Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  It had been dark for several hours when Gibson finally shut his laptop. He knew exactly how he would hack MWAA. Saw it in his mind’s eye. Once again, work had cleared his head; he’d used the clarity to think through his situation generally and reached some stark decisions. He knew what had to be done about Ogden. It would hurt, but it was his only way forward. Like Deja had said, moving forward was all that mattered. He’d also decided what he needed to tell Nicole. That would be the hardest letter he’d ever written. Bear wasn’t going to like it, but it needed to be done.

  He nudged one of Jenn’s pens out of place and went to find her.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “We’re totally getting the band back together.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “No problem, boss. I’ll just need two things.”

  “Name them,” Jenn said.

  “A fingerprint scanner.” He handed her a printout of the one he had spec’d out. “Found one on Amazon for seventy bucks.”

  “And second?”

  “For you to admit we’re getting the band back together.”

  “Gibson . . .”

  “Fine. But I do need a round-trip ticket to Seattle.”

  Jenn blanched. “Why do you have to go to Seattle?”

  “Who said anything about going to Seattle? I just need the ticket. Oh, and a suitcase, I guess.”

  The look of confusion on Jenn’s face made Gibson inordinately happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  At six in the morning, only a handful of bleary-eyed business travelers dotted the lonely concourse of Reagan National Airport. The only signs of life were the TSA checkpoints at either end of the main hall. Despite the soaring ceilings and panoramic windows, passengers rarely lingered to enjoy the view. The reason for the ticket to Seattle: Gibson expected to be here most of the day, and, if he camped out on the concourse, someone would eventually wonder what he was doing there. Better to blend in down at one of the gates. He’d parked in the long-term lot, even though he had no intention of catching his flight. His story needed to be consistent. If he drew attention from security, he was just on his way to Seattle to visit his daughter.

  Gibson rolled his suitcase down to Terminal B and joined the bottleneck of business travelers catching early flights to cities like Chicago and New York. A TSA agent checked his boarding pass and ID and waved him through. Gibson grabbed a couple gray plastic bins for the conveyor belt and shuffled through the body scanner in his socks. Down at the main gate hub, he bought a coffee and found a seat far from his departure gate. A woman trying to wrangle two children glanced at him apologetically, and he smiled to let her know he wasn’t bothered. She smiled gratefully at her fellow traveler and went back to getting her kids situated.

  The girl looked around Ellie’s age; at least Ellie’s age the last time Gibson had seen her. That had been a good day. He’d taken her to a movie and then for a banana split at the Nighthawk. The memory of her laughter made him grin. He held on to it, knowing he’d be making no new memories of his daughter in the foreseeable future. Maybe someday if he got lucky and she grew up forgiving. He thought about ditching the hack and catching the flight to Seattle after all. It was a pleasant fantasy as far as it went, but he couldn’t keep the reality of his situation at bay long enough to take it seriously. With a sigh, Gibson opened his laptop and got to work.

  He’d built a virtual machine on the laptop, nesting it on a Windows platform. A tool for maximizing resources on servers, multiple “virtual” machines could be run on one physical computer while keeping the data and functions completely isolated from one another. Each virtual computer had its own resources and existed completely independent of the others. There weren’t many reasons to run a virtual computer on a laptop, but hacking an airport qualified. Although it took time to build, Gibson could erase all evidence of its existence in about forty seconds. If he drew unwanted attention, he could delete his virtual machine, and even if airport police seized his laptop, they would still not have the computer that had hacked them.

  There were any number of programs for hacking Wi-Fi passwords, and all had plusses and minuses. Gibson preferred Aircrack-ng. The program tracked traffic to and from a router, gradually building the password from packet data. While it worked, he toggled over to the parent operating system and opened his résumé on the off chance anyone glanced over his shoulder. He sipped his coffee and waited; this was the easy part. Thirty minutes later, he logged into the Metropolitan Washington Airports Authority Wi-Fi. He was now inside their network.

  To a point.

  A network was a bit like a gated community, and the password only let him in the main gate. Inside were the servers, laptops, cell phones, and miscellaneous devices, each one a private residence—or network segment—that required the correct credentials. Gibson’s virtual computer was uncredentialed, so he found an airport employee’s computer connected to the airport Wi-Fi, attacked it, and borrowed its credentials to traverse the firewalls between network segments.

  So far, so good.

  Each network segment had a unique address, and his network mapper showed thousands of IP addresses connected to the MWAA network. Only the servers interested him, though, so he narrowed his search parameters. That left him with a couple hundred IP addresses to check. Still too many, but it was a start.

  Security credentials would be stored in a database. SQL and Oracle were the industry standards. A quick search of the MWAA website careers page revealed that MWAA was currently hiring for a SQL database engineer. That narrowed it down. He used a port scanner called Nmap to hunt for servers that responded on 1433 and 1434, known SQL ports. This part took time because if he scanned hundreds of servers and their ports simultaneously, it would trigger alarms. Instead, he had to probe one server at a time, pausing between each. It took a few hours, but he narrowed the list to forty-six servers that responded on SQL ports.

