police-department data system.

This time it was given to him.

CHOOSE ONE A. DISPATCHER B. CENTRAL FILES C. BULLETIN BOARD D. OUTSYSTEM MODEM

He pressed D.

He was shown a list of computers nationwide with which he could link through the police-department’s modem.

His hands were suddenly damp with sweat. He was sure something was going to go wrong, if only because nothing had been easy thus far, not from the minute he had driven into town.

He glanced at Tessa. “Everything okay?”

She squinted at the dark hallway, then blinked at him. “Seems to be. Any luck?”

“Yeah … maybe.” He turned to the computer again and said softly, “Please. …”

He scanned the long roster of possible outsystem links. He found FBI KEY, which was the name of the latest and most sophisticated of the Bureau’s computer networks—a highly secure, interoffice data-storage, -retrieval, and -transmission system housed at headquarters in Washington, which had been installed only within the past year. Supposedly no one but approved agents at the home office and in the Bureau’s field offices, accessing with their own special codes, were able to use FBI KEY.

So much for high security.

Still expecting trouble, Sam selected FBI KEY. The menu disappeared. The screen remained blank for a moment. Then, on the display, which proved to be a full-color monitor, the FBI shield appeared in blue and gold. The word KEY appeared below it.

Next, a series of questions was flashed on the screen—WHAT IS YOUR BUREAU ID NUMBER? NAME? DATE OF BIRTH?

DATE OF BUREAU INDUCTION? MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME ?—and when he answered those, he was rewarded with access.

“Bingo!” he said, daring to be optimistic.

Tessa said, “What’s happened?”

“I’m in the Bureau’s main system in D.C.”

“You’re a hacker,” Chrissie said.

“I’m a fumbler. But I’m in.”

“Now what?” Tessa asked.

“I’ll ask for the current operator in a minute. But first I want to send greetings to every damned office in the country, make them all sit up and take notice.”

“Greetings?”

From the extensive FBI KEY menu, Sam called up item G — IMMEDIATE INTEROFFICE TRANSMISSION. He intended to send a message to every Bureau field office in the country, not just to San Francisco, which was the closest and the one from which he hoped to obtain help. There was one chance in a million that the night operator in San Francisco would overlook the message among reams of other transmissions, in spite of the ACTION ALERT heading he would tag on to it. If that happened, if someone was asleep at the wheel at this most inopportune of moments, they wouldn’t be asleep for long, because every office in the country would be asking HQ for more details about the Moonlight Cove bulletin and requesting an explanation of why they had been fed an alert about a situation outside their regions.