by H. L. Wegley
KC leaned forward from the back seat, her head beside Julia’s. “To save time, why don’t we divide up what we need to buy, split up in the store, grab everything and meet Benjamin at the checkout?”
“The—how do you Americans say it—tab is on me?” Benjamin grinned as he pulled out his wallet and flashed what looked like his fake ID and a credit card Katz had given him.
“Sounds like a plan but we’re really cutting it close with the light.” Jeff put the van in gear, veered onto the highway, and accelerated to what seemed well above the speed limit.
“Slow down, mi amor.” Allie poked his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Jeff said. “The police have a lot higher priorities to worry about these days than someone driving ten miles over the speed limit.”
“Yeah.” Brock snorted a mirthless laugh. “Like which red area Hannan will attack first?”
Ten minutes later, Jeff turned onto a circle drive in front of a dark building. When the headlights swung across the front of the house, yellow barricade tape cordoned off the area. The tape had been broken in places, and loose ends waved in the gentle breeze.
“Do not cross? They made my house a crime scene,” Jeff said in a whiny voice.
“Yeah,” Brock said. “Finding four bodies on the living room floor, full of bullet holes and bound with tape, can cause that. Hope they found them right after we left, or …” his voice trailed off.
Allie stared at Jeff frowning her disapproval. “You didn’t tell me about that, Jeff.”
No more mi amor. Allie wasn’t happy about her living room being used for a funeral home.
This was the first time Julia had heard this part of the story, too.
Jeff laid his hand on Allie’s shoulder. “That’s how we got Blanchard’s SUV and rescued you. Now if you don’t think you’re worth—”
“Enough, Jeff.” Allie pointed toward the highway.
Jeff nodded and slipped the van into gear.
“I’ll just grab a wireless router for us at the store,” KC said. “Let’s get out of here.”
As the white van turned in at Julia’s house above Crooked River Ranch the digital clock, on the van dash read 6:15 a.m. The sun had popped up above the distant mountains to the east a few minutes ago. It was, for all practical purposes, daylight. Had they been detected by anyone? Satellite surveillance? Traffic video?
Brock could probably post to his blog today. But would they have enough time, before being discovered, for KC to do her work?
Julia shifted her immediate concerns to her house. It was dark, except for the front porch light. A large white square had been affixed to the door. “What’s that sign doing on my door?”
Benjamin slid the side door open and pulled a box from the floorboard.
“Wait before you carry everything in,” Julia said. “I think we should see what that sign says.” She scurried to the door, but stopped several yards away and focused on the bold print. “Quarantined for Ebola?”
Allie stopped beside Julia. “That’s what you had when you met us here that night.”
“That sign’s a good thing,” Brock chuckled. “Means nobody bothered your house while we were touring the Holy Land. Maybe the hospital tried to follow up on you and you were gone. They might have put it there.”
Julia stepped closer and studied the sign. “The sign looks official, but anyone with a printer could have created it. But, you’re right. Nobody would vandalize a house with this on the door. But … I don’t have my key.”
Brock pointed around the side of the house. “Try the back door. KC and I left it unlocked when we ran out, trying to get away from the Black Hawk.”
She looked back at Jeff. “I’ll open the garage door and you hide the van.”
In less than five minutes the van was hidden and everyone inside the house was busy with their tasks. Allie put away the food supplies in the kitchen with Jeff’s help.
Benjamin walked the perimeter outside, probably addressing his own security concerns.
Julia followed Brock and KC into the study where they were setting up the computer equipment. “KC, I just thought of something.”
KC, with a handful of cables, looked up at Julia. “What’s that?”
“We’re dead in the water here if I don’t get online and pay my utility bill, immediately.”
Concern wrinkled KC’s forehead. “How do you usually pay your bills? Directly on the utility company’s web site?”
“You’re worried about who might see what I do and where I am, right?”
KC gave Julia her wide grin that could light up an entire room. “Hey, I thought you were computer phobic. But, yes, it might be a good idea to—”
“I’ll pay through my bank, having them send a bank draft. It takes a couple of days longer, but it hides me and my location.”
“Good thinking. Want to stick around and learn how to hack?” KC laughed.
“No, but call me when we can get on line. I’ll have to pay the other utilities or we could lose our phone and data lines.”
“Hang out here for a couple of minutes. My Israeli laptop is trying to connect to the router. When it does, we’re online.” She paused and glanced at Brock. “I was writing the code in my head while we were riding in the van.”
Brock glanced up from the pile of packing material he was stuffing in a trash bag. “And I was working on my post, too.”
Julia shook her head. “Don’t geniuses’ minds ever, you know, just rest?”
“Genius? He’s the wrong man to ask about that.” Steve’s voice came from behind her. “He’s just a monkey on a keyboard. Give him enough time and he can type out anything, even the whole dictionary.”
Brock pointed a tiny screwdriver at Steve. “That’s what they say about evolution. Give chemistry enough time and from the slimy goo it will create you.”
Steve grinned. “After a detour through the zoo.”
