EXFIL

by Anthony C. Patton

  She approached and caressed my shoulder with a seductive smile. I felt oddly caught in the middle of them as I set ten dollars on the bar—time to go.

  “Join me?” she asked with her room key on display.

  I waved to the bartender and paused for what felt like an eternity before leaving.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I spent most of the night tossing and turning, contemplating the magnitude of my crime and how my plan would most likely play out. Part of me wanted get away with it, obviously, but another part wanted the Cyber Command security guards to arrest me when I entered the lobby, to bring this painful drama to an end. I was confident that my tip about Anna would keep them distracted, and there was no way to prove what I had done without testimony from Jade Envy.

  However, I knew that attention would shift my way after the next cyberattack began.

  They would ask why didn’t Jade Envy help us stop it.

  Intelligence Officers were self-conscious while trolling diplomatic events in search of the next source, aware that others might see through their ploys.

  This was also how I felt walking across the Cyber Command watch floor, wondering whether anyone suspected me of anything nefarious. Most of them didn’t notice or care, while others saw me as a cool colonel who ran cool intelligence operations. They had been trained to respect rank, so it would never cross their minds that I would do the terrible things I had done.

  Lewis was waiting for me when I knocked on his door.

  It was too soon to discuss Anna—Brett and Nguyen wouldn’t be joining us today—so I had no idea why he even wanted to meet. I sat and observed the Laocoön statue, observing it each time in a new light. My focus this time was the recognition that he’d done something wrong and deserved his punishment, perhaps with less violence and suffering. The gods had punished him for his misdeeds; he wasn’t a victim of fate or chance.

  “We never discussed your last meeting with Jade Envy,” he said with a comforting and confident tone. “Any new information about the next cyberattack?”

  “He had good news and bad news. His unit in Beijing doesn’t have anything planned, but he heard something about other units launching a coordinated attack on the Pentagon.”

  His pensive expression didn’t suggest confidence.

  “Not much we can do with that—anything more concrete?”

  “I have an idea,” I said, “which I raised with the J6 guys at the Pentagon. My recommendation was that we shut down the system for routine maintenance at the first sign of a cyberattack. This way, we can isolate the malware, assess the origin, and prevent it from spreading.”

  He shook his head. “My guess is that shutting down the entire system isn’t as easy as it sounds.” He looked at me and rubbed his chin. “Oh, and I’m obliged to tell you that Mrs. Howard has filed a legal complaint against you.”

  I nodded, not surprised: she must have heard that I had pressured Tom to sleep with a dancer, and now she wanted me to pay. I could understand the desire for revenge, but she should have known at some level that Tom made his own choices.

  “I’m also obliged to tell you,” he continued with a grave tone, clearing his throat as if the words were getting stuck, “that regrettably, your name has been removed from consideration for promotion to brigadier general and that a formal UCMJ investigation has begun.”

  And just like that, my raison d’être for the past year—my entire career—had just turned to ash as my heart sank. My year alone in Bangkok—all wasted. My pursuit of Jade Envy—wasted.

  What would Beth say? How could I explain this? What did this mean for my career?

  I could retain a lawyer to appeal but there was a political angle that would be difficult to overcome. I took a deep breath and nodded. “I understand. In my defense, I’d like to say—”

  He raised a hand to stop me. “I would advise you to save any discussion of this for your lawyer. Anything you say to me won’t be protected.”

  “I see,” I said, feeling the walls closing in—this time for real. I could only imagine how disappointed he was and how difficult it was for him to maintain a professional demeanor in my presence.

  He touched my arm and looked me in the eyes. “You know I respect the legal process and the presumption of innocence, but if there’s any truth to her accusation, you’ll be in a difficult position. The kind of behavior she’s describing isn’t consistent with Army values, as you know.”

  I nodded silently, feeling like a schoolboy being reprimanded by the teacher.

  Just then, a siren sounded.

  Despite the noise, I needed a few seconds to process it as a lieutenant colonel knocked on the door. “Excuse me, General, we have another cyberattack on the Pentagon.”

  Lewis nodded and grabbed the remote control to turn on the television to 24-hour cable news. A few seconds later, the channel cut to the Pentagon with a “Breaking News” banner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the anchor said, “we have reports of another devastating cyberattack on the Pentagon.” The camera cut to soldiers running outside the Pentagon as “PENTAGON CYBERATTACK” rolled along the news ticker.

  I was always amazed by how quickly the news outlets could respond to these events.

  As Lewis answered his phone, I moved to the office window and opened the blinds to see the operations floor below. The team was handling the situation like a well-oiled machine. As I watched them work, the only thing I could think about was not getting caught and saving my own butt, which violated every moral precept I had vowed to embody as a West Point cadet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the anchor continued, “for those of you just tuning in, we’re covering what some are calling the most lethal cyberattack against the Pentagon, where we have live coverage.” Outside the Pentagon, the footage showed a reporter stopping a military officer.

  “What can you tell us about the damage?”

  “We’ve never seen anything like this,” the military officer said. “The Chinese have shut down almost the entire Pentagon.”

