“I found it by your PC in your den when I visited you last month. You left it on a piece of paper lying beside it.”
Lazarus felt his face flush.
“I what?” He realized that he really must have made such a stupid mistake. That he, of all people, would compromise state security by leaving information like that lying around was beyond comprehension.
BEEP.
Billy’s computer interrupted Lazarus’ self-admonishment with a self-satisfied sound. Once again, the youngster reacted in panic and tried to reach the keyboard. Lazarus’ hand again crushed down on Billy’s wrist.
“What’s that?” He pointed at the screen. The name of one of his coworkers appeared and then, underneath it, what looked like a password.
“Nothing,” Billy replied. He wasn’t very convincing.
“What in the name of the seven potbellied Inca gods have you been doing, young man?” Lazarus insisted. He continued staring at the screen.
“Nothing,” Billy protested. He tried one last time to reach the keyboard.
“You had better tell me about it, Billy,” Lazarus insisted. “You’re playing around with something very heavy. You could cost me my job among other things, young man.”
Billy glanced at his grandfather nervously. Lazarus hadn’t yelled at the youngster, nor even raised his voice, but his tone had clearly shaken the teenager.
“I-I’m just collecting names, Grandad,” he said. “That’s all, really. I didn’t mean any harm.”
Lazarus let go of his grandson’s wrist and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You had best tell me everything, Billy,” he prodded gently. “Although the computer you are screwing around with doesn’t contain any classified information, it is connected to others that do. I don’t think the security people are going to be amused when they find out.”
“But I didn’t do anything, Grandad,” he protested. “Really, I didn’t.”
“What do you call that, young man?” Lazarus inquired, pointing to the screen. “It certainly seems like you have been stealing other people’s passwords, doesn’t it?”
Billy nodded, admitting his guilt.
“What else have you been doing?”
“Nothing, really,” Billy whispered. “I poked around one or two accounts, but that’s all. I never changed a thing.”
“How did you get their passwords?”
“I wrote a Trojan horse,” the teenager answered sheepishly.
“A what?”
“A Trojan horse,” Billy repeated. “It’s a sneaky program that looks like it’s doing one thing, but it’s actually doing something else. Want to see it?”
“Certainly.” Lazarus got off the bed and moved closer to his grandson. “I want to know exactly what you’ve been doing. Show me all of it.”
“Well, the first thing I need is a potential victim,” Billy explained. “That’s easy. All I have to do is find out who is on the system and isn’t very active. I can do that with a standard routine called ‘who.’”
The youngster typed the command, and a moment later, the screen was filled with a list of people’s names, what account they were using and for how long they’d been logged on.
“Over here, in this column,” Billy continued, “is how long they’ve been inactive. That’s important, because, if they remain inactive too long, about ten minutes, the system automatically logs them off. So, what I do is look for someone who has been inactive for five or six minutes. Then I startmy program. All I have to do is tell it what port to use. I’ll use the one we’re on to show you how it works.”
Lazarus’ grandson typed another command. The screen was filled with what looked like the standard log-in display.
“See!” he announced proudly. “It looks just like the real log-in program. Whoever is using that port thinks that the system has logged him off automatically, and so he usually logs back in like this.”
Billy first typed his grandfather’s name. When the screen requested the password, Billy typed several random characters and hit the carriage return key. An instant later, the screen cleared, flashed the standard log- in messages.
“Do you mean that all that was a fake?” Lazarus asked incredulously, staring at his grandson. The computer interrupted him with yet another self-satisfied beep as it displayed its latest purloined password.
“Exactly,” Billy said. “That’s why it’s called a Trojan horse. It fools people into thinking that they have been inactive too long and were therefore automatically logged off by the computer system. So, what happens is they log back in. That tricks them into giving their names and passwords. My program then writes them out to my screen and exits. It looks just like a normal log-in to them, but really it’s just my program.”
Lazarus didn’t know what to say. Clearly, young Billy was breaking the law. However, it could be argued that he was also only following in his grandfather’s footsteps: Espionage ran in the family. Secretly, Lazarus was quite proud of his grandson’s accomplishment.
“Just how many names and passwords have you collected so far?” Lazarus asked suspiciously.
Billy glanced away guiltily.
“You’d better tell me.”
“Over a hundred,” he confessed as he typed another command. The screen was filled with dozens of names and passwords, the first of which were those of Jonathan Boswell, the Director of the CIA and Lazarus’ boss.
“Oh, my god,” Lazarus groaned.
Madeline opened the door and was greeted by the most delicious aromas she’d ever smelled.
“Honey, I’m home!” she called as she headed to the kitchen to investigate.
“I’d almost given up hope that you’d return.” Jerry emerged from the bedroom. He was dressed in his best uniform. She rushed to kiss him.
“What’s this all for?” She gave him a hung and turned to survey the room. It was then that she saw the table was set with a white linen tablecloth and china she didn’t recognize.
“It’s official, my love.” He gave her a peck on her cheek. “We’re rooming together, so we have to get along. I don’t have anyplace else to stay.”
