by Helin, Don
A trail indicated the direction to reach the barn. His brain felt as if it were only working at half speed. Dizzy, he limped down the path, the trees seeming to blur in and out of focus. He almost fell when he slid down a hill. Forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, he limped along, fighting the impulse to stop and rest.
Slipping and sliding down a long hill, he spotted the silhouette of the barn up ahead. He pushed on, the icy cold enveloping him.
When Sam opened the door, the main area was empty. He walked through the conference area and into his office, losing his balance twice and banging against the wall. He was glad he didn’t run into anyone.
Sam fell onto his cot. His body shaking, he forced himself to strip off his clothes, then soaked under the hot shower to warm his body and stifle the pain. The steam having cleared his senses, he dried himself and popped a couple of aspirins.
When Sam lay back on the bed he immediately fell fast asleep. He dreamed a bear attacked him and all he had to defend himself was a spoon.
Something wakened him. He sat up and looked at his watch—three o’clock, still dark outside. What was the noise? He flipped his bedside light on but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Damn, his side ached and his head throbbed. He pulled himself up and swallowed three more aspirins, then lay back down and fell asleep again.
When he awoke, rays of sunlight were filtering through the window high in the wall. He stretched and moved around—nothing broken, though everything hurt like hell.
Who would ambush him? Fucking Buster—Sam was sure of it. Well, asshole, you and I are going to have a face-off, and it won’t be long in coming.
Sam decided to say nothing about the attack. His ribs hurt, but there was no outward sign of injuries.
He looked at his watch: eight o’clock. Then it hit him. Today was Emily’s birthday. Sixteen years old. He had remembered to send flowers, but he always called on her birthday. Seven o’clock in Minneapolis. She wouldn’t have left for school yet.
Sam grabbed his cell and punched in her number.
“Hello.”
The sound of her voice revived him, reminded him why he was here. “Hi, sweetie. Happy birthday!”
“Daddy, you remembered!”
“How could I forget my special girl’s sixteenth birthday? What are you doing to celebrate?”
“Mom is taking me out for dinner tonight. Henry, baby, is coming along too.”
Emily didn’t care for her mother’s live-in boyfriend. Sam hadn’t met Henry yet, but he’d seen pictures— bald, potbellied, and usually sporting shiny wing-tip shoes. Oh well. He seemed to be good for Sam’s ex, and he had done well in the real estate business.
Sam rubbed the back of his head again, still sore from the blow. “I wish I could be there to treat you.”
“I do too. Better go, Dad. School calls. Thanks for the roses. They’re beautiful. Talk to you the end of the week?”
“You bet. Love you.”
Sam disconnected the cell. A huge empty feeling hit him in the gut. He should be there with Emily, not here. Goddamn Gerber had gotten him into this!
Pounding his fist into the palm of his hand, Sam realized it wasn’t General Gerber he should blame but himself. He had missed the signs.
When the anti-terrorist task force had raided a terrorist training base in Iowa, of all places, Sam had spotted a brochure for a flight training school in Minnesota. He remembered showing the brochure to Larry Sable, the FBI contact on the task force. He’d never forget that day.
“Larry, what do you make of this?”
Sable looked it over. “I don’t know but let me take it. We’ll check it out.”
Sam felt uneasy about turning it over because he knew the bureaucracy of the FBI, and had seen their inaction firsthand. He didn’t want the damn thing to get lost in the system. His sixth sense told him to check it out himself, but instead he gave it to Sable. “Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do.” Sable had put the brochure in his pocket.
That was the last Sam had seen of it. He’d made a mental note to follow up, but hadn’t. He’d forgotten.
Six months later those damn planes had flown into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. As soon as Sam heard the first news broadcast, he’d known he’d screwed up and people had died. Hundreds of people—and he might have been able to stop it. Sam would never forgive himself.
That had been six and a half years ago. When the war with Iraq came, Sam volunteered to command a brigade. He’d led one of the first “Mech” brigades into Baghdad. He did it for all the lives that had been lost in 9-11.
He felt better for a few days. Then he saw the war on terror getting swallowed up with Iraq. That pissed him off.
Rotating back to the States at the end of his tour, he had spent six months at the Pentagon trying to put some normalcy into his life, but it hadn’t worked. He’d taken his guilt and frustration out on Jackie. She tired of it, and he’d moved back into the bachelor officers’ quarters at Fort Myer.
When Sam retired from the Army, he’d started looking for a job. One day General Gerber had called Sam into his office. “Sam, I need your help,” the general had said. “We’ve got a great opportunity to go after terrorists.”
He hooked Sam like a big fish, reeling him in using Sam’s own guilt as bait.
This was Sam’s first undercover operation. He’d been uncomfortable, but things had gone well so far. He’d worked his way through an extensive interview process and must have passed all the tests because Aly Kassim had hired him. Aly’s firm put Sam through an orientation that included travel to a number of their plants around the country. No overseas travel yet. This was his first assignment—advisor to the fucking Patriots.
He rubbed his head again and walked over to the bathroom to pop a couple more aspirins.
Wednesday evening. Five more days to go.