It was good to hear their banter. But this light heartedness would be confined to a few moments. Then reality would set in. What would it be like if they could all simply be friends in normal times? Well, the times weren’t normal and Brock’s post would have something to say about that. “So what are you going to write, Brock?”
He dropped the screwdriver and set the laptop on the office desk beside him. “I need to come up with something that clearly shows Hannan’s attempts on our lives and mocks him for his failure to get us. Then end with something inspirational for our people.”
“So you’re going to make him mad again?” KC tapped on her laptop’s touchpad.
“That’s how we want him,” Brock said. “Angry and careless. Come back in about an hour, Julia, and you can critique it for me.”
“I’m online and good to go, Brock.” KC turned and moved beside his laptop on the desk. “Give me a couple of minutes and your machine will be on, too. But remember. Whenever we access anything, we’re exposing ourselves to scrutiny by people like NSA. I can hide from them, most of the time. So you’d better let me transfer your file when you’re ready to post.”
Julia stood and hooked Steve’s arm. “Hide from NSA? I’m not even going to ask how you do that. Come on, Steve. Let’s help Allie and Jeff make breakfast, then we can hear what Brock comes up with.”
When they walked out of the room, KC mumbled. “Wish I could be done in an hour. I’m worried that we might run out of time here.”
As Steve walked beside her in the hallway, Julia looked up at him, intending to ask about KC’s concern.
The fierce look in his eyes softened. “It’s okay, Julia. I’ll take care of you, even if it seems like we’re running out of time.”
He would try to take care of her, no matter what.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
After Benjamin returned from making his rounds, the seven sat around the breakfast table at one end of the kitchen while the aroma of fried eggs and bacon filled the breakfast nook. As they ate, Brock seemed to attack his food. Evidently, the post to m
ake Hannan angry had the same effect on Brock. Maybe that was something all writers experienced, feeling the emotions expressed in their writing.
Julia scanned the people around the table. Everyone seemed to be attacking their food. Maybe it was only hunger, but Julia didn’t think so. More like frustration from running half way around the globe, staying in three different homes in three days while trying to stay alive.
After they had eaten and cleared off the table, KC headed toward the hallway to the study. “If anyone who wants to hear Brock’s post before I send it, follow me.”
All six followed KC into the study and formed a semicircle around her computer chair. KC popped up a window on the laptop screen. “The file is ready to go to the Israeli server. Here’s what Hannan and the rest of America will be reading.”
KC scrolled to the top of an open document and read.
Mr. President,
The first time you attacked us with a SWAT team. They all defected because they were good police officers who had sworn to protect and serve the people of Central Oregon, not to serve you and your treasonous plan.
Then you attacked us with an Apache helicopter and tried to take us all out with a hellfire missile. Your $70 million Apache helicopter was shot down, destroyed.
Next, you sent a black ops team, special forces under the command of Captain Blanchard. He and all his men were killed. You spent four weeks contracting with Iran to sic Hamas terrorists on us. They shot an RPG into my wedding … which I did not appreciate. The only thing that surprises me is you didn’t choose a Hezbollah operative. Nevertheless, the IDF killed the little coward.
And now you send Captain Deke's Ranger detachment after us. All of his men were killed or seriously injured, except for Captain Deke who is still on the loose. And, finally, you attacked us with a Stealth Hawk. Getting sophisticated are we, Mr. President? Or, is it desperate? Regardless, I thought this $200-million-dollar bird was never contracted by the military. Evidently, you got a few of them for your own special operations. But a member of our group shot it down using one of Deke's own thermobaric rockets, a weapon intended for us.
I see a pattern of failure here, Mr. President. And keep in mind, we are just a ragtag group of seven. Three women and two men with no military training or weapons … and two soldiers.
How can you, Abid Hannan, act as Commander-in-Chief, defending this nation, when you can't even take out a tiny band of resisters?
Your own policies have brought this situation on you, but our entire nation suffers. In a nutshell, Mr. President, this is what you have done. You have systematically removed from our military all the warriors who will fight to the death to protect our cherished freedoms and to protect their loved ones. You see, the old adage is true, there are no atheists in foxholes, for good reason. A true warrior is willing to fight and die for his country because such people believe that they are on the right side of moral issues and that God will take care of them whether they live or die.
But these are the beliefs of Christians, and a few other people of faith, who are the very men and women you have targeted to eliminate from the military. First you replaced the high-ranking officers. For months the daily list of Flag Officer assignments contained hundreds of entries. Then you initiated policies within the DOD that forced other warriors of faith to leave or violate their consciences if they remained.
So who is left to fight your battles? Men like Captain Blanchard, mercenaries with a scurvy crew of people who are not willing to risk death without a high likelihood of success and a big reward. These are greedy cowards, undisciplined men who only fight when they have an overwhelmingly superior force, which both Blanchard and Deke believed they had.
But when the resistance proved much stronger than they anticipated, they couldn't handle the situation. We defeated them and killed their men. We— three women, two men with no military training or weapons, and two soldiers.