  “Would it be fair to compare this to the 9/11 terrorist attack?” the journalist asked.

  The military officer nodded. “Yes, I would call this a cyber 9/11.”

  Lewis hung up the phone. I muted the television as he buried his face in his hands.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  “It sounds like all but the most critical command and control systems have been compromised,” he said. “As Jade Envy reported, the attacks appear to be coming from different locations within China, which doesn’t help us.”

  I considered repeating my advice about shutting down the computer network, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized my plan was ridiculous—a desperate rationalization to justify what I had done. “Is there anything I can do to help, General?” He shook his head. “Call me if you need anything,” I added as I left the office.

  When I reached the parking lot, uniformed military personnel and civilians were running inside. I started my car and drove away, not sure where to go. Should I try to find Anna? Should I head to West Point to talk about teaching positions? Who was I fooling? I was a dead man walking. After removal from the promotion list and the start of a formal UCMJ investigation, I would be lucky to get a job transporting rubber dog shit out of Hong Kong.

  When a Crown Victoria driven by a young man with a buzz cut pulled into traffic behind me, the hair on the back of my neck prickled.

  For the first time in my career, my gut told me I was under surveillance. Bearing in mind that I might be paranoid, I decided to stretch this out as long as necessary.

  I didn’t have a specific destination in mind, but knowing that there was a coffee shop every few blocks, I made some random turns to sift him out. As normal as it might have seemed, the odds of the same car following you for more than a few turns was statistically low.

  During the approach to a left turn with a green light, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see tension in his face as he moved wit
h me to make the turn.

  Acting normal was surprisingly difficult with others watching.

  With several traffic lights ahead, I checked the map on my phone to look for a coffee shop.

  I kept the phone below the dashboard and typed one letter of “coffee” at a time, noting some spots a few blocks up on the left and right.

  At the last possible moment, I moved to the left-turn lane, which had a red light, as the Crown Victoria continued driving straight through the green.

  This brought only limited relief, though, because I was astutely aware there could be other cars behind him to rotate the eye and move in behind me. Sure enough, another sedan pulled up behind me, driven by another young man with a buzz cut. If this had been a left turn to enter a shopping mall, they would have let me go, but it was for a major cross street with miles of driving ahead, so they had to send someone to follow me and prepare to rotate the eye again.

  My training kicked into high gear as I parked.

  I felt my pulse racing as I walked to the coffee shop—not too fast, not too slow, not looking around too much, not walking with blinders. I held the front door open for two teenage girls, allowing me to see the surveillance vehicle park on the far end of the lot.

  I ordered a black coffee, confirmed that the location function on my phone was off, and glanced at the surveillance vehicle in time to see the driver talking into his wrist. The first surveillance vehicle circled back and parked in the strip mall on the other side of the road.

  Anyone could be trained to detect surveillance, but it took a professional Intelligence Officer to give no indication that you were aware of them once spotted. If I’d been in serious legal trouble, they would have sent the FBI to arrest me. However, the fact that they had put me under surveillance suggested they wanted to see where I was going, to confirm or deny their suspicions or to catch me in the act. When my coffee was ready, I grabbed it and returned to my car.

  The most logical thing to do at this point was to drive to my hotel and call it a day.

  I knew I was being watched, so there was nothing to be gained by continuing the chase. So, I got on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway for the return trip to Crystal City. Both surveillance vehicles followed me, but to my surprise, neither pursued me all the way onto the ramp.

  Given the lack of options for running parallel with me, this suggested they were breaking off, either to avoid being detected or because they had other ways of tracking me, such as a drone or license plate readers along the road. With no tail to worry about, I returned to my world of betrayal, hurtling toward the end of my career. With any luck, the surveillance had been routine to detect any suspicious behavior on my part. Then again, they didn’t put the A team on me—two guys with buzz cuts and matching vehicles—so they had to know I might detect them.

  Either way, as I approached D.C., I was running low on gas and exited to fill up.

  To avoid an electronic footprint, I parked at the pump and entered to pre-pay with cash. The cashier behind the counter and a customer were mesmerized by the live news about the cyberattack, and stood watching the wall-mounted TV. The news ticker was reporting that U.S. forces were on high alert, showing stock footage of U.S. warplanes flying and Chinese military personnel working on computers.

  “Twenty on pump four,” I said and set a twenty on the counter, which the cashier grabbed with a wave, still focused on the TV.

  Outside, I pumped the gas and watched the cars zip by with my peripheral vision—no Crown Victoria or dudes with buzz cuts. Back in the car, I checked my phone for messages, and noticed something that sent a shudder down my spine: the location symbol was glowing, even though I was absolutely sure I’d turned it off in the coffee shop. The magnitude of this discovery couldn’t be overstated.

  Getting approval to hack into my phone would have required a judicial warrant, which would happen only if they had probable cause of a crime, which—of course—meant the FBI must have become involved. I crossed the Potomac River and headed south on Highway 1 to my hotel in Crystal City. As I approached the traffic light where I would normally turn right, I slowed and continued through the green light, feigning an error. I hoped this would trigger a response, but if they were tracking me on my phone, they would have no reason to reveal themselves.