Sam field-stripped the radios he had picked up in Harrisburg and placed them on two tables. When the men arrived in the conference room, Sam divided them into two groups, Popeye in charge of one group and Sam the other. He enjoyed watching Popeye try and best him.
Sam summarized the main components of the AN/PRC-47 for his group. “You’ll need to be able to take the radio down far enough to check the major components in case you lose contact with the net. I’ve found over the years that the usual problems when you lose communications are the connections to the antenna and the power pack.”
Buster seemed to have no particular interest in Sam. Every time Sam moved, his right side screamed at him and reminded him of the assault. Could it have been someone else who had waylaid him? Sam doubted it.
After Popeye finished with his group, Sam brought the men back together. He reviewed each of the parts once more, then supervised while the men reassembled the radios. “These radios have stood the test of time. I’ve learned that if you take care of your equipment it will take care of you. Sounds simple, but it’s not.”
Most of the men listened closely and nodded as he spoke. Even Buster seemed interested in what Sam had to say.
About half of them had some experience talking over FM radios. Sam reviewed proper voice procedure. “You’ll be issued authentication tables. That way no one can break into our transmissions. We will issue codes for a five-day period then provide new codes, so be alert that your code is current.”
Sam winced as he held up that day’s authentication table and the cutout for the day. He placed the cutout over the table and showed them how to authenticate. “The challenge is always the first letter under the cutout, the response is the second. For example, if I said, ‘“Alpha,”’ what would be the authentication?”
One of the men called out from the back, “Mike.”
“Excellent. Now what about Charlie?”
“X-ray.”
“Exactly. Any questions?”
The group remained silent, so Sam had them practice authenticating with one another. He stood behind Marshall. The kid did well. Finally
something he could excel at.
“All right, men, gather around.”
Boots scraped on the floor as they formed a circle around him.
“Remember: you need to ensure you always know who you’re talking to. I’ve had cases in the past where someone tried to break into my radio net. We’ll appoint one person as net control. His responsibility will be to ensure that only authorized users stay on the net. I’ll be watching to see who can to perform that function. It’s important.”
Sam looked around. “Any questions?”
No one raised a hand. Sam debated telling them to dress warmly for the next night because they’d be outside in vehicles, but then he figured the hell with it. If they couldn’t figure that out for themselves, let them freeze their butts off. Best way to learn.
“Dismissed.”
Sam had to find out Oliver’s plan before long so he could get the word to Alex. So far all he’d drawn was a zero and a bunch of bruises.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marshall Pearson spent his morning as he always did, jumping off his cot when the alarm rang at 4:30 a.m., mucking out the stalls in the barn, feeding the horses, and milking two dozen cows. Once he completed those chores, he hurried back into the house to prepare breakfast. This morning he decided to make blueberry pancakes, one of his uncle’s favorites.
He pulled a package of blueberries he’d picked the past summer out of the freezer and placed them in the microwave to thaw. Satisfied that was underway, he walked to the pantry to get the pancake mix, fetched a large bowl, and stirred milk and eggs into the powder to make a smooth batter. Then he stirred in the syrupy blueberries, which made his stomach growl. Yes, today might be a good day.
He poured the batter on the grill and watched until it started to bubble, then flipped the pancakes. After he’d flipped the last one, footsteps sounded in the hall. He turned. Seeing the bloodshot eyes, Marshall changed his mind. This would not be a good day.
His uncle stood in the doorway, terrycloth robe hanging open, torn and stained long johns underneath. Thin, gray hair stuck out on his head, and his right hand scratched at an unshaven face. “How come my fucking breakfast ain’t ready?”
He’d been at the corner bar the night before. Marshall hadn’t even heard him come in. He must have closed the place down again.
The old man slumped down in his chair, head in hands. “Get me some coffee. Why the hell can’t you do anything right?”
Marshall grabbed the coffeepot and poured a steaming cup, added a touch of milk and sugar, and set it in front of him. “Here you go.”
His uncle swung his arm violently, and the cup flew off the table and smashed against the wall, covering the faded blue wallpaper with coffee. “Don’t talk to me. Can’t you see I’ve got a headache? Goddamn punk.”
Marshall ran to the sink, grabbed a towel, and started to pick up the broken china.
“Pancakes are burning. Can’t you smell them?” His uncle walked over to the griddle, picked a pancake off the fry pan, and took a bite. “Goddamn, burned my tongue. You trying to kill me?”
Marshall looked up from the floor, a wave of hopelessness sweeping over him. Nothing he did would satisfy the man. His father and mother had loved him—been his world. Why had they had to die in that traffic accident?
“Goddamn it, you gonna start crying again? Fucking baby.” He stomped out of the room, waving his hands in the air.
Marshall fought back tears as he cleaned up the mess. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. The pancakes had seemed like a good idea, but now he’d lost his appetite.
He sipped his coffee and thought about Colonel Thorpe. The colonel knew his stuff and made an impressive presentation. Marshall liked the way he handled Buster. Yes, sir, Colonel Thorpe was all right.
Marshall walked over to his briefcase and pulled out the field manual Colonel Thorpe had handed out. He paged through it until he got to the chapter on radios.