You, Mr. President, have emasculated the military, but that was insufficient so, now, you are obsessed with gun control so we cannot fight you, birth control to please your supporters, thought control so you can make hate crimes to punish the politically incorrect, and finally, speech control. In fact, you would like to control my speech, right now, would you not?
You ask for everything but self-control. The people you’ve retained in the military sure don’t have it. They cannot protect the USA and they won't protect you. I take no pleasure in saying this to a sitting U.S. president, but you, Abid Hannan, are as good as dead. I pray that it comes through justice—impeachment by the house, then a Senate trial with a guilty verdict for treason and murder.
To the remnant of faithful men and women in the military, standing alongside America’s finest special operations forces to serve their country, the American people, and protect their way of life—warriors who will never fail their comrades, who will always keep themselves mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight—members of our nation's chosen soldiery … may God grant that you not be found wanting, that you will not fail your sacred trust. “De Oppresso Liber.”
To the American people—over the past six weeks, you have had a small, bitter taste of the loss of your God-given rights and American liberties. It has brought us pain, it has brought us fear, and it has brought death. Your own president perpetrated acts of terrorism against you, killing thousands. Continue to resist him and do not lose hope, because this dark chapter in American history will soon end. We will restore our constitutionally based, democratic republic and there will be an election to replace Hannan.
But keep in mind, he is a man that the majority of you voted for. So, in the future, before you cast your vote, remember what this man said and what he did. Remember, this time, what neo-Marxism looks like when it’s forced on you in the real world. Remember what it feels like, how it tastes, and what it does to your stomach after you swallow it. After you remember, then and only then, cast your ballot.
Your Voice of Freedom,
Brock Daniels
As Julia listened, many of the events Brock described played through her memory, vivid and raw. Julia’s anger that smoldered as KC read the post, burst into an inferno. “Post it, Brock!”
KC tapped her touch pad. “I just did.”
Chapter 23
Julia understood Brock’s work. He communicated ideas and drew out emotion through the use of words. But trying to comprehend KC’s job made Julia dizzy. She stood to leave the study so KC could continue her work.
Brock sat in the big easy chair in the middle of the room. “Kace, would you explain, one more time, how your little gift for Hannan works?”
Brock’s question piqued Julia’s curiosity. She stopped by the study doorway to listen.
“Sweetheart, it’s done and sitting on Hannan’s laptop waiting for him to connect to the defense networks.”
“Yeah, but how do you get the info Craig needs?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Kace, I asked, didn’t I?”
“Okay. First some history. The Executive Command and Control System used to be hosted on a computer in the President’s personal study outside the Oval Office. He had access to the Nuclear Launch Codes and other critical systems from that location. But we moved all that to the DUCC when the underground command center was completed. And that’s where the info we need currently resides.”
“We don’t need nuclear launch codes.”
KC rose from her seat, walked to the easy chair, and sat in Brock’s lap.
Maybe it was time for Julia to leave before the newlyweds—
Brock glanced her way. “If you want to hear this cyber-babble, feel free to stick around, Julia.”
Sometimes Brock’s intelligence and strong opinions could be intimidating. But Brock was being considerate, today. “Yes, I’d like to hear how cyberespionage works. I mean, that is what we’re doing, isn’t it?”
“Since I’m no longer employed by DISA, yes, it’s cyberespionage. Something tha
t could get me locked up in Leavenworth for life if Hannan was our legitimate leader. Where were we … the information we need consists of cypher codes to get through doors leading to the DUCC. Most of the doors use biometrics, but they always have a backup in case of machine or software failure. Craig can use that backup to gain access.”
“So how do you get the cypher codes? From Hannan’s laptop?”
“No, silly.” She ruffled Brock’s hair. “But the DBA—the database administrator—for the defense systems in the DUCC keeps the cypher codes in a database on the classified networks. When I worked there, I sort of borrowed the ID and password for the administrator’s account. I also know the DBA never changes the password … or, if he’s told to, he changes it then resets it back to his favorite password.”
“Isn’t that really insecure to—”
“Brock, remember that the defense networks were never supposed to be exposed to the Internet. It was Hannan’s little network drop, with fiber all the way down to the DUCC, that indirectly exposed them. Since Hannan’s secret connection is only used intermittently, hopefully, I’m the only person outside the White House who knows about it.”
“So how does this little virus on Hannan’s laptop access the codes?”
“It’s called a Trojan Horse, sweetheart, not a virus. If Hannan connects to the DUCC’s network, my code simply logs into the DBA’s account and reads the table containing the cypher codes for the doors. It encrypts and stores them on Hannan’s laptop and, the next time the laptop connects to the White House networks, the Trojan sends them, using a secure protocol, to a server out on the Internet, a server that I have access to.”
KC’s explanation was clear enough, but the code she wrote had to be terribly complex. “KC,” Julia said, “did you have to write all that code yourself? It sounds pretty sophisticated.”
“Connecting to the database, logging in and grabbing the data uses a simple scripting language. It’s almost like you’re sitting at the keyboard and typing in commands. But, to create a Trojan that can hide on a windows machine, that’s sophisticated. I got a kit from the Mossad while we were in Israel. Major Katz put me in touch with someone.”