“What are you talking about?” she insisted.
“Remember when you said this morning that nobody would notice if I moved in?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Yeah.” Confused, she looked at him with her hands akimbo.
“Well, it took them less that eight hours not only to notice but to officially relocate me here. This is our trailer,” he laughed. “We’re roommates! They were so happy to get my trailer for somebody else that they now list us as ‘M. MacCauley’ and ‘J. Rodell.’”
Madeline smiled, but he was certain that she wasn’t too happy about the official notice of their relationship.
“Did they check your fingerprints this morning?” he teased.
“No, silly,” she laughed. “However, they did double-check my badge. What’s for dinner?” She sniffed the air.
“Roast pheasant, with wild rice and orange sauce.” He took her arm to escort her to the table. “Dinner is served.”
“I didn’t know that you were a gourmet cook.”
“I told you that I learned to cook in New Orleans,” he reminded her as they walked toward the table. “Perhaps I’ll open a fine New Orleans cuisine restaurant after I retire from the Air Force—after the children are old enough, of course.”
“OH!” she cried in delight when she spotted the small velvet- covered box on her plate. She hesitated before opening it. Inside were a diamond engagement ring and two matching wedding bands.
“You shouldn’t have,” she cried happily as she kissed him. Then she hurried to try the engagement ring on. It was a perfect fit.
“I borrowed one of the rings from your jewelry box,” he explained as they admired the sparkling diamond gleaming on her finger. “Now for dinner, and just wait until you see what I have planned for dessert.”
Madeline held her hand out to admire the ring on her finger in the light of th
e clock radio next to her head. She turned to look at Jerry as he snored gently beside her. Assured that it was all real, she turned her head again toward the clock radio and the faint blue light given off by its luminous digital display. She admired the sparkle of her diamond engagement ring. It was the happiest day of her life.
She held him tight. Tears came to her eyes. Tomorrow he would be going to Brooks Air Force Base to have the neural nexus implanted. It wasn’t until after dinner that he confessed that he had volunteered for the operation earlier that day.
Chapter Twenty-two
Several days later.
As promised, General Puzitsky had sent a helicopter for Khalid Rashid Ribat, the leader of Iraq, but it certainly wasn’t his personal machine. Instead of the Mil-26 transport with its nine-blade rotor, spacious cabin and comfortable airliner seats, Khalid found a rather beat-up Mil-24 Hind-D attack helicopter waiting for him at the Kirkuk airport when he landed in his personal jet at 0535. Angered by the slight, he had at first refused to board the aircraft until the gunner who normally rode in the front bubble cockpit volunteered to switch places with Khalid and let him ride in front instead.
The field uniform had been a more honest offer. Also, as promised, a set of Iraqi-issue fatigues were waiting. However, they were new and well pressed, with the insignia of his rank of field marshal and every medal that he had bestowed upon himself properly in place. The fatigues even fit. The matching combat boots were the correct size and well polished.
So looking every bit the smartly turned out commander-in-chief, Field Marshal Khalid Rashid Ribat arrived atNew Babylon just as the sun was rising. General Puzitsky was waiting.
“I hope you had a pleasant flight, sir,” the general called cordially as he walked up to the helicopter to salute. Khalid was momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected show of respect. Then he understood—the men. The general was performing as expected for the sake of the officers and enlisted men who were lined up for a review. It wouldn’t be good for discipline to have the men see them fighting in public. Carefully and correctly, Khalid returned the salute and then extended his hand to Puzitsky, who shook it.
“It was quite a ride, actually,” Khalid replied. “I am pleased that you were able to send a real military helicopter for me. I so dread those transports.”
The amusement in Puzitsky’s eyes turned to appreciation. Khalid had turned that one neatly.
“My pleasure, sir,” the Russian replied affably. “If you don’t mind, we have about a hundred-meter walk to the front entrance toNew Babylon . There is a service entrance just over there,” he said, pointing to a large cave-like tunnel in the side of the mountain, “but the business end is a much more impressive slight.”
“Certainly,” Khalid responded politely. “Please lead the way.”
The path led around a small promontory that blocked the view of the front entrance from the helicopter landing pad. Puzitsky stopped just where the trail curved around the point of the promontory. The sight was indeed spectacular. About fifty meters away was a rectangular- shaped tunnel bored into the face of the mountain. The opening was about five meters high by twenty meters wide. It was located in an overhanging cliff and so was shielded from the prying eyes of aircraft and satellites. Set back in the tunnel was the unmistakable glint of steel.
“This isNew Babylon ’s firing port,” the Russian announced. “As you can see, it’s rectangular. That gives the cannon a plus-and-minus ten degrees of training, allowing it to target all of Israel from this distance.”
“Just how far is Zionist-occupied Palestine from us?” Khalid inquired. There was a clear shift in tone when he said “Palestine” that accented the word—a warning to Puzitsky about using the word “Israel.”
“All militarily significant targets in Palestine and other Zionist- occupied territories are between nine hundred and eleven hundred kilometers from this site. Easily in range, sir.”