  After he missed his flight, he packed up and went to his gate. He told a tragic sob story about getting stuck in traffic on the way to the airport. Alaska Airlines ran only two daily flights to Seattle, and the second didn’t depart until almost seven p.m. The gate attendant regretfully informed him it was already full but dutifully added his name to the standby list. Gibson feigned dismay at the news, but it gave him a legitimate pretext to linger at the gate for the rest of the day. All the time he would need. Gibson found a seat near the counter that let him keep his back, and more importantly his laptop, to the window. Then he got back to the business of hacking the airport.

  Thousands of IP addresses were now forty-six: time to sing for his supper. From the MWAA website, he knew that Access Control was a unified system supporting security cameras, credentials, and badge readers. Those were both mission-critical systems, so MWAA would operate them as a cluster, ensuring redundancy should any one server fail.

  A program called Wireshark sniffed packet traffic to the forty-six servers, hunting for data from the badge readers. Gibson waited patiently, at home in a familiar world in which he felt comfortable and capable. He’d never fit the antisocial hacker stereotype, but for the first time he felt the relief that the binary world offered to someone overwhelmed by people.

  By noon, he’d identified the Access Control cluster. He took a break for lunch and then began a SQL injection attack to compromise the database so that he could add records. This step took a full five hours. Access granted, he spent time getting a feel for the server’s database architecture. He looked at several preexisting employee records and credentials before creating his own. Entering his bogus information, he inserted the employee photograph that Jenn had taken, along with his scanned fingerprints.

  Satisfied with his work, Gibson deleted the virtual machine as if it had never existed. Tomorrow, posing as an employee of Tyner Aviation, he would pay a visit to the Dulles Pass & ID Office, located in the main terminal across from baggage claim seven. There he could pick up a replacement green badge with escort authority and nonmovement ar
ea endorsements. That would give him the run of the place. He didn’t know what good that would do him—Jenn had been less than forthcoming with details. He’d leave that up to her.

  Gibson checked a nearby clock—still plenty of time to catch the seven o’clock to Seattle. He packed up and rolled his suitcase back to the parking garage. If anyone questioned him later why he’d been at the airport but never boarded a flight, he’d say he’d been on the way to confront his ex-wife in Seattle but thought better of it. Not far from the truth.

  Jenn expected him to return directly to Reston, but he needed to make a couple of stops on the way. She wouldn’t be happy, but the way he looked at it, he’d be doing her a favor. She needed new things to be grumpy about to take her mind off all the things that were already irritating her—an area in which Gibson excelled. He started the SUV, telling himself he was being unfair. While they still had a few trust issues to work out, it felt good to be around someone who knew him.

  Still, she was going to be mightily pissed.

  Gibson saw the top of the power plant above the trees. Duke leaned forward from the backseat like he’d been planning an ambush.

  “These aren’t your people,” Duke said. “Jenn. George. They are not your responsibility. I care about my family. Your family. The people that you have failed again and again. The way you failed me.”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Gibson whispered.

  “This is your best? That woman had me murdered, and what do you do? You cut deals. Another confessed to burning down my granddaughter’s house, and what do you do? You cut deals. Christ, boy. What does someone have to do to actually deserve your retribution?”

  “I locked Ogden away like you wanted.”

  “And now, at the first setback, you’re going to let him go again.”

  “It’s not solving anything. I can’t live like this.”

  “If that’s true, then floor this thing. Drive us into the side of the power plant before you fail someone else. Die with that much dignity. You’d be doing us all a favor.”

  “Shut up,” Gibson said as defiantly as he could, but his eyes went where Duke pointed. The SUV leapt forward, his knuckles white and taut on the steering wheel. The thought of letting go of all his pain was a tempting one. The chance to rest. To be free. It had seduced him before when he’d believed that the door would never open. He remembered the faded bloodstain on the floor of his cell and eased his foot off the accelerator.

  “This isn’t over,” Duke warned.

  Gibson didn’t doubt him for a second. He drove around back and parked, waiting for his heart to slow. Everything looked status quo. He took the shopping bag from the passenger seat and went into the plant. At the bottom of the stairs, he took off his boots and padded down the service corridor in his socks. At the cell, he retrieved his gun from its hiding place and loaded a full clip. Just in case.

  Through the peephole, he saw that Ogden lay motionless on his cot, back to the room. His efforts at housekeeping had deteriorated since Gibson’s last visit. Food packaging littered the floor. Gibson sorted through his key ring.

  “Think about what you’re doing,” Duke said. “Ogden is just guessing. You open that door, you’re going to have to kill him.”

  “I don’t have to do anything you say.”

  Gibson unlocked the cell and took a short wooden stool inside. Ogden didn’t move. Gibson shut the door and sat with his back against the door. He rested the gun on his thigh and waited. Ogden rolled over, and the two men regarded each other.

  “It’s harder than you think it’s going to be, isn’t it?” Gibson said.

