Illegal Aliens Read Online Free Page A
world.
From the very beginning of the team, it had been decided that, purely as a safety precaution, no alien would ever get to know of Nicholi's existence, much less see him, until their peaceful intentions had been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, the Russian's defense console was hidden in a corner of the Command Bunker parallel to the wall monitor and well outside the range of its video cameras. Nicholi had a monitor of his own, a personal life support system, autonomous lines of communication, monogrammed bath towels and a quadraphonic CD player. In fact, he was as independent of the FCT as they were from the rest of the world.
Hissing like an antique steam radiator, a thick sheet of Armorlite bulletproof glass rose from the terrazzo floor of the bunker and locked into the acoustical tile ceiling, hermetically sealing the general in place. Now only a single phone line connected him with the rest of the team.
Nicholi was the unhappy stick to the First Contact Team's carrot. If a situation fell apart so badly that there was nothing diplomatic left to try, if push came to shove, then—and only then—would Nicholi act, using whatever measure of violence he deemed proper to correct the problem. From having a sniper shoot a wine glass out of someone's hand, to the total nuclear annihilation of New York, London, Paris, or even Moscow itself. Nicholi hated his job with a passion, which was why he still had the position.
Finished with his initial preparations, the Russian gave Rajavur a ready sign and, without hesitation, the professor keyed in the activation code on his console.
In electronic majesty, the huge bank of Cray mainframes under their bunker awoke, yawned, stretched, did a few warm-up trigonometric calculations and in the next microsecond reached out to seize control of the United Nations computer system.
With a magnetic lurch, every keyboard in the mammoth building above them froze motionless, all non-essential programs were simply erased and the machines subatomically bowed to their new master. Everything in the 36 separate and shielded computer systems became instantly available to the FCT's mainframe to do with as it pleased. Leisurely looking over the vast array of material, the Cray took almost a full second to locate the correct files, access and process the desired data.
The Transatlantic phone lines were cleared of all calls, orbiting satellites relayed encoded signals, and NATO headquarters in Geneva, Switzerland received an ultra top priority message. The lightning exchange of passwords and countersign took another ten seconds before the military mainframe verified the information and saluted its new commanding officer. Two milliseconds later, NATO's emergency global telecommunications network exploded with signals that were the purest gibberish to anyone but the designated computer system.
Within the cavernous basement of the Kremlin, the incoming signal was shunted to a review station specifically built to prevent such a computer takeover. Already the installation had proved its worth by stopping four such acts of piracy: two from China, one from Germany and one from The Junior Hackers Club of Duluth, Minnesota.
But this signal passed through without hindrance as the construction of the review station had been supervised by a Colonel Nicholi and a young computer genius named Malavade. Therefore it was a total surprise when Russia declared its allegiance to an unknown group of nobodies in the basement of the UN building.
In America, the computers of NORAD instantly complied with the proper and legal request to usurp the Pentagon and seconds later the Army, Navy and Air Force received duly authorized commands to go to Defense Condition One. The unprecedented move caused moans, shrieks, groans, two heart attacks and a promotion.
Across the globe, country after country became locked into the growing computer grid. China was the last to join, due solely to a faulty sub-junction in
From the very beginning of the team, it had been decided that, purely as a safety precaution, no alien would ever get to know of Nicholi's existence, much less see him, until their peaceful intentions had been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, the Russian's defense console was hidden in a corner of the Command Bunker parallel to the wall monitor and well outside the range of its video cameras. Nicholi had a monitor of his own, a personal life support system, autonomous lines of communication, monogrammed bath towels and a quadraphonic CD player. In fact, he was as independent of the FCT as they were from the rest of the world.
Hissing like an antique steam radiator, a thick sheet of Armorlite bulletproof glass rose from the terrazzo floor of the bunker and locked into the acoustical tile ceiling, hermetically sealing the general in place. Now only a single phone line connected him with the rest of the team.
Nicholi was the unhappy stick to the First Contact Team's carrot. If a situation fell apart so badly that there was nothing diplomatic left to try, if push came to shove, then—and only then—would Nicholi act, using whatever measure of violence he deemed proper to correct the problem. From having a sniper shoot a wine glass out of someone's hand, to the total nuclear annihilation of New York, London, Paris, or even Moscow itself. Nicholi hated his job with a passion, which was why he still had the position.
Finished with his initial preparations, the Russian gave Rajavur a ready sign and, without hesitation, the professor keyed in the activation code on his console.
In electronic majesty, the huge bank of Cray mainframes under their bunker awoke, yawned, stretched, did a few warm-up trigonometric calculations and in the next microsecond reached out to seize control of the United Nations computer system.
With a magnetic lurch, every keyboard in the mammoth building above them froze motionless, all non-essential programs were simply erased and the machines subatomically bowed to their new master. Everything in the 36 separate and shielded computer systems became instantly available to the FCT's mainframe to do with as it pleased. Leisurely looking over the vast array of material, the Cray took almost a full second to locate the correct files, access and process the desired data.
The Transatlantic phone lines were cleared of all calls, orbiting satellites relayed encoded signals, and NATO headquarters in Geneva, Switzerland received an ultra top priority message. The lightning exchange of passwords and countersign took another ten seconds before the military mainframe verified the information and saluted its new commanding officer. Two milliseconds later, NATO's emergency global telecommunications network exploded with signals that were the purest gibberish to anyone but the designated computer system.
Within the cavernous basement of the Kremlin, the incoming signal was shunted to a review station specifically built to prevent such a computer takeover. Already the installation had proved its worth by stopping four such acts of piracy: two from China, one from Germany and one from The Junior Hackers Club of Duluth, Minnesota.
But this signal passed through without hindrance as the construction of the review station had been supervised by a Colonel Nicholi and a young computer genius named Malavade. Therefore it was a total surprise when Russia declared its allegiance to an unknown group of nobodies in the basement of the UN building.
In America, the computers of NORAD instantly complied with the proper and legal request to usurp the Pentagon and seconds later the Army, Navy and Air Force received duly authorized commands to go to Defense Condition One. The unprecedented move caused moans, shrieks, groans, two heart attacks and a promotion.
Across the globe, country after country became locked into the growing computer grid. China was the last to join, due solely to a faulty sub-junction in
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