“And today’s test shot?” Khalid turned to look at the tunnel opening.
“A mere 587 kilometers, about half the range to Zionist held territory.” the Russian answered. “The target is in western Iraq where we may inspect the results of the shot. Shall we go inside?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll have the blast doors opened.” General Puzitsky raised his hand over his head. It was a pre-arranged signal. A moment later a loud whine accompanied the movement of two of the doors that blocked the entrance. The sections of the steel wall moved sideways.
“As you can see, Field Marshal,” the Russian said, “there are four armored doors covering the opening. We can move them in several combinations so that a specific field of fire can be opened to the cannon. Today, we are firing almost straight out so we’re moving the second and third door back from each other, leaving the opening in the center. Now if you’ll follow me, I would be pleased to show you the cannon itself.”
Khalid merely nodded in reply. Outwardly calm, his heart was racing. As he walked forward, he began to imagine the adulation of the thronging crowds celebrating the destruction of the detested Zionist state. He would be the second Salah ad-Din, Saladin, the great Arab leader who drove the infidel Crusaders from the shores of Palestine nearly eight hundred years ago.
“This is the muzzle,” the Russian said, interrupting Khalid’s fanciful thoughts. “As you can see it is quite large, exactly six hundred millimeters in diameter.”
They were standing just inside the open doors. Khalid turned to inspect them. The doors were each nearly a half meter thick.
“The doors are proof against any guided bombs like the Americans used against your predecessor,” General Puzitsky explained. “It would take two direct hits by two-thousand pound bombs, one exactly on the other to breach these doors.”
“Just what keeps the Americans from doing exactly that?” Khalid demanded. “They did it often enough in the last war.”
“Ah, that is a good point, Field Marshal,” the general agreed, “but we did learn from that. There are certain, ah—improvements which we have made. This whole valley is a defensive zone. You will see one of our defenses a little later. However, first, let’s look at the cannon itself.”
Khalid glanced down the side of the cannon. It looked rather like a large oil pipe laid down a steeply sloping tunnel. The tunnel itself was a clever bit of engineering. Drilled at about a forty-five degree angle into the heart of the mountain, the sides of the tunnel gradually tapered together the deeper it went. That, of course, was to give the cannon enough room to be trained on more than one target. Every three meters or so, the thick pipes that formed the barrel were bolted together at large flanges, which in turn lay on large cradles. Hydraulic rams connected these cradles to the walls of the tunnel, allowing the whole assembly to be shifted to the right or left by as much as ten degrees.
“I take it that the hydraulic apparatus on the cradles aims the cannon?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Russian replied. “They are under computer control. A laser is used to make the final alignment of the barrel. With it we can adjust the entire cannon to within one millimeter and do it in about ten minutes. We have to check the alignment after every shot. That is one reason why it takes an hour to reload. Would you like to watch the men load this morning’s shot?”
“Certainly,” Khalid responded courteously.
“This way then,” Puzitsky said. “There is an elevator over there which will take us down to the magazines and control room level.”
The walk through the tunnels made Khalid appreciate Puzitsky’s insistence that he not wear his white uniforms here. The place was mostly bare rock and full of dust; it certainly would have soiled his dress uniform. He shuddered at the thought while he followed the Russian down the passage.
They eventually came to a small area set off by a large steel door. On the other side was the control room that contained a number of computers and other electronic apparatus used to aim the cannon. It wasn’t until they reached the magazine that they saw any
thing that excited Khalid’s interest.
The projectile fired by the cannon, theAl-Harbi , the Javelin, was impressive. A combination cannon shell and three-stage rocket, it lay on a special cart. Nearly three meters long, it was encased in an outer shell known as a sabot. This gave it the overall diameter needed to fill the inside of the cannon’s barrel. However, it would fall away once the Javelin had been fired, allowing the sleek missile to climb high into the atmosphere with a minimum of air resistance. Once nearly in space, the rockets would fire, driving the missile to a maximum range of nearly two thousand kilometers.
“This section contains the warhead,” General Puzitsky explained as he showed Khalid a cross section model of the Javelin. Today we are going to fire an operational warhead.…”
“A what?” Khalid interrupted.
The general smirked. “I said that we are firing a missile with an operational warhead.”
“And blow up half of western Iraq?”
“Not exactly, Field Marshal,” Puzitsky replied jocularly. “The warhead will be complete in all aspects but one. The plutonium core has been replaced by depleted uranium. The two metals have about the same density, so we will have an almost exact match in weight and balance. When the warhead lands, it will fire the implosion detonation device, but there will be no nuclear reaction. That way we cannot only test the aim of the cannon, but also the arming circuits of the Javelin. Thus, we can accomplish several goals with this one shot.”
“I see,” Khalid said thoughtfully. “All you will have to do once you have the ranging tables calculated is install the real warhead and the cannon will be ready.”
“Exactly,” Puzitsky agreed. “Now if you would step back to the elevator, we can take my helicopter out to the observation site on the other side of the valley. From there you can see the actual firing of the cannon. I’m sure it will be quite a sight.
The Espionage Game Page 21