  “Are you here to gloat?”

  “I thought I would be, but no.”

  “Then what was the point?” Ogden asked.

  “I needed you to know.”

  “Know what?” Ogden asked, lifting his head from the cot.

  “That it mattered.”

  “So now what?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far. But I thought we should talk.”

  “Will you tell me one thing? How long have I been in here?”

  Gibson nodded at the familiarity of the question. “I know, right? It’s weird how time gets away from you.”

  “How long?”

  “Three months,” Gibson said with a straight face.

  “Bullshit,” Ogden said, but Gibson could hear the doubt in the man’s voice.

  “A week? A year? A lifetime.”

  “You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah, I am. Thank you for that.”

  Ogden swung himself into a sitting position. “What I did was justified.”

  “Doesn’t make it right,” Gibson said.

  “The needs of the many exceed the needs of the few.”

  “Is that how you CIA boys justify the rendition of an American citizen on US soil? Was Poisonfeather really that valuable?”

  “Do you know what China is?” Ogden asked. “It’s the Soviet Union on steroids. It’s Russia with a world-class economy and ten times the population. We literally spent the old USSR to death. That won’t happen with China. They are strong, rich, ambitious, and spend close to two hundred billion a year on their military. So yes, Poisonfeather was that valuable. He was the best human intelligence resource that we’ve ever had inside their politburo. Poisonfeather was worth a thousand of you. I wasn’t going to jeopardize my asset for some burnout Marine hacker.”

  “I wouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Your history suggested otherwise. And if we’re being candid, this little stunt hasn’t done anything to change my mind.”

  “What happens if I let you go?”

  “Death penalty,” Ogden said without hesitation. “The Patriot Act is unambiguous on that point.”

  “And if I run?”

  “We hunt you down. Death penalty.”

  “Shouldn’t you be telling me what I want to hear?” Gibson said. “How if I let you go that you’ll forget who it was who took you?”

  “I would if I thought you were dumb enough to fall for it.”

  “I was dumb enough to take you.”

  “You got me there,” Ogden agreed. “You ever kill anyone?”

  Gibson shook his head. “No. And don’t especially want to start now, but I’m not fond of needles.”

  “There might be one other move we could try.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How long have I been here? Really.”

  “Two weeks,” Gibson said.

  “It seems so much longer than that.”

  “You should try it for eighteen months.”

  Ogden stared at him without a response.

  “You were saying.”

  Ogden lifted his chin. “Langley won’t be anxious to admit that one of their people got snatched from under their nose. It’s a bad precedent. Have I been on the news yet?”

  Gibson shook his head.

  “Good,” Ogden said. “That’s good. Chances are they’ll want to keep it that way. Especially if they get me back in one piece.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “You go in.”

  “To Langley?”

  Ogden nodded. “Ask for a man named René Ambrose. He’s my boss. Tell him you’ve got me. Offer to trade me for a plea deal.”

  “I’ll have to do time?”

  “Releasing me doesn’t make this a wash, Vaughn. You’ll still owe.”

  “How much time will I have to do?”

  “Depends, but I’d guess ten to twenty. But I’ll push your deal through. I give you my word.”

  Gibson whistled at the number. If he served twenty years, he would be in his fifties when he got out. Ellie would be almost thirty. Not comforting math.

  “You have to kill him,” Duke said.

  “No, I’m not doing that.”

  “It’s your only option,” Ogden said.

  “Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”

  “You want to do twenty years for this son of a bitch?�
�� Duke said.

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” Ogden asked.

  “Oh, where are my manners? I should have introduced you two. This is my dead father. He thinks I should kill you.”

  “You’re damn right I do,” Duke agreed.

  Ogden stared at the empty space where Duke stood. “You’re actually insane.”

  “What the fuck else would I be?” Gibson yelled. “You’ve been here two weeks. That’s nothing. Try eighteen months and see which of your ancestors shows up for a chat.”

  He didn’t remember pointing the gun at Ogden or wrapping his finger around the trigger. Ogden’s hands were up. He was talking, but Gibson couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. He drew a deep breath and eased his finger from the trigger.

  “Nice try,” Gibson said to Duke, who shrugged.

  “That was all you, kid.”

  “All right,” Gibson told Ogden. “You sit tight. I have a couple of things to take care of, and then I’ll see how bad your boss wants you back.”

  “How do I know you’ll come back?” Ogden’s voice suddenly held a note of panic that Gibson knew all too well.

  “I give you my word.”

  “Your word? What’s that worth?”

  “About the same as yours. No, wait, I saved your life in West Virginia. And I delivered you Charles Merrick. So a little more.”

  “You kidnapped me,” Ogden said.

  “Yeah, you weren’t there at the time, but I promised you that too.”

  Ogden had no response to that, which Gibson appreciated. Ogden looked at the floor for a long time before finally asking the question on his mind.

  “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “A week or so.”

  “And how long is that?”

  Gibson opened his shopping bag and took out an alarm clock. He set the time and slid it across the floor to Ogden.