  I powered down my phone to cut them off, continuing down Highway 1.

  When I arrived at a traffic light in the heart of Alexandria, I noticed one, two, and finally three possible suspects line up behind me. When all three vehicles pulled in close to make the last traffic light before taking the on-ramp for I-495, I knew I was back under surveillance. With my phone turned off, however, they would have to follow me closely to avoid losing me.

  The fact that I didn’t go to my hotel should have indicated that I was aware of them and was now taking active measures to avoid them, which would confirm their suspicions.

  In any case, I knew the whole thing would soon come to an ignominious end, but I needed time to gather my thoughts and speak with Beth before the story leaked.

  We drove along I-495 loop for several miles, heading clockwise toward Tysons Corner.

  I moved to the exit for I-66 west, and all three vehicles followed. They weren’t even trying to be discreet, and surely wondered what I had in mind as the boring pursuit continued. I turned on the radio to get the latest news as I took the exit for Highway 50 in Fairfax, now driving on instinct. As we continued, I allowed my random decision to become a stroke of genius: knowing that the traffic lights were timed for someone driving the speed limit, I slowed to just below the speed limit, getting closer to missing each traffic light.

  When it looked like I would miss the next light, I accelerated and zipped through the intersection as the light turned red, nearly hitting a honking car that was making an oncoming left-hand turn. The three surveillance vehicles got stuck on the red light.

  I imagined them slamming their steering wheels and yelling into their radios.

  With surveillance now out of the picture, I got off the beaten path and found myself driving with no particular destination in mind. I knew the situation was hopeless, but I needed time to think, to turn myself in on my own terms. Before I knew it, I was heading west on the road to the remote motel where Tom had killed himself. The red neon vacancy light was lit.

  I pulled over and parked near two pick-up trucks.

  The bell on the door jingled as I entered, but the lobby was empty. The décor was a flashback to the 1970s, the deer heads mounted on the walls only appealing to the local clientele. I waited a few seconds before tapping the bell on the counter. The owner—the same man with long hair and a stained trucker baseball cap—arrived, wiping his hands.

  “Welcome,” he said with smoke on his breath.

  “I’d like a room,” I said.

  “Of course.” He slid the registration book my way.

  I grabbed the blue BIC pen with a plastic flower taped on the end and patted down my pockets with a shrug. “I left my wallet at home. Could I pay with cash?”

  “Of course,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Truth is, we have lots of people out this way paying with cash. None of my business.”

  As I signed in alias, I reviewed the names from the day of Tom’s death—no Tom Howard. Did he use an alias? Why? I finished signing, slid the book back, and noticed a Southwest Asia Service Medal pin on his baseball cap.

  “You served in Iraq?”

  “Yes, sir. Got a hip and leg injury from an IED,” he said with a glimmer of pride that was soon extinguished by the twitchy mannerisms of meth addiction. “I got a good disability package and a small business loan to buy this place. That’ll be forty bucks.”

  I handed him the cash, which he set in a locked drawer and gestured to a receipt notepad. “No thanks,” I said. “Some people were talking about something going down here recently, a military death or suicide or something.”

  He nodded and averted his eyes as he handed me a key.

  “They, ah,
told me it was an Army issue, you know,” he said, “so I kept my nose out of it. You’d be surprised how many troubled vets we have around here.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” I said and exited the lobby.

  I walked down the row of rooms and passed Tom’s before reaching mine. I locked the door, closed the curtains, lay on the bed, and turned on the television to catch up on events at the Pentagon. The whole thing was a disaster and fast spiraling out of control.

  I oddly felt like an outsider, as if I had nothing to do with the cyberattack.

  With a deep breath, I turned on my phone, shook my head with defeat when the location function symbol glowed cyan again, and called Beth.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I said. She was talking to other teachers and excused herself. “I wanted to let you know that I wasn’t selected for brigadier general. The list hasn’t been released, officially, but, well, I was advised that my name wasn’t on it.”

  She said she was sorry; she knew how important it was for me but the boys looked forward to having me back; the teaching position was still available, and so on.

  “Nothing would make me happier, but I’m in a predicament,” I said, listening to her concerns. “You might hear some things about me soon, bad things, but I want you and the boys to know how much I love you and ask that you talk to me in person before reaching any conclusions.”

  She was nervous—silent, controlled breathing.

  “I’ll explain all of it to you in person,” I added, as if that would help.

  She had to run to class and asked me to call her back as soon as possible.

  “I love you,” I said and hung up.

  A half-hour later, the sound of tires on gravel marked their arrival. I looked outside to see a Crown Victoria and opened the door. I put my hands behind my back as they handcuffed me and escorted me to the back seat.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Everyone has heard the apocryphal story of the sheriff who detains all the usual suspects after a robbery. The innocent men insist that the sheriff has the wrong guy and demand their release, whereas the guilty man sleeps calmly, knowing he’s been caught. Despite our propensity to not do what we know we ought to, and to do what we know we ought not do, normal people want to be punished for their crimes, to gain their chance at redemption.