“What are you doing?” The old man stood in the doorway in a pair of farmer’s jeans and a red and black checkered woolen shirt.
Startled, Marshall looked up. “Just reading some of the material Colonel Thorpe handed out last night. He’s a good teacher.”
“General Oliver told me you were the laughingstock of the Patriots. Don’t you know that reflects on me? These are my friends. You being a laughingstock makes me a laughingstock. Goddamn little baby. Get me some coffee.”
Marshall jumped up and poured a cup.
His uncle grabbed it in his big hand and took a gulp. “Too weak. Can’t you get it right? Is that too much to ask?”
“I measured out three scoops like you said.”
“You arguing with me? I said it’s too weak.”
Marshall thought his uncle might hit him again. His cheek still burned from when he’d slapped him and sent him slamming into the wall the night before. His arm ached, and he’d seen bruises this morning when he dressed.
“You’d better get it right. If I hear from General Oliver that you’re not doing the job, you’ll pay. Your parents created a little baby. They left it to me to make you a man. Well, I’m gonna make you a man, or you’re gonna die trying.”
He laughed at his own joke, grabbed his fleece jacket and stocking cap, and stumbled outside. “I’d better check to make sure you haven’t screwed up the animals. They’re our livelihood, and you don’t get it.”
When Marshall heard the door slam shut, he bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. He wasn’t going to give the old fart the satisfaction of knowing he’d made him cry again.
Marshall cleaned up the kitchen, gathered up the training materials, then walked to his room. Looking out the window to make sure his uncle was out in the barn, Marshall reached under his bed and brought out the blanket with his prized possession inside. Locking the door, he uncovered his laptop and set it on the desk.
He punched in “Cowboy” and his password, then watched in fascination as he always did while the machine whirred and the logos came up on the screen.
His father had used the last of his money for the month to buy a computer when Marshall was only eight years old. “Computers are the trend of the future,” his father had told him, “and you should know them like the back of your hand.”
Marshall had joined the computer club at his high school in Altoona. His best friend, Gregory, was president, and soon Marshall had been elected vice president. He and Gregory spent hours in front of their terminals. Their reputation as hackers grew and they’d broken into any system they’d wanted.
The two became avid “Mudders” and spent hours playing games on the multi-user domain, referred to as “MUD” by insiders. The multi-user domain was a sub-network of Internet Relay Chat rooms and afforded Marshall and his friends an opportunity to play real-time games. Now he played at night while he was alone. This kept him going during the worst of his uncle’s harassment.
His uncle would be outraged if he found out about the computer and the hours Marshall spent surfing the Web. He’d probably bust up the laptop and throw it in the trash. So Marshall kept the computer hidden under the bed. He hacked into Sprint’s system, so there would be no chance his uncle would pick up the computer time when he paid the phone bill.
Marshall typed in the address “badass/com,” and soon Gregory and he were talking to one another online. If it weren’t for the constant communications with his friend, Marshall wouldn’t be able to take his uncle’s badgering.
Gregory was his sounding board. He worked at the Staples in Altoona, so Gregory had access to all the latest gadgets. The two spent hours exchanging e-mails about new gizmos in the store. Marshall hated to admit it, but he loved Gregory. He wondered if Gregory felt the same.
Marshall had shared with Gregory his experiences with “the Patriots” and told him about Colonel Thorpe and how much he liked the colonel. While the two chatted online that morning, Gregory suggested that Marshall try hacking into the DOD database to see what he could find out abou
t his new friend.
“Great idea,” Marshall typed into his computer, then, “I love challenges. Thanks.”
Marshall signed off from the chat with Gregory and punched in the address for the National Personnel Records Center database in St. Louis. That database listed every man or woman who had served in the military. Gregory had given him software that allowed him entrance into the system. Once Marshall had Colonel Thorpe’s Social Security number, he could obtain all sorts of information on tax records and other personal data.
Marshall typed in Colonel Thorpe’s name and waited, planning his next move. After the DOD system, he’d hack into the National Crime Information Center just to check if Thorpe had ever been in prison. Marshall doubted that, but it would be fun checking. Then he’d make a quick screen of the FBI database to see if Thorpe had any problems with the law. Finally, he’d scan the nationwide DMV database to determine the status of Thorpe’s driver’s license. If the colonel had been assigned to the Pentagon, his license would probably be from Virginia. But with the military, who knew?
Armed with the information from these databases, he’d have enough to crack the DOD database. He’d check to see if the database carried Colonel Thorpe as active duty or, as he said, retired. Marshall smiled. He wondered what the records of General Oliver looked like. Might be fun to check on him, too.
Marshall had learned from one his friends who now worked in the Pentagon about a possible trapdoor into the personnel database. This trapdoor was a back entrance, built in by designers, to get into the system to fix problems without worrying about passwords. His friend suggested he try it sometime. Marshall hadn’t bothered before, but now he had a reason to try.
If that wouldn’t work, maybe he could develop a packet, a small string of digitized data, he could send by e-mail through the DOD router. Then he could attach a small demon that would